Trial Courtship

In a dry, matter-of-fact voice, the judge addressed them. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming today. Before we begin, let me introduce those in the courtroom.” She nodded toward the laptop confiscator who studied them through slitted eyes. “My bailiff, Hershel Schmidt, and Stephanie Reedy, the stenographer. This morning we begin voir dire. The court has several cases awaiting trial. Some of you will be seated on this jury. The others will remain in the pool until you are selected for another trial or are excused after one week.”

One week! Did she expect him to sit for days twiddling his thumbs? He tensed like an anxious prizefighter awaiting the bell.

The judge then began a lengthy explanation of the tradition of English jurisprudence, emphasizing the responsibility of citizens to serve on juries willingly and with open minds. He hadn’t been so fidgety since old man Pickins’s civics lectures in the eighth grade. He checked the time. Jeez! He’d already been in the courtroom thirty minutes. Then something the judge said got his attention.

...so it should be evident that this court does not take a jury summons lightly. Some of you, no doubt, expect to get excused. There are few, and I emphasize few, legitimate reasons persuasive enough for me to excuse you. However, after the bailiff calls the roll, I will declare a short recess during which I will ask those of you who believe you have compelling arguments to come forward. I will listen to a brief explanation of your individual circumstance.” She nodded peremptorily at the bailiff, who began intoning names.

Compelling arguments. Okay, Your Honor, get ready. As the monotone voice continued through the roll, Tony sized up the judge. Definitely a no-nonsense type. He’d lay out the imperatives of his situation and prevail upon her pragmatism. She’d never go for the emotional or personal; she’d require hard-hitting facts.

“Anthony Stanislov Urbanski?”

“Here.” Nearly at the end of the list. He brushed his pants, tugged on his shirt cuffs, then adjusted his tie. He was ready for her.

After another few names, the judge announced the recess. Tony walked briskly toward the bailiff, who was already surrounded by several impatient potential jurors.

The bailiff checked names and organized them in a line. The judge glanced up from the papers she’d been studying and beckoned them, one by one, to the bench. She sat, a good three feet above them. He recognized the tactic. Intimidation.

As he edged closer, he caught snatches of conversation. “Do you have help at home, Mr. Smith?”

“...my daughter-in-law, but she works nights...”

“You’re excused. Next?”

The young man right in front of him seemed cocky.

“Ain’t no way da broad’s gonna stop me,” he mumbled to Tony out of the side of his mouth. “Yer Honor, ya see, it’s like dis. I’m reportin’ Friday to Fort Sill. Basic training.”

“Artillery, Mr. Tonaretti?... Good luck to you. Excused.”

Let’s make it three for three, lady.

The judge didn’t look up. “Mr. Urbanski?”

“Your honor, I represent Great Lakes Management Group in a delicate business negotiation, scheduled to begin shortly—”

“How shortly?”

“December 2.”

“That’s two weeks away.” She still hadn’t looked up.

“This is a matter of extreme importance, involving some influential companies. I know you’ve heard of—”

“Your point, Mr. Urbanski?”

“I’m critical to this negotiation and the timing couldn’t be worse for me or for the interests I represent. I’d be more than honored to serve another time,” he really meant that, “but right now—”

“I assume others are working with you on this project?”

“Yes, but—”

She finally raised her eyes and stared coldly at him. “No business interests should supersede your duty as an American citizen. Request denied.”

Blood drained from Tony’s face and his feet remained glued to the floor.

“Move along, sir.” The smug-looking bailiff nudged his arm.

Tony stalked out of the courtroom to the pay phone. Hell, he couldn’t even use his cellular. He dropped in the change, then slapped a hand against the wall. This was a major complication. “Barry, listen, I’ve been detained at the courthouse. It might be late afternoon before I can get back to the office. Could you stick around this evening?”

“Be glad to. What’s up?”

Tony didn’t want to think about what he’d now have to delegate or about how much depended on the unseasoned Fuller. “I need to reassign some work on this DataTech deal.”

“Do you need me to notify Wainwright?”

That was the last thing he needed. “No. Leave him to me. I’ll call him later.” He slammed down the receiver and stood scowling, studying his fellow jurors who, incomprehensibly, chatted animatedly, even with apparent enthusiasm. Surely he wasn’t the only one who had other things to do.

Maybe he shouldn’t worry. Not even the most incompetent lawyer would want him on a jury in his current mood. The attorneys might still dismiss him. He unclenched his fists and for the first time since entering the courthouse, regained his optimism.

AFTER THE RECESS, Andrea took her assigned seat near the front. So far, she’d found the process interesting and the judge’s words about the Constitution and the jury system eloquent. She glanced around at the assembled group, which represented different ages, races and ethnic combinations and, undoubtedly, a wide range of views, biases and experience. She’d visited with several during the break. Most, though not happy to have their daily routines interrupted, viewed the situation as a necessary service.

But she couldn’t help noticing the intense man by the phone—the same one who’d been annoyed when the bailiff had taken his laptop. His hawklike eyes were narrowed, his chin thrust forward. Except for the frown on his face, he might have been attractive—close-cropped black hair, ears flat against his head, dark eyes smoldering under thick brows. Broad-shouldered, about five-eleven she judged.

The bailiffs words, “All rise,” brought her to her feet. She stood respectfully while the svelte judge made her way to the bench and sat down.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we will proceed with voir dire—that is, the questioning of potential jurors. As the clerk reads off your juror numbers, please take seats in the jury box. The rest will wait and, in numerical sequence, replace any juror excused for cause.”

Andrea clutched the children’s books she’d brought from her store to read in the event she wasn’t selected right away. During the selection process, she became increasingly apprehensive. What if this was some technical case about money laundering or insurance fraud? Although she was a good businesswoman, she didn’t know much about such things; however, she rationalized, neither did most people.

“Juror five.”

Her number! Within minutes, the bailiff, who looked like an adorable Chinese pug, had escorted fourteen of them to seats in the jury box. Two men conversed at one of the counsel tables, and a woman seated at the other table made notes on a yellow legal pad. The attorneys, no doubt.

The judge tapped her gavel. “This case involves a juvenile accused of aggravated murder.”

Murder? Andrea gulped. The judge continued, “Are any of you acquainted with me or with the two prosecutors Mr. Bedford and Mr. Raines, or with the defense attorney, Ms. Lamb? If so, please rise.”

A balding man with a small mustache, who was a member of the judge’s temple congregation, was dismissed. When she asked if anyone had ever had a relative or friend who had been the victim of a violent crime, she excused another.

After the judge explained that a juvenile could not be executed for murder in Ohio, she questioned each remaining person about his or her feelings about life imprisonment.

One woman became quite agitated. “I simply couldn’t shut anybody away like that. It’s so cruel. Suppose he was innocent? Why, I couldn’t live with myself.”

By contrast, a man dressed in overalls and a faded flannel shirt rubbed his hands together. “We gotta git control of our society. I say lock up all these crim’nals and throw away the key!” Both were excused.

Andrea’s turn came next. Punishment was a serious issue she had long debated, without coming to any conclusion. She chose her words carefully. “I would be extremely reluctant to sentence a fellow human being to life in prison unless I felt the facts warranted such a sentence, but I also believe that the interests of victims’ families must be considered.”

When the scowling man from the pay phone was questioned, he sighed audibly. It was as if he desperately wanted out, but found himself unable to lie. “Yes, there are circumstances under which I could recommend a life sentence.”

Questioning continued past noon. After exercising several peremptory challenges, the attorneys conferred with the judge, then sat down, seemingly satisfied.

The judge picked up some papers, then addressed those in the courtroom. “The twelve jurors and two alternates will please remain. The rest of you are excused to report back to the fourth floor. Thank you all.”

Andrea couldn’t believe it. She was a juror in a murder case. She felt awed, nervous and slightly sick.

TONY’S STOMACH GROWLED. He checked his watch. Twelve thirty-five. Who was the prisoner here, anyway? Would they ever break for lunch? He couldn’t guess what Harrison Wainright would have done in his shoes, but when the time had come for Tony to give his views on life imprisonment, although he could’ve uttered some outrageous opinion and been excused—at least from this case—he couldn’t do it. He’d sworn an oath. And he’d told the truth.

Tony balled his fists. Hell. A murder trial! As the eleventh juror selected, he’d come close to escaping. However, he might as well reconcile himself. No use fighting the inevitable. But he wished he could be sure Barry Fuller was ready for the challenge this situation would present. He was a promising addition to the firm, but he had a good deal to learn.

Tony glanced around at his fellow jurors. An interesting crew. A beefy older man in a vintage Cleveland Browns sweatshirt; a short, stylishly dressed black woman; an elderly lady with thick glasses and pursed lips; and the attractive blonde he’d noticed earlier, the one who had attentively listened to every word Her Honor uttered. What the hell was that in her lap? He craned his neck to read the title of the top book in her stack—Jeremy June Bug’s Joke. He chuckled to himself. She must have the literary tastes of a rug rat.

How long would this case take? Perhaps it would be cut-and-dried. A couple of days max. Maybe his situation wasn’t so bad. After all, he could be stuck for an entire week out there with the unchosen. Spoken like a true compromiser.

“...and Bailiff Schmidt will suggest nearby restaurants. I admonish you not to discuss any aspects of the case outside the jury room. Please be seated back here at one forty-five for opening arguments.” With a bang of the gavel, Judge Blumberg departed.

Like a bunch of schoolkids, they were marched from the courtroom by Bailiff Schmidt. The saving grace for Tony was that, as he left, he found himself behind the blonde, who had a decidedly interesting sway to her walk—the kind that makes any red-blooded man want to reach out. and...

“Got a light?” The man in the Browns shirt fell in beside him. “I’m dyin’ for a cigarette.”

“No.” Tony wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

“Hope this thing doesn’t drag on long. I can’t afford to be off work.”

“Yeah.”

They ambled along in silence. Then Tony’s companion poked him with his elbow. “Nice little piece of tail ahead of us.”

For some unaccountable reason, the first thought that flashed through Tony’s mind was, “She’s mine. I saw her first.” This guy irritated the hell out of him. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Ya dead or something?”

“You might say that.” Dead. That’s what he’d be if he couldn’t pull his negotiating team together, double up on their assignments and hope all hell didn’t break loose at the office in the next week!

CHAPTER TWO

NOT ALL OF THE JURORS had seemed enthusiastic, but Andrea had been delighted when someone suggested they eat together and get acquainted. She sat at a long table between a pleasant African-American woman named Shayla Brown and Dottie Dettweiler, a grandmotherly lady with the wrinkled face of a crafts fair apple-head doll.

Dottie, looking to Andrea for reassurance, fingered the menu nervously. “I hope we’ll be finished before Thanksgiving. My kids and grandkids are coming, and I’ve got lots of baking to do.”

“We have a week before then, but I have no notion how long a murder trial takes,” Andrea said.

Shayla leaned forward. “My brother used to be on the police force. Maybe he’ll have an idea.”

“It probably depends on the evidence,” Andrea suggested.

“But it is kinda exciting,” Dottie conceded. “Did you ever watch People’s Court? I was pretty good at figuring out what the judge oughta do.”

“No, but I watched the O.J. trial,” Shayla commented. “As if that would do us any good. We better avoid discussing that verdict. We might divide this jury into two camps right away.”

Andrea laid down her menu. “I hope that doesn’t happen. Surely we can all listen to the evidence and come to a just conclusion.”

Shayla raised an eyebrow. “Girl, I do believe you’re one of those starry-eyed optimists.”

“At this point, there’s no reason not to be.”

“Ma’am, may I take your order?” The waitress stood at Andrea’s elbow.

“Oh...maybe the tuna salad plate.”

The young man with horn-rimmed glasses sitting directly across the table from her kept glancing around furtively, then taking sips of water. Conversations ranged all around him, but he seemed oblivious. Andrea moved the dried flower arrangement aside, so she could see him better. “I’m Andrea Evans.”

He turned bright red, then extended a cold hand. “Hi. Roy Smith.”

Andrea grasped his limp fingers briefly. “Have you been on a jury before?”

He shook his head. “Never. I wish I weren’t now.”

“Really? In some ways, I’m finding it very interesting.”

“Not me.” He gulped from his water glass again, then leaned forward confidingly. “To tell you the truth, I’m scared.”

“Scared?”

“It’s too much responsibility. What if we make a mistake?”

“The system should help prevent that. If twelve people conscientiously review the evidence, they should be right most of the time.”

Roy ducked his head. “I dunno.”

Down the way on the other side of the table, the large man with the Browns sweatshirt drowned out those around him. “It should be pretty damn simple, folks. We listen to the mouthpieces, go in the jury room, take a vote, collect our measly paychecks and go home. Piece of cake.”

A frowsy redhead with long carmine nails made a circle of her thumb and forefinger. “Bingo, Jack. In and out, clean as a whistle.”

“You got it right, baby, except for the name.” He grinned lasciviously and stuck out his paw. “Chester Swenson. Chet to my friends.”

“Well, Chet,” she batted her heavily mascaraed eyelashes, “since we’re on the same wavelength here, that oughta make us friends, doncha think? I’m Arnelle Kerry.”

“But, Mr. Swenson—” Andrea caught the man’s eye “—we’re talking about a young man’s life.”

“The kid’s prob’ly scum. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

The waitress set the tuna salad in front of Andrea. Scum? The callousness of the remark ruined her appetite. Beside her, she heard Shayla mutter under her breath, “Takes one to know one.”

Andrea, feeling color rising to her cheeks, leaned forward so she could look directly at Mr. Swenson. “I have to speak out here. I think that kind of blanket generalization is not only inappropriate, but, frankly, offensive. We haven’t heard any of the evidence and—”

Chet, his mouth full, shook a spoon at her. “Hey, lady, it’s a free country. I have the right to say any damn thing I please.”

“Ordinarily I’d agree, Chet.” The man sitting next to him, the one who’d brought his laptop, laid a hand on Swenson’s shoulder. “But we have to walk a tight line when we’re discussing anything that might relate to the case. I suggest we change the subject.”

Chet shrugged. “Maybe. But I don’t need no lessons from her.” He glared at Andrea.

Smoothly, the man cut through Swenson’s diatribe. “We’ve got a long haul ahead of us. There will be plenty of differences of opinion before this trial is over. It’s a little early to start getting on each others’ cases, don’t you think?”

Chet crumbled a saltine into his chili. “Maybe.”

Grateful for the tactful intervention, Andrea heaved a sigh of relief before eating a forkful of salad. Although she hadn’t met all the jurors yet, this pointed exchange reinforced her uncomfortable feeling that unanimity would be elusive. Their backgrounds were so diverse. In addition to those she’d met, there was the handsome man who’d just engineered the detente, a sour-faced elderly woman, a fortyish man in a city sanitation department uniform, a young guy wearing a Case-Western Reserve sweatshirt, a weather-beaten man in jeans and a flannel shirt, and a distinguished-looking, silver-haired gentleman. Five women and seven men. Plus the alternates, both women.

To her left, between bites of her chicken sandwich, Dottie was cataloguing all the chores she had to complete in preparation for the holiday. The litany of a true martyr.

Shayla shifted in her chair and whispered in Andrea’s ear, “Don’t look now, but the hunk who just bested our buddy Chet can’t take his eyes off you.”

Prickles of discomfort raced down Andrea’s arms. Yet curiosity overcame her. She turned her head slightly and, out of the corner of her eye, saw that the black-haired young man was, indeed, studying her. Before she could avert her glance, the corners of his mouth turned up in a lopsided grin, and when he winked at her, her breath caught. When she dared to look back, he was absorbed in winding spaghetti on his fork.

Shayla beamed. “You go, girl.”

“Shame on you, Shayla. This is hardly the place for meeting men.”

“It’s as good as any. So you’re not married?”

“No.”

“Well, let’s see what ol’ Shayla can drum up.”

“Really, I’m not—”

Shayla stabbed the air with a fork. “Sure you are. You just need a little nudge.”

After lunch as the jurors filed out of the restaurant into the bright winter sunlight, Andrea felt someone take her by the elbow. She looked up. Him.

“Since we’re going to be spending time together, we might as well get acquainted. I’m Tony Urbanski. And you are—?”

He still had hold of her arm. “Andrea Evans.” She was struck by the breadth of his shoulders and the depth of his dark brown eyes. His demeanor conveyed confidence, even a kind of cockiness.

He assisted her over the curb, then let his hand drop. “Your first time?”

“On a jury?”

He paused a beat, then grinned. “What else?”

She’d led herself right into that one. “Yes. You?”

“First, and I hope last. I don’t have time for this.”

“You must be a very important man.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because I’m busy, too. We all are. But, as citizens, we need to make time.”

He kicked a bottle cap out of his way. “I agree, but the timing for me right now couldn’t be worse.”

She laid a gloved hand on his sleeve. “I’m sorry.”

He stopped and looked intently at her. “So am I. But maybe not as sorry as I was a few minutes ago.”

“What do you mean?”

He covered her hand with his. “A few minutes ago I hadn’t met Andrea Evans.”

Andrea felt his hand squeeze hers just before they separated and entered the courthouse.

IN THE SECOND ROW, Tony leaned back in the less-than-comfortable chair, undoubtedly designed to keep bored jurors attentive or at least upright. The judge was explaining trial procedures and rules of evidence. Pretty standard stuff, although several of his fellow jurors frowned in concentration. Fortunately he’d had time at the restaurant to call the office and explain his situation to Wainwright, who, to Tony’s relief, had simply said, “I know you’ll do what needs to be done about your work.”

Since he was stuck in this jury box, maybe be could try to relax and make the best of the experience. And that definitely included a perusal of Andrea Evans, seated to his right in the front row. Light from a ceiling fixture rested on the tendrils of honey-blond hair that curled loosely at her shoulders. She hunched forward, taking notes on a pad the bailiff had provided. He could see only the curve of her cheek, but he had no trouble recalling the perfect peaches-and-cream complexion and the big blue eyes she’d turned on him outside. She came across as both fragile and determined. An interesting contrast. He admired her for taking the bigoted Swenson to task, but damned if he knew why he’d gone out of his way to meet her. Bull, you know exactly why. You like her.

The judge’s voice droned on, defining the differences among the various degrees of murder and manslaughter. Andrea was really into this jury thing. He’d watched her all morning, nodding in agreement with the judge, now scribbling fast and furiously. She reminded him of one of those red-white-and-blue-sequin-clad chorines strutting across the stage bare-legged belting out “It’s a Grand Old Flag.”

His amusement faded to acute physical discomfort when he realized what the image of a scantily dressed Andrea Evans had done to him. Clearly he’d been immersed in business too long if one attractive woman could have such a powerful effect.

Beside him, the redhead—what was her name? Arnelle something—drummed her fake fingernails on the armrest. She smelled like the bottom of an ashtray, and if she kept up the castanet action, he’d be forced to throttle her.

Finally, the judge stopped speaking. The attorneys fixed their attention on the bailiff who led in a slightly built teenager dressed in blue corduroy slacks, a white shirt a size too small and a crimson tie. Huge brown eyes dominated his pale face as he stared, like a terrified rabbit, around the courtroom. Jeez, he’s just a boy. Tony pushed that sentiment aside. He was just a boy cleaned up, groomed to look like a solid citizen and quite capable of firing a gun. Dressed in dark clothing with a stocking cap pulled over his short, sandy hair and holding a revolver, he would look convincingly menacing.

The judge glanced at the lead prosecutor. “Ready with your opening arguments, Mr. Bedford?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” The portly young man picked up his legal pad and stepped to the attorneys’ podium.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, on behalf of the state, thank you for being here. We appreciate the inconvenience this trial has caused you, but feel certain you will exercise your obligation conscientiously.

“The state alleges that this defendant, one Darvin Ray—” he pointed an accusatory finger at the youth “—did, on the night of January 14, with malice aforethought, shoot and fatally wound Angelo Bartelli. The prosecution will present evidence of motive and opportunity. In addition, we will furnish testimony that places the accused at the scene of the crime and links him to the murder weapon.

“Undoubtedly the defense will attempt to prey upon your sympathies, citing the age and lack of criminal record of the accused. However, none of that matters now to Mr. Bartelli. It is he, his widow and children whom you must hold foremost.

“After we present our case, I am confident that the bulk and nature of the evidence will remove any question of reasonable doubt and lead you to the only possible verdict—guilty as charged. Thank you.” He paused, making eye contact with several jurors, then returned to his seat.

When the defense attorney rose, Tony watched Andrea flip to a new page in her notebook, then sit with her pencil poised.

Dressed in a tailored navy suit, the petite flftyish brunette, using different words, also thanked the jurors before launching into her argument. “The prosecutor would have you believe this trial is a mere formality, that their evidence is so overwhelming you will have little, if anything, to deliberate. They will try to convince you my client is a troublemaker with a history of behavioral problems, instead of the bright, responsible young man he is.