Juror number eight is a twenty-seven-year-old lobsterman from Hyannis. He told us in response to Geraldine’s questions that his view of the Catholic Church in general is grim, the result of too many years spent in repressive parochial schools. He also said that view wouldn’t affect his judgment in this case one whit. Geraldine doesn’t have a leg to stand on here. Even she knows that, I think.
Judge Gould apparently thinks likewise. He smiles at her. “Not going to happen, Ms. Schilling.”
She shakes her blond head at the injustice of it all and then exercises her first peremptory. The lobsterman takes his leave and his replacement answers all the preliminary questions. It’s our turn now. “Mr. Madigan?” the judge says.
Harry leans forward on the table and arches his eyebrows at Holliston. It’s routine to solicit opinions from criminal defendants during voir dire. And this particular defendant certainly seems to have some. He takes the pen I gave him earlier, reaches over to my diagram of the jury box, and draws a big X through the Margaret Murphy square. She’s a fourth-grade teacher, an ex-nun.
“Are you sure?” Harry asks. “She’s had some difficulties of her own with the Catholic Church, remember.”
Holliston reaches in front of me again and draws another X on top of the first one. He’s sure.
Harry excuses Margaret Murphy and she looks a little bit hurt as she leaves the box. Dottie pulls another slip from the fishbowl and we repeat the litany with Ms. Murphy’s replacement. Geraldine exercises her second peremptory, dismissing a middle-aged woman from Wellfleet who confessed to a lifelong belief that Catholicism, with all its martyrs and miracles, is nothing more than myth. A tall, slender black man replaces her, a native of Haiti, according to his questionnaire.
Holliston stiffens at once. He grabs my diagram and draws an X through the newest candidate’s box even before he sits down.
“Maybe we should let him answer a question first,” I suggest.
Our client’s stony expression tells me he can’t imagine why I would propose such a thing. He pushes my diagram, with its new X, across the table toward Harry. Harry sighs and closes his eyes, but says nothing. He’s not obligated to follow Holliston’s instructions, of course. But as a practical matter, most criminal defense lawyers honor their clients’ wishes when it comes to jury selection. We’re choosing the decision-makers, after all. And it’s the client who will live with the decision they reach.
Judge Gould walks through the preliminaries with the tall Haitian and then Harry dismisses him. Just like that. Without a single follow-up question. The dismissed juror doesn’t react at all, but the judge does. He sees what’s going on here and he’s appalled, but there’s not a damned thing he can do about it.
The ball is back in Geraldine’s court. She stands but doesn’t say anything, looking down at her table and tapping the eraser end of a pencil against her own hand-drawn diagram of the jury box. The third peremptory is always a difficult call. Pass on it and you give up an opportunity to improve your panel, to get rid of one more candidate who doesn’t feel quite right. Exercise it and you may get stuck with a far worse juror from the gallery.
“Number two,” she says at last. “The Commonwealth respectfully excuses juror number two.”
I’m surprised. Juror number two is a sixty-year-old carpenter from Dennis who told us he views the Catholic Church’s insistence that its priests remain celibate as “abnormal.” Otherwise, though, he has no feelings about the church one way or the other. If I were in Geraldine’s shoes—and I was for many years—I’d keep him. I wouldn’t run the risk of ending up with someone more opinionated in his place.
The carpenter exits and Dottie pulls yet another slip from the dwindling supply in her glass bowl. “Cora Rowlands,” she announces. Geraldine actually groans.
Harry and I twist in our seats to watch the newest candidate approach from the back row. Geraldine turns completely around, her back to the judge, to do the same. No doubt she’s hoping to see a female Rowlands other than the woman we heard from in chambers. Too bad for Geraldine.
Cora nods to each of us as she walks between our tables and then crosses the front of the room to the box, settling in the second seat, front row. The jury box seats are narrower than the chairs in chambers; her pocketbook doesn’t fit between the armrests. She sets it on the floor at her feet and purses her lips, unhappy with the accommodations.
“Your Honor,” Geraldine intones, “the Commonwealth renews its motion to dismiss this juror for cause, based on the content of her comments in chambers.”
Geraldine doesn’t have a prayer. I can’t blame her for trying, though, for attempting to undo the damage she did when she used that last peremptory. We’ve all been there, most of us more than once.
Judge Gould shakes his head. “I’ve already ruled on that, Counsel. And the ruling stands.”
Cora Rowlands looks from the judge to Geraldine, hands clasped on her lap, shoulders erect. Her expression says: So there.
Geraldine pretends she doesn’t notice. I know her, though; she does. She remains on her feet, looking like she has more to say on the matter, even when Judge Gould moves on. He runs quickly through the preliminaries with Cora and then turns his attention to Harry. “Mr. Madigan, anything further?”
Holliston takes his pen and reaches over to my diagram again. He draws an X through the number-one box and another through number seven—opposite ends of the front row—Anthony Laurino and Maria Marzetti. Maria is the woman Holliston identified as a cat-lick as soon as he arrived this morning.
“We don’t get two more,” I tell him. “We get one. Three total.”
He looks at me and his eyebrows fuse. He’s certain I’m lying, it seems, cheating him out of a fair shake.
“Pick one,” I say. “Believe it or not, the Rules of Criminal Procedure aren’t going to change in the next five minutes, not even for you.”
“Hold on,” Harry tells both of us. “This is a mistake. We’ve got a decent panel right now. Why take a chance on making it worse?”
He’s right, of course, but Holliston doesn’t think so. He takes his pen and darkens the X over juror number one. Anthony Laurino must go. It seems an Italian male is even more objectionable than an Italian female. I’ve no idea what rationale is at work here. But I do know our exercise of peremptories bears a frightening resemblance to ethnic cleansing.
Even so, Harry seems prepared to let our client call the shots. These men and women will determine Derrick Holliston’s fate, after all. Harry shakes his head and leans close to me. “Are we forgetting anyone?” he whispers. “I’d hate like hell to leave a left-handed Latvian in the room.” He stands and perfunctorily bounces Anthony Laurino.
After meeting the judge’s less-than-happy stare, Harry drops back into his chair, kneading his temples. The newest dismissed juror doesn’t mind a bit, though. He looks relieved, happy even, as he leaves the courtroom. Dottie draws another slip from the few left in her bowl and announces: “Gregory Harmon.” Harry plants his elbows on the table, buries his face in both hands.
Holliston stares at our final juror, in flannel shirt and work boots, as he walks to the front of the room. When Mr. Harmon settles into the number-one spot in the box, right next to Cora Rowlands, our client clicks his pen and sets it on the table. “There,” he says to no one in particular. “That’s better.”
Chapter 9
For attorneys in the midst of trials—particularly defense attorneys in the midst of criminal trials—lunch breaks have little to do with food. Unless, of course, the attorney is Harry Madigan. We’re at the Piccadilly Deli, waiting for his mega–meatball sub with extra mozzarella and a gallon of Tabasco. We take seats at our usual spot—near the front windows—and slide today’s Cape Cod Times to one side of the table’s mottled red Formica surface. Harry downs a quart of chocolate milk. I sip my coffee and call the office.