Burners (3 page)

T
he courtroom smelled of fresh paint and new wood. Eleven jurors had already been selected. That meant they needed just one more, plus a couple of alternates, probably. The seven men and four women sitting in the jury box were feigning various levels of interest. Three were African American, one was Hispanic. Three had gray hair, one looked like the sort who sported a tattoo on her backside.

I recognized Martin Gustafson from the waiting room, and another guy named Bob who had been one of the first to be called and was genuinely thrilled for the opportunity. I guess he got his wish.

But beyond that cursory accounting of the jury in progress, I refused to invest any serious thought in the surroundings or my circumstances.

I just wanted to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible

I had been ushered into the room, past the jury box, and over to the witness stand. The slender man who administered the oath was in his late thirties, with a hunch in his shoulders that would likely become a serious problem sometime in his sixties. It was the usual oath, not unlike the ones in the movies or on any of the two dozen different versions of
Law and Order.

Then I climbed into the stand and waited. And waited.

The attorneys were also waiting. Two sets of them. For the defense, a middle-aged guy who was a bit too tall and much too broad in the shoulders for his brown sport coat, and another man, smaller, a little younger, who wore thick-rimmed glasses and the respectable hairstyle his father had always insisted on.

“He should only be another minute or so,” the elderly bailiff said to Anna Lipscomb, whom I recognized as a lead prosecutor for the county.

Lipscomb nodded, then resumed a whispered conversation with Simon Lebanon, Oakton County’s chronically disheveled D.A, who had entered the courtroom a minute earlier.

My mind wandered beyond the beige walls of that courtroom and into another. In ten days I was scheduled to appear at the latest of what was now a four-year series of custody hearings. Carla, my ex, would be trying to further limit my opportunity to see my daughter, Nikki. Her attorneys—she had more than one while I could barely afford a paralegal—would do everything in their considerable power to erode my already tattered ability to parent my eight-year-old.

It has been this way since Carla left home and took Nikki with her three years earlier. Got worse when she remarried some wealth. I had drained my savings—such as they were—missed work time, and months of sleep. I was just about at the end of it. I’d done all I could think of to ease the transition for Nikki, until that responsibility was ripped away from me. And now I wondered how much more I could do. For the first time since the split, I was thinking about conceding everything.

The honorable Ezra D. Malvo finally entered the courtroom—slowly, very slowly. He had his left hand pressed against his abdomen, the right one reaching around his back to complete the vise. His face was as white as the thin strands of hair clinging to his liver-spotted head.

“Let’s get this thing rolling,” the judge said in a voice thick as concrete. “We got ourselves a jury yet?”

The attorneys for both sides looked at one another before the D.A. brushed back his unruly hair, a gesture that made it worse, not better, and spoke.

“Um, no, no Your Honor. We’re still two short.”

“Well let’s get on with it then,” Judge Malvo carefully turned to face me. “This gentleman been sworn in yet?”

The bailiff responded with a slow nod.

“This guy looks like a viable juror,” the judge said, then gave me the once over. “More or less.”

“Your name is Alex Chapa?” Prosecutor Lipscomb asked as she stood, eyes locked on the notes in her hand.

I rifled through a mental list of possible wise-ass responses, determined that my favorite was,
That’s what the much better looking guy in the waiting room paid me to say
, but figured that under the circumstances it was best to play it straight.

“Yes, it is.”

“Is that short for Alexander?”

“No, Alejandro. I was born in Cuba, but when I became a U.S. citizen my mother decided it was a good idea to go with something less ethnic, so she changed it to Alex.”

I heard a high-pitched creaking to my left. Judge Malvo was slowly leaning in my direction.

“That was a wise decision,” he said, his voice trailing the stench of his breath—coffee, cigarettes, and decay, wrapped in stale indifference.

Because the thing I wanted most at that moment was to get out of there and get on with the rest of my life, I chose to ignore the judge’s remark. In a different setting I would have told the old fart how my mother had apologized to me on more than one occasion for a decision she’d long regretted. Instead, I waited for the next question.

Lipscomb, too, had chosen to ignore Judge Malvo. She was probably accustomed to his idiotic side comments. “It says here you work for a newspaper.”

“On my good days, yes
.
”

She looked up from her clipboard.

“And what about on your bad ones?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Lipscomb lowered her brow without taking her eyes off me, like a parent on the verge of unloading on an unruly child. This was good.

“You’re a reporter, then, Mr. Chapa?”

“I’m a columnist.”

I heard Simon Lebanon snicker, then he said, “Isn’t a columnist just a reporter who gets his photo in the paper?” He sat back, apparently pleased with himself, and ran a hand through his hair. I watched the brown tufts retreat for a moment before beginning their southbound journey back to the usual resting place.

Still focused on escaping the stand and getting out the door, I opted to ignore Lebanon just as I had the judge, and turned my attention back to Lipscomb.

“Have you ever written any stories about crimes or criminals?”

“Many.” What cave had this woman been living in the past fifteen years? There was even a better than fair chance I’d mentioned her in one or two of my stories. Or could be this was just a formality on the road to dismissing me. I hoped that was it.

“And how do you feel about the police and our justice system, based on your work experience?”

Finally.

“I believe that the police get it right nearly all of the time, and that anyone charged with a major crime is usually there for a reason.”

“And what about the justice system, the courts?”

“In my work, I’ve covered a great many trials. Most have ended in a conviction.”

Apparently Lebanon had somewhere else he needed to be. After sneaking a glance at his watch, the D.A. abruptly got up, left the table, and walked out the same set of doors he’d entered through.

“And how have you felt about those convictions? Have you disagreed with any of the decisions?”

“My job is to report and analyze, not to agree or disagree.”

That was good. It suggested an inability or at least unwillingness to judge, which should give the prosecution some doubts about my reliability on a jury. Then again, it could also suggest an innate impartiality. That would be bad.

A young man in a tan suit, who I figured was a clerk, got Lipscomb’s attention. She leaned down to hear him whisper something. Then she whispered something back and I began to imagine myself being dismissed, walking out of the courthouse, sitting in my car, slipping Bob Seger’s
Against the Wind
into the CD player, and cranking the volume.

Lipscomb was nodding as she turned her attention back to me.

“One more question, Mr. Chapa. Would you have any trouble voting to send a man to jail for the rest of his life for murder?”

This was my shot. A “yes” answer would likely bring my part of this to an abrupt end. So easy. Just say “yes.”

But not really easy at all. In my years as a journalist I’ve written about some of the worst monsters the Chicago area has ever spit up. Hell yeah, I could send a man to jail for murder.

“Would you like me to repeat the question, Mr. Chapa?”

No, I heard it the first time. I was just calculating my options, and determined I have a much better play with the defense.

“I could send a man to prison for life. No problem.” I didn’t add what I actually thought—
If I was certain he was guilty.

“We have no further questions, or any objections to this potential juror.”

Not what I wanted to hear. But I sensed I had a good shot of getting bounced by the defense.

As the younger of the two defense attorneys stood, I saw Lebanon abruptly re-enter the courtroom through the back door, followed an instant later by a tall, shapely woman who appeared to be more than a little irritated. She had dark shoulder-length hair, a nice figure, and an outfit to match. She looked like she’d just stepped out of the front window of an exclusive Mag Mile clothing store.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Chapa.” The slender attorney had taken off the poindexter glasses he’d been wearing earlier.

I nodded, said nothing, since verbally agreeing under these circumstances would most certainly constitute perjury.

“Mr. Chapa, have you ever covered a case or written a story about arson?”

The defense attorney’s question diverted my attention away from the woman—

“No.”

—but only briefly. There was something familiar about her, and I wondered if she might be a fellow reporter. Someone whose path had crossed mine once or twice.

“Do you have any sort of prejudiced feelings toward Hispanics?”

“What?”

I hadn’t been paying attention, and for a moment I wondered whether I’d missed a question.

“Hispanics in general, Mexicans in particular. Any feelings or history of prejudice?”

“No, of course not. As I said before, I’m Cuban.”

“Cuban, yes, but—”

“No, I have no prejudice against anyone.”
Besides asshole attorneys in particular, morons in general, and folks who forget to turn off their blinkers on the tollway as a matter of principle, that is.

Though I could not make out what was being said, the hushed conversation in the back of the courtroom was anything but friendly. Fingers were being pointed, hands perched on hips, and it was clear that Lebanon was no match for this woman.

I was intrigued.

“Based on one of your earlier responses, do you believe you have a predisposition toward finding a defendant guilty?”

I had just decided that she was wearing too much money to be a reporter, when the woman turned and looked my way for an instant. Just long enough for me to confirm this was no reporter.

“Mr. Chapa?”

Lieutenant Jacqueline Daniels? What was she doing so far out her comfort zone, which included Chicago’s most treacherous streets, dive bars, and crack houses, but not its western suburbs?

“I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?”

Judge Malvo let out a loud, purposeful sigh.

“I asked if you would be predisposed to finding a defendant guilty simply because he’s on trial, based on an earlier response.”

Then I put it together.

Daniels was connected to
this
case. As a…what? Couldn’t be an arresting officer. So an expert? Maybe there had been similar crimes in her jurisdiction, or she’d had an earlier run-in with the defendant.

That meant she could wind up on the stand.

Hmm…

“Mr. Chapa,” the judge was gradually tilting toward me. “We’ve been here a long time.” Then he cupped a heavy hand over his microphone and whispered, “Could you please answer the goddamned question?”

Jack Daniels’ head had snapped in my direction at the mention of my name. Now she was staring at me with a look that was equal parts disdain and confusion.

“I apologize, Your Honor.”

“Would you like the nice attorney to repeat the question again?”

“Thank you, but no, I’m good.”

Daniels was still staring at me, but the confusion half of the equation was gone from her face.

I smiled at her, then turned my attention to the defense lawyer. This was simple, now. If I informed them that I knew Officer Daniels, that we’d once solved a case together, one that involved pogs no less, and that I’d saved her life along the way, I would immediately be excused.

But it wasn’t simple. A journalist’s curiosity has a way of complicating things. If a Chicago cop was involved it meant that his trial had the potential of being a much bigger story than I had imagined. And while I could ask to be assigned to cover it and spend my days sitting in the gallery, I now had the opportunity to track it from the inside, as an active member, as a juror.

As the attorneys grew more impatient waiting for my answer, I imagined the series I could write after it was all over. I knew what I had to do.

“I have absolutely no predisposition about a defendant’s guilt or innocence, and I’m certain I can render a just verdict based on the evidence as presented. If I was unable to do that, I wouldn’t be much of a journalist.” I leaned forward for emphasis. “And I’m a very good journalist.”

I didn’t have to look in her direction to know Daniels was staring at me. And as the defense team conferred, I did my best to avoid thinking about what I had just done to the next several days, weeks, or maybe even months of my life.