Cruel Justice (30 page)

Ben smiled. “It’s a date.”

Ben heard the sound of shuffling feet coming from the front of the courtroom. The chamber door opened, and Hawkins’s bailiff stepped out. “All rise.”

The crowd hushed and rose to their feet. Judge Hawkins emerged from chambers, draped in his black robe, and moved somberly to his chair at the head of the courtroom.

“All right, then,” Hawkins said briskly. “Let’s not waste any time. Call the case.”

The bailiff did so. When Leeman heard his name, he started to rise. Ben gently tugged him back down into his seat.

“Very well,” Hawkins said. “The court has determined that the defendant is competent to stand trial. Let all those with business before this court now come forward.”

The judge paused a millisecond, then continued. “Gentlemen,” he said, gazing down at Ben and Bullock, “let’s get this show on the road.”

“F
IRST OFF,” JUDGE HAWKINS
announced, “we need to pick a jury. Bailiff, call the first twenty-four veniremen.”

The bailiff pulled out a large bingo hopper filled with names written on slips of paper. The names of the potential jurors were taken at random from driver’s-license rolls and copied into the hopper. The names of those who had managed to get themselves excused were removed. As Ben knew all too well, that often left only the names of those too bored or too stupid to figure a way out of jury duty.

Twenty-four potential jurors filled the jury box. Ben wrote down each of the names as it was called. The really slick courtroom attorneys memorized them so they could impress the jurors by addressing them by name. Ben’s memory wasn’t half that good. Still, if he could remember a few of the names, maybe he could drop them at judicious moments, then glance back at his chart as necessary.

Now began what Ben considered the greatest guessing game ever devised by man. Based upon a host of indirect questions and stereotypical juror profiles, he had to determine who would be good jurors for his client. Did he want men or women, rich or poor, young or old, white or black? It was worse than being in Vegas; the game was just as unreliable, but the stakes were much higher.

The initial panel was over two-thirds male—not what Ben had wanted. He needed sympathetic souls, and sympathy was a characteristic more commonly attributed to women than men. Ben also saw an unusually high number of ties and jackets—apparel that denoted professionals, individuals with money. Rich people were generally assumed to be conservatives; conservatives tended to convict. Poor people were considered more likely to empathize with the plights of other poor people, although sometimes they could be harder on their own than anyone else.

And then there was the race issue. Ben, would normally assume that the more black jurors he had, the better. This jury panel had two, for the moment, anyway. The United States Supreme Court had ruled that jurors could not be removed on the basis of their race alone; counsel were required to present an articulable reason for any minority removal—hardly a difficulty for an experienced trial attorney. Bullock would undoubtedly remove them both; he would simply come up with some nonracial excuse for doing it. How could Ben contest it? How could anyone claim to know what goes on in the murky mind of a lawyer?

Ben glanced over his shoulder and, to his relief, saw that Christina had returned. She was sitting in the back of the courtroom in the area reserved for counsel’s staff. Thank goodness. Her instincts were far better than his. Jury selection was the province of someone who understood people; people mystified Ben.

The judge instructed the jurors to give their names, addresses, occupations, and the occupations of their spouses, if any. In a few instances, the judge asked for some additional clarifications. Not often. That completed, Hawkins waved the prosecution into action.

As the prosecutor, Bullock got the first shot at the jury. He made some introductory remarks and told a few little jokes. As anticipated, he called the jurors by name. Show-off. Although Bullock knew Hawkins wouldn’t let him try his case during voir dire, he gave enough hints about the subject matter of the case to whet the jury’s appetite so they would be primed and ready by the time they got to his opening statement. In solemn tones, he let them know that this case involved “shameless, cold-blooded murder.”

Ben could see the jurors’ eyes brighten. Murder sounded so exciting, so glamorous. Up until that point, for all they knew, they might be hearing a traffic case. Now they knew they were in for something considerably more interesting. The Big Time.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Bullock continued, “it is a sad reality of life that all men are not created equal. Some men are born with birth defects, learning disabilities, special problems. We are, of course, sympathetic to them.”

Juror heads nodded. A few of them glanced at Leeman. In Ben’s experience, jurors were quite adept at putting two and two together.

“There is a point, however, at which sympathy can be taken too far. Some would say that a learning disability, for instance, is no excuse for antisocial behavior. And nothing can justify murder.”

Ben knew how this game was played. While Bullock delivered this little heartfelt oration, he was scanning the jury for facial expressions indicating disagreement.

“What about you, Mr. Smithson?” Bullock nodded toward an elderly man in the back row. “Do you think there is any excuse for murder?”

“Well,” Mr. Smithson said, clearing his throat, “ ’course I think a man’s entitled to act in self-defense. To protect himself. Or his property.”

“Certainly,” Bullock said, nodding vigorously. “There are legal defenses. But do you think a man has carte blanche to commit murder just because, say, he’s not quite as bright as me and you?”

“No, of course not.”

“And would your opinion change if this hypothetical person had a learning disability? Not insane, mind you, but just a little slower than the norm.”

Mr. Smithson shook his head. “Don’t s’pose it would.”

Bullock quizzed three more of the jurors along these lines. Very smart, Ben had to acknowledge. Bullock instinctively understood what the hardest part of his case was—he was trying to convict a mentally retarded man. Bullock was confronting the problem head-on, rooting out any natural sympathies that might prevent the jury from convicting even if the evidence indicated that they should.

Bullock asked these and other related questions for close to an hour. Finally, he moved on to the next major voir dire issue.

The death penalty. The Supreme Court had laid down the law on this matter, too, in the famed Witherspoon decision. Prosecutors had considerable leeway to ensure that their juries were
death-qualified,
that is, capable of delivering the death penalty if they believed the facts justified the sentence.

“Mrs. Skaggs,” Bullock said, addressing the middle-aged woman in the far right corner of the box, “do you believe in the death penalty?”

“Yes,” the woman replied emphatically. “I certainly do. An eye for an eye. That’s what the Good Book says.”

Bullock nodded. “Would everyone else agree with that? Let’s have a show of hands. Who believes in the death penalty?”

The hands rose sporadically, but eventually, twenty hands were in the air. Without saying another word, Bullock turned to face the judge. Hawkins coughed, as if breaking out of a reverie, and glanced at his jury chart. He then dismissed the four jurors who did not believe in the death penalty and called four more to take their places.

Smoothly done. Bullock had, of course, demanded their removal, but in a subtle way that didn’t make him look like a villain in front of the jury. Ben didn’t bother objecting. The law on the issue was clear. The jury was supposed to apply the law, not debate policy. If a juror wasn’t willing to apply the death penalty—the law of the state—given the proper proof of guilt, he or she must be excused.

“Mrs. Skaggs,” Bullock continued, “a lot of people believe in the death penalty in principle, but when they’re sitting on a jury, they find they cannot personally give the death sentence to anyone.”

Mrs. Skaggs nodded silently.

“Ma’am, assume that I proved this young man’s guilt beyond any question. Would you be able to give him the death penalty?”

She hesitated. “I—I believe that I—yes, I think that I could do that.”

“Are you sure? You must understand that if you deliver a sentence of death, there will be no possibility of probation or parole, and you must assume there will be no appeal. If you vote for death, execution will follow. The defendant will be killed by lethal injection.”

Bullock took a deep breath and paused to let the words sink in. “No matter what you may have heard or read, you must assume that your sentence of death will be carried out. Given that assumption, would you still be able to deliver a death verdict?”

Mrs. Skaggs swallowed. “I—I’m just not sure.”

“I see.” Bullock’s years of experience were paying off. He was consistently finding the doubters, the weak links that might prevent a guilty verdict, and exposing them. “What do you mean when you say you’re not sure?”

“I mean—” Stress lines crisscrossed the woman’s forehead. “I want to do the right thing. I want to do my duty. But when you put it like that—well, it’s almost like I’d be killing the man myself.”

Bullock did not contradict her. “And would you be able to do that, ma’am?” He was being gentle about it, but he was definitely pushing. He needed an unequivocal
I couldn
’
t do it
to get her dismissed for cause. Otherwise, he would have to use one of his limited peremptory challenges. “I’m not saying it would be easy. But could you do it?”

“I—I’d try to be fair.”

“Mrs. Skaggs, you’re not answering my question.” He gestured back toward Leeman. “Could you look this man in the eye and say, ‘Sir, you must die for what you did’?” His voice swelled in volume. “Could you do that?”

Mrs. Skaggs stared helplessly at Bullock, then looked up at the judge. Hawkins turned away. No succor there.

“I—I guess I’ d just have to wait and see.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Skaggs. That’s unacceptable.” He was really leaning on her now. “I need an answer from you. Could you condemn this man to death?”

“But—” The poor woman was beginning to sound desperate. “I haven’t even heard the evidence yet.”

“Mrs. Skaggs, we’re not asking you to determine if he is in fact guilty. But assuming that the evidence later proves that the defendant is guilty, could you render the death penalty? Could you sentence this man to death as required by the laws of this state?”

Mrs. Skaggs’s lips twitched, her eyes flickered. She didn’t respond.

“The juror will answer the question,” Judge Hawkins intoned.

“I—I—“ Mrs. Skaggs lowered her face. “I don’t think I could. No.”

“Thank you very much for your candor,” Bullock said. He was being very, warm now, very friendly. And why not? He had what he needed.

Judge Hawkins excused Mrs. Skaggs and called another juror to take her place.

Ben cast a reassuring smile in Leeman’s direction, leaned back in his chair, and tried to make himself comfortable. If the first hour was any indication, they were going to be here for a good long while.

B
ULLOCK CONTINUED HIS EXACTING
line of death-penalty questioning with each and every member of the jury panel. The Supreme Court said he had a right to a panel of twelve jurors who were willing to deliver the death verdict, and he wasn’t going to sit down till he had one. Of course, this made it all the more likely that the jury would be predisposed to render the death penalty, but there was nothing Ben could do about that. That was the law.

Bullock’s questioning went on for hours. Ultimately, he removed five more jurors, who were immediately replaced. About one-thirty in the afternoon, Bullock called it quits. It had been a long haul, although pitifully short compared with other death-penalty jury selections, which sometimes went on for weeks.

Judge Hawkins motioned for Ben to begin his questioning.

“Your honor, I wonder if it might not be best if we took a lunch break now. The jury’s been sitting for over four hours. They must be starving.” Always be the jurors’ friend, Ben reminded himself. Can’t hurt.

Hawkins glanced at his watch. “No, let’s proceed. We’ll break after your questioning.”

Ben frowned. “Your honor, I think the jurors’ attention will be—”

“I said proceed, counsel.”

“But your honor—”

“I said, proceed. If you’re so concerned about the jurors’ well-being, don’t waste a lot of time.”

So that was it. The judge was going to hold lunch in limbo as long as Ben asked questions. Every minute Ben went on, the jurors would be reminded that they were hungry, and restless, and it was all Ben’s fault. It seemed the hanging judge was already doing his bit to squelch the defense.

Ben squared his shoulders and approached the jury box. He started with Mr. Franklin, a gruff, sturdy-looking man in his mid-forties. Ben suspected that Franklin was an ultraconservative, lock-’em-up-and-throw-away-the-key type, but jurors rarely admitted that on direct questioning. There were other ways, however.

“Mr. Franklin, I recall you said earlier that you were, to use your own words, a strong lifelong believer in the death penalty. Correct?”

Franklin ran a finger under the waist of his blue jeans. “You got that right.”

“Is that an opinion you share with any of your friends?’

Franklin eyed him suspiciously. “Which friends?”

“Well … are you a member of any organizations?”

“I go to church every Sunday, if that’s what you mean.”

It wasn’t, but it was interesting just the same. “Are you by any chance a member of the ACLU?”

Franklin snorted. “You gotta be kiddin’.”

“How about the NRA?’

“Since I got my very first gun.”

“I see. And when was that?”

“My daddy gave it to me the day I turned fourteen. A real pretty little Winchester.”

Ben nodded. “And can you explain why you believe the death penalty is a good idea?”

“Objection,” Bullock said. “This is not relevant. Mr. Kincaid is inquiring into the man’s personal political beliefs.”