Trial and Terror (17 page)

Hightower scratched his chin. “On the surface, there does seem to be
prima facie
evidence of bias on the part of the prosecutor. I’m going to take a few minutes to sort through this.”

There went Raines’s composure. He protested, “I can’t believe you can’t see that this is a ploy by the defense to—”

The judge cut him off abruptly and angrily. “Are you telling me, Mr. Raines, that as a judge, I should
not
take a moment to reflect without your less than sage input?”

Raines wouldn’t quit. “I have never been accused of—”

“Be quiet, Raines, or I’ll hold you in contempt. What do you say to that?”

“Your Honor—”

“Quiet!” Hightower yelled, before escaping into chambers.

Summer could see that their veneer of civility had been stripped away by Raines’s political ambitions. She delighted herself with a plan to anonymously send one of Raines’s flyers to Hightower, the one that a volunteer had been handing out in front of the courthouse. It read:
Say No to Plea Bargains and Soft Sentencing. Say Yes to Seymour Raines
. Then she thought better of it: Why give Hightower any more incentive to hang her client?

Minutes later the judge was back. “I did a little research,” he said. “In the case of
Taylor vs. Madison
, hostile body language on the part of a juror can be used as a rationale for removal. So I’m going to deny the motion.”

Summer had expected this. She knew Hightower wouldn’t change his whole judicial philosophy just to wage war on Raines. But it was valuable leverage nevertheless. She rose. “Your Honor, I want my objection entered into the record. Why would Mr. Roberts make eye contact with Mr. Raines?
You
were addressing him, not the prosecution. If Mr. Raines were on the prowl at a singles bar, I could see why eye contact would be important. But not in this instance.”

There were snickers from the press.

Raines jiggled his foot. “Your Honor, that was uncalled for. I ask the court to inform counselor—”

Hightower pounded his gavel. “Order, order. That’s quite enough, Ms. Neuwirth. Your objection is noted, but my decision stands.” To Sprague, he said, “Bring the prospective jurors in.”

The questioning continued. Summer hoarded the few peremptories she had left, passing a few jurors she wished she didn’t have to—a male Hispanic hedge fund manager, a Christian housewife, a personal trainer with libertarian leanings. Raines excluded another low-income Hispanic and a social worker.

When Raines struck Didi Banks, the fourth of five African Americans in the pool, Summer jumped to her feet. “Objection, Your Honor. The prosecution—”

“Hold on, Ms. Neuwirth,” Hightower said. He glared at Raines.

Raines shuffled his feet, but said nothing.

Tense silence was interrupted only by journalists scratching notes on pads or tapping on laptops.

Eventually, Hightower sighed. “Objection overruled.”

“Can I go?” Banks asked. “Don’t got no baby-sitter and school’s out, Judge.”

“You are excused,” Hightower said, keeping taut eyes trained on Raines.

Banks picked up her belongings, and stumbling over shoes and ankles, made her way through the narrow aisle and out of the court. But it wasn’t Banks Summer wanted. She had set her trap. She hoped Raines would fall for it.

The late afternoon sun yielded five o’clock shadows inside the court. Hightower asked the assembled to stay late to finish the process. Eleven jurors had been seated, with one slot left. Summer needed an advocate for SK on the jury; someone who, if the issue centered around reasonable doubt, would possess the ability to reason and lean toward acquittal as a matter of principle and law. If Summer were a high-priced private attorney, had the resources of someone like Eddie Brockton, she would have retained a private detective to perform background checks on each prospective juror.

Instead, she had to rely on intuition and experience. Her whole strategy rested precariously on one juror. If she could get her sworn in, then SK had a shot at a hung jury. (Summer didn’t even fantasize about acquittal.) If she couldn’t, then SK would have to start planning for the next life because this one would be over.

Hightower, his voice marred by fatigue, began questioning the last minority juror, ShaRon Robinson. She was heavy and carried it well, wearing a quiet beige suit that contrasted with her autumn-leaf skin. Her eyes were round and large, as if she were asking a question or surprised by the response. Neat, professional, Black—just the kind of juror Raines would strike.

The air in the courtroom was tight; Summer saw Bragg, the Haze County Register reporter, flip over a page in his notebook and continue scribbling.

“Ms. Robinson,” the judge asked, “is the defendant innocent or guilty?”

Robinson took a moment to think. “All I know, Your Honor, is that the accused is innocent until proven otherwise. So logically, for now, I’d have to say she’s innocent.”

“Do you feel you can be fair and impartial?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do you have a view of the police either way?”

Robinson sat with her hands clasped over her pocketbook. “I’m not a fan of gross generalizations. Some police are good and some are bad, just like everything else. That’s what I’ve learned in my line of work: You have to deal with things on a case-by-case basis.”

“What is this line of work?”

“I run a small software company. As you can imagine, it requires a keen eye for detail. If things don’t add up, you have to go back and find the problem; otherwise you could lose out on an important contract.”

“What happens if you can’t locate the problem?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I always find the glitches. Sometimes it takes a while, that’s all. With a little elbow grease, anything is possible.”

“Have you had any bad experiences with the police or know someone who has?”

Robinson didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

The judge nodded. “I see. Would it pain you too much to tell me about it?”

She searched for the right words. “I once spent, um, two days in the county jail.”

“What was the charge?”

“Jaywalking. But I wasn’t guilty and the charges were dropped. I was downtown, Christmas shopping, and I had all these bags. I was tired and I wanted to get home. I guess I was standing one step off the curb when someone grabbed my arm. I pulled it away and a uniformed policeman told me I was under arrest. I couldn’t believe it. When I protested the treatment I was receiving, the officer told me that just to teach me a lesson, he was going to put me through the judicial system.”

“And… ” Hightower’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “And yet you say that you don’t hold anti-police feelings?”

Robinson smiled. “I’ve also encountered good policemen. When my mother had a heart attack, a patrolman saved her life. There are all kinds of people in this world, and since I don’t like being prejudged on the basis of my race or profession, I don’t do it to others.”

“What happened after you were released from County?”

“The charges were dropped. I lodged a complaint, but the officer wasn’t even reprimanded.”

“But if you are chosen to serve you could be fair?”

“Yes, sir, that’s what I’m saying.”

Hightower leaned back in his chair and swiveled, looking over to Summer. “Well, Ms. Neuwirth?”

Summer spoke to the whole courtroom, the press, the spectators, Raines and Hightower, and especially the seated jurors. This was no time to play it safe. “College-educated, impartial, a successful entrepreneur not afraid of hard work. How could anyone interested in justice not want someone like Ms. Robinson on a jury?”

She saw Raines trying not to squirm.

Normally, Hightower didn’t go in for this kind of grandstanding, especially from defense attorneys, but Summer could see his anger over Raines’s primary challenge was clouding his judgment. “I take it the defense intends to pass Ms. Robinson?” he said.

“Oh, yes, Your Honor. The defense believes Ms. Robinson would make a fine juror.” She sat down, but couldn’t resist adding, “Of course, I can’t speak for Mr. Raines.”

A few titters echoed from the back where the press pool sat.

“Order, order,” Hightower said mechanically. “And the prosecution?”

All attention was on Raines. If he struck Robinson, the last minority, he was opening himself up to a possible mistrial, maybe even leaving the door open for the Court of Appeals to overturn the conviction. The press, which included reporters from all over the country, would savage him, portraying him and the whole Haze County judicial system as racist and unjust.

On the other hand, Robinson was exactly the kind of juror he didn’t want. If she didn’t end up jury foreman, she might end up a powerful player behind the scenes. Summer could feel Raines battle his indecision. His face was balled up tight, his crow’s feet etched deeper. Finally, he said, “I’m forced to agree with my esteemed colleague. The prosecution accepts Ms. Robinson.”

Summer softly clucked her tongue.
Bad move,
she thought.

SK, a grin stretching her face, flicked Summer’s arm with the back of her hand. She didn’t say anything; she didn’t have to.

Hightower kept the pool intact until 6:45, until the last two alternates had been added to the panel. So it stood: The jury would be mostly white, with the Hispanic hedge fund manager and Robinson, and cut down the middle on gender: an electrician, secretary, computer magazine editor, caterer, church volunteer, a retired accountant, and the owner of a mail-order shoe company rounding out the jury. The two alternates were both gun-toting law-and-order types, but Summer had run out of peremptories and knew they probably wouldn’t get to sit in on the decision anyway.

“All right, ladies and gentlemen,” Hightower said. “For those who have been selected, we will meet back here at 8:45 tomorrow. For those of you who were not, please head over to Room Six. They will let you know where you should go next. Thank you. Court is adjourned.”

Chapter 21

Next to the court
was the lockup, a way station for defendants waiting transport back to jail. Patterson had already led SK inside to a solitary cell furnished with the standard issue concrete floor, slate bench, and a lonesome toilet.

Before Summer was allowed in, Sprague took possession of her briefcase, keys, pens—anything sharp or heavy. Then he began unlocking the ten-inch-thick door separating the lockup from the court.

“What a day,” Sprague said, flipping through a dozen keys on a crammed key ring before he found the right one. “How come every time you appear in Judge Hightower’s court, something fucked up happens? Hell, one of your client’s hairy-legged dyke pals bit me on the arm.” He turned the key in the lock and opened the door.

Summer followed him down a tight, detergent-scented hallway. Sprague’s shoulders just missed brushing the walls by inches.

“She draw blood?” Summer asked.

Sprague showed her his wrist marked with a patch of sausage red. “Nah.”

“That’s probably because you don’t have any.”

He tossed her a coarse look, then ran his club along the bars of the cell. SK was inside, lying on a slate bench. “Your shyster has arrived, little lady,” Sprague said. “And don’t try anything, because I’ll be watching from outside.” He pointed with his club to a camera perched above. To Summer, he said, “Transport’s coming in twenty minutes.”

He left, the slamming of the metal door behind him punctuating the silence. This was the first time Summer had been alone with SK without a barrier of glass between them since her arraignment. Summer stood on one side of the iron bars; SK slid off the bench and stood on the other. Their faces were just inches apart.

Summer said, “We’re on the same side, right? We have to work together. Otherwise, we won’t win.”

“I got the message,” SK said. “No more protests. I’ll wear whatever clothes you want. I’ll do what ever you want me to. I just want you to guarantee I’ll get a chance to tell my side.”

Summer sidestepped SK’s request. “Your side? What
is
your side?”

“That I was framed.”

“Why?”

SK backed away and stood with her arms crossed over her chest. “Maybe because the cops are a bunch of fascist pigs. I don’t know.”

“Bashing cops may make you feel good, but it never plays well with a jury, unless it’s packed with people from a community that’s been victimized by them. If this were L.A., sure, we’d have a shot with that kind of strategy. If this were New York City or Chicago, ditto. But this is lily-white Haze County, U.S.A. Did you see many folks today other than ShaRon Robinson who didn’t fit that description?”

“It’s not fair,” SK said.

“It’s reality.” Summer ran her hand up one of the bars and squeezed. It was steely cold. She took it off and put it against her forehead to cool her fever. “Look, Officer Tyler may not be a bastion of competence, but I checked his personnel records, and in the fifteen years he’s been on the force no one’s ever complained about him planting evidence. We would have to show a motive or a predisposition on his part to alter evidence.”