Authors: RANDY SINGER
Judge Garrison, preening for the cameras he had allowed in the courtroom, took some of the fun out of it by planting himself firmly center stage. Jason knew there were basically two models in the jury selection world—the judge could have the starring role or the lawyers could. Garrison made it very plain from the outset that in this process the lawyers would stay backstage.
Before he started court, Garrison ushered Kelly Starling and Jason Noble into his chambers. Sitting behind his desk in his seersucker suit, the pudgy judge took off his wire rims and laid down the law. Court would start each day on time or maybe even a few minutes early. Lawyer hotdogging would not be tolerated—was that clear? He would ask most of the questions to the jurors himself; the lawyers could weigh in only when granted permission by his honor.
Throughout the five-minute conference, Kelly and Jason did a lot of nodding and muttered, “Yes, Your Honor” often.
“I’ve got a number of standard questions I’ll run through with the jury,” he informed them. “I’ll follow up one-on-one with any jurors that we might have to dismiss for cause. When I’m done, we’ll take a break, and you can submit any supplemental questions you want me to ask and make your Motions to Dismiss. Any questions?”
“No, sir,” Jason and Kelly said in unison.
Jason still found the judge hard to read. Rafael’s team had continued to monitor Garrison’s financial accounts and extracurricular activities prior to trial but had seen nothing to indicate the judge was on the take. “He’s got his eye on the Virginia Supreme Court,” Rafael told Jason. “And the other Beach judges would be happy to see him go. He’s obnoxious and narcissistic—but as far as we can tell, he’s clean.”
Judge Garrison started the first day of the trial with a thirty-minute lecture for the media and court observers. There would be no displays of emotion. No whispering or talking during court. Court would start on time, and he didn’t want spectators coming in late and disrupting the proceedings. Fifteen-minute breaks would actually be limited to fifteen minutes—no more, no less. All cell phones, beepers, and computers must be checked at the metal detectors. “The first time somebody’s cell phone goes off, I own it,” Garrison declared. This was a very important legal proceeding, the judge said gravely, not entertainment. If anyone wanted to be entertained, go watch Judge Judy.
“Now,” asked Garrison, “are there any questions?”
There were none. The judge looked like Elmer Fudd, but he spoke with the authority of General Patton. His bailiff scoured the spectators to see if anybody dared violate even one of the judge’s recently pronounced rules.
Jason Noble, already sweating like a steel worker, began to perspire even more. Case McAllister, sitting next to him at counsel table as the representative of MD Firearms, looked like he was stifling a yawn.
Finally, after asserting his unchallenged authority, Judge Garrison directed the bailiff to bring in the jury panel. Four rows of wooden benches that served as spectator seating in the courtroom had been cleared for the first panel of sixty prospective jurors. Each attorney was handed a numbered list of the jurors with some minimal background information. The first fourteen jurors on the list were seated in the jury box; the next twelve sat in the first row of seats behind the plaintiff’s table, the next twelve in the next row, and so on.
After the jury panel was sworn in, Judge Garrison delivered a civics lecture on how important their job was and how lucky all of them were as Americans to have a jury system.
Jason stole glances at the jurors, giving them a pleasant but closed-lipped smile. When he turned around, he saw Andrew Lassiter, seated immediately behind Jason, staring at the jurors like a serial killer. He would check his laptop, zero in on a particular juror, type in a few lines, and then stare at the next victim. Most ignored him. Or at least tried to.
Jason reminded Andrew not to study them as if they were animals in a zoo. Andrew nodded and kept staring.
Virginia law required seven jurors for a civil case. In a complex matter like this one, it was customary for the judge to impanel at least two alternates. Jurors who demonstrated bias would be dismissed for cause. After that, each side would have three preemptory challenges for the main jury and one for the alternates. The lawyers could use those preemptories on whomever they wanted.
Jason moved his chair back so he was sitting next to Andrew Lassiter and turned sideways so he could face the jurors. Garrison started in with the standard questions: Do you know either of the parties in this case? How about the attorneys? Have you heard about this case? Would what you’ve heard affect your ability to be fair and impartial?
On and on he went. Sometimes he had the jurors raise their hands as the group answered his questions; other questions he asked them individually. Jason took notes of any juror responses that bothered him.
Not surprisingly, many of the jurors had strong opinions about gun control. Others were probably just looking for a way to avoid jury duty and thought that if they demonstrated bias they might get dismissed by lunch. By the end of the morning, Garrison’s questions had claimed thirty casualties.
Garrison adjourned for lunch with a long diatribe about how the jury panel should avoid talking to anybody about the case, including “your therapist, your spouse, or your lover.” He ended with a veiled warning about sequestering the jury if they didn’t behave themselves and then told the jurors to enjoy their lunch.
As soon as Garrison left the bench, Andrew Lassiter began to complain. “He’s destroying this jury panel,” Andrew whispered frantically, eyes blinking like crazy. He shook his head at the computer screen, as if by staring hard enough he could will the data to change. “These gun lovers have got to learn to keep their mouths shut.”
It was true that Garrison had dismissed more gun-rights advocates than gun-control advocates, but Jason had expected that. In some respects he was pleased that the jurors were so passionate about his side of the case. So far, the gun-rights advocates seemed to outnumber their counterparts by a margin of about two to one, confirming Jason’s decision to leave this case in Virginia Beach state court.
“Let’s see how it plays out,” Jason said. He was nervous enough without being sucked into Andrew’s paranoia. “The jury’s still out.”
Andrew didn’t even smile at the remark. “I’m just saying—” he turned his palms up in frustration, his face showing concern—“I don’t like where this is headed.”
Jason and Case ate lunch at a nearby deli.
During his trials at Justice Inc., Jason had often found himself wound so tight that he skipped lunch on the first day. As the trial progressed, he eventually went for something light—a salad or some kind of wrap. At night, when the pressure of the day was over, he ate pizza or burgers or some other greasy meal while reviewing documents in preparation for the next day’s proceedings.
But Jason was in character mode now—the calm, cool, collected trial wizard—and Case wanted company for lunch. Jason went along and ordered soup and a sandwich.
Andrew Lassiter begged off, choosing instead to pore over his computer program and fret over the waning and anemic-looking jury pool.
Eating lunch with Case was the next best thing to therapy. Case only wanted to talk about the trial for a few minutes before he launched into stories about other trials or hunting trips or political figures with whom he had crossed swords. He spilled a little mustard on his white shirt and cursed, then dipped his napkin into his water glass and tried to rub it out.
This brought to mind the story about the time he had spilled his drink into his lap during lunch just before an opening statement. “I get a little nervous sometimes,” he had told the jury.
By the time they returned to the courthouse, Jason felt better. He enjoyed watching Case banter with the reporters who followed them across the parking lot toward the courthouse.
“What do you think of Judge Garrison?” someone asked.
“The wisdom of Solomon,” Case shot back.
“Are you worried about all the publicity this case is generating about MD Firearms?”
“Not if they spell our name right.”
“Does MD Firearms have any regrets about supplying guns to Peninsula Arms?”
“I don’t know,” Case said. He stopped walking for a second. “What about you?”
The reporter looked at Case, confusion on her face. “What do you mean?”
“Have you stopped beating your kids yet?”
She rolled her eyes, and Case resumed leading his little parade toward the courthouse.
They arrived upstairs at the courtroom fifteen minutes early, and Jason decided to head to the men’s room. A call arrived from Bella at precisely the wrong time, and Jason just let it ring. A few minutes later, she called back.
This time he answered. “What’s up?” He was back in the hallway heading to the courtroom.
“I just got a strange call,” Bella said. She sounded shaken. “One of those digitally altered voice deals.”
Jason’s heart stuck in his throat. He waited for the punch line.
“It was a man’s voice. He said to make sure you check your e-mail,” Bella said. “There’s supposed to be some information about potential jurors that you won’t want to miss.”
“That’s it?”
“He said to make sure you check it over your lunch break. Then he hung up.”
“I don’t suppose his number showed up on your screen.”
“He had it blocked.”
They talked for a few more minutes as Jason answered Bella’s questions about the morning’s events. He kept it short; he needed to get off the line and check his e-mail.
“Sounds like we’re off to a good start,” Bella said. “I’m praying for you.”
The comment caught Jason off guard. He found it a little strange to invoke the help of the Almighty against a grieving widower.
He thanked Bella, ended the phone call, and checked his e-mail. There were no new messages since lunch.
Strange.
Three minutes later, while he was sitting at counsel table, his BlackBerry vibrated.
Heart racing, Jason turned to Andrew Lassiter. “Can I see where we are?”
Andrew brought up his summary screen, showing the first thirteen jurors left on the panel if Judge Garrison didn’t throw anyone else off for cause. As it stood now, Andrew was recommending that Jason use a preemptory challenge on Juror 3. Juror 7 had a low score in Andrew’s system but was safe at the moment—but only because three jurors with even worse scores were still on the panel.
What did Luthor know about these two jurors that Jason and Andrew didn’t?
It would be hard to justify keeping Juror 3. His name was Rodney Peterson, an African American professor of history at Virginia Wesleyan. He had several strikes against him from a micromarketing perspective. Wrong political party. Wrong religious affiliation. He lived in Virginia Beach, but he did a lot of work with the Boys and Girls Club in inner-city Norfolk, seeing firsthand the lethal combination of guns and gangs. He had a doctoral degree, another strike. Jason preferred blue collar. The only thing in his favor was his gender. The focus groups showed that women had far more sympathy for Blake Crawford than men.
Juror 7, a middle-aged white woman named Marcia Franks, had some pluses and minuses. Another Democrat, strike one. No religious affiliation, strike two. She had other issues as well, maybe not complete strikes but at least foul balls. She read the wrong magazines, enrolled her kids in a private, nonreligious school, and shopped at organic grocery stores. She had an Obama bumper sticker on her car.
On the plus side, her spouse was retired military and now worked in a private security firm. There were guns in the house. Occasionally, her husband went hunting on the eastern shore.
Jason pointed to a few other jurors with low scores, though not as bad as Marcia Franks. “I’ve got bad vibes on these two,” he said. He didn’t know yet whether he would strike Jurors 3 and 7, but he wanted to start laying some groundwork just in case he decided to keep them. The best way would be to put the focus on other potentially bad jurors and build a case against them.
But Lassiter wasn’t buying it. “Trust the formulas,” he said. “Unless the jurors say something in
voir dire
that totally changes our information, we’ve got to stick with the formulas.”
Even before Jason had received the e-mail from Luthor, he and Andrew had gone back and forth on this issue. Jason saw the formulas as a guide. Andrew saw them as a mandate, the tablets from the Mount—thou shalt strike the bottom three jurors according to the formula.
Jason tapped his chest. “This is part of the formula, too.”
Andrew pointed to the screen. “This thing is based on objective information, not emotions.” He turned to Jason, intensity lining his face. The pressures of the case affected everyone, but Andrew showed it most—he was a volcano ready to erupt. “Don’t throw out months of hard work just because you have a gut feeling. Feelings change.” He blinked, and his neck twitched a little. “And even if they didn’t—”
“All rise!” the bailiff called out, rescuing Jason from the rest of Andrew’s lecture.
“Jason, you know this stuff works,” Andrew whispered.
Over the next few hours, as the questioning of the jury panel droned on, Jason focused on his dilemma. If he used a strike against either Juror 3 or 7, his past would be revealed, right in the middle of this high-profile case, distracting him from the task at hand and besmirching his client by association. What if Luthor really
was
trying to help? Luthor had suggested Ed Poole as an expert witness, and Poole had done great in his deposition.