After that, Ben ran through a myriad of questions on a myriad of topics, trying to learn more about the jurors, trying to unearth random bits of information that might be more telling than anything he could discover through direct questioning.
The responses he got were straightforward, reflective, and occasionally surprising. Christina jotted down some of the highlights:
“Criminals have too many rights. What about the victims?”
“I like to unwind at night with a frozen margarita, The New York Times crossword puzzle, and Regis and Kathie Lee. I tape the show every day. I love that man.”
“I just don’t understand people today. Sex, sex, sex—it seems like that’s all anyone cares about. Personally, I don’t see what the big fuss is.”
“Corporations control America. Everyone’s just in it for a buck.”
“Did you ever wonder—when you’re smelling a flower, is it smelling you?”
“I believe that key personnel in our government have been abducted and replaced by alien beings.”
“My brother-in-law Harold was the second gunman on the grassy knoll.”
“Counsel, do you mind if I ask where you got that tie?”
“I can’t stand lawyers. Nothing personal.”
After voir dire was finally completed, Ben huddled in a side room with his client, Christina, and of course, Harold Sacks, the juror consultant.
“All right,” Ben said, “let’s start with the foregone conclusions. Mrs. McKensie is removed, preferably to another county. Torres obviously can’t stand you, Wallace.”
“Agreed,” Barrett said.
“So he’s out. What else?”
“I think the alien abduction lady has to go,” Christina offered.
“Really?” Ben raised an eyebrow. “I figured you’d want to make her the foreperson.”
Christina offered an extremely thin smile.
“All right, enough fun. Now let’s do the serious work.” Sacks shoved his way into the middle of the huddle. He was holding a clipboard with charts and diagrams showing the position of each prospective juror. He had also worked up brief Jungian personality profiles of each, indicating whether they were an ESTJ personality type, or INFP, or whatever. Finally he had rated their likely compatability to Wallace Barrett on a scale from one to one hundred. “One thing is obvious. That old woman in the back, Donnelly, has to go.”
Ben’s head tilted to one side. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s exactly our worst statistical, demographic and personality type.”
“I thought she seemed sympathetic when I hammered on the ‘presumed innocent’ standard.”
“She was just being polite.”
“And I thought she seemed skeptical of some of the stuff Bullock was trying to ram down their throats.”
“How would you know what she’s thinking?”
“I used my eyes.”
“Look, Kincaid, have you done a statistical workup?”
“No.”
“Then shut up and let me do my job.” He flipped a page on his clipboard. “Now, needless to say, both of the black men stay.”
“Wait a minute,” Ben said. “One of them, Jeffers, has a daughter who works at the sheriff’s office.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So?” Ben stared at the man. “So, first, he’s probably got a huge law enforcement bias. And second, he’s probably sitting there stewing about how Wallace Barrett ruined his daughter’s pension, especially now that Torres has reminded him about it.”
“True, but—”
“What I have here are facts. Data. Analysis. You can guess all you want about what he’s thinking, but I know for a fact that he’s black, and that gives us an edge.”
“You don’t know that. You’re just guessing, too. You stick an equation on top of it to make it seem more reliable, but you’re still just guessing.”
“It’s not a guess, it’s a fact.” He nudged Barrett in the side. “All you black boys stick together, right?”
Barrett stared at him wordlessly.
“Your statistics don’t mean a damn thing,” Ben said. “All that matters is what those twelve people in the box think. They might be a demographically representative group, or then again, they might not be.”
“I’ve already made up my mind, Kincaid. He stays.”
Ben imagined he could feel the steam rising off the top of his head. He gave Barrett a sharp look. “Wallace, I think it’s fairly clear at this point that the two of us cannot work together. So make a decision. Is he picking this jury, or am I?”
Barrett was still staring at Sacks. His eyes narrowed. Finally he spoke. “You are, Ben.”
Sacks threw his hands into the air. “You stupid—” He pounded his fist on his clipboard. “Do you know what you’re doing? You’re throwing sixty thousand dollars down the drain.”
“Actually,” Barrett said, “I think I already did that. Now I’m trying to prevent that mistake from costing me my life.”
Sacks’s face turned a vivid red. He threw his clipboard down on the floor and stomped out of the room.
“Thank you,” Ben said.
Barrett nodded in acknowledgment.
“Okay,” Ben said, “let’s get on with this. Christina, what do you think of the woman on the end of the second row?”
“The anti-sex maniac?”
“Right …”
Chapter 36
“I’M AFRAID WE HAVEN’T made much progress,” Mike explained. He was sitting on the edge of the desk in his office, thumbing through the contents of a tan file folder. “Your mad bomber didn’t leave us much to go on.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” After the jury had been selected and Judge Hart recessed the trial for the day, Ben had stopped in at Mike’s office to check the progress of the investigation into the bombing of his office. So far he hadn’t heard much he liked. “No clues in the wreckage?”
“Clues to how it was done, yes. Clues to the identity of the culprit, no.”
Ben pressed his hand against his forehead. He had been hoping for better news. “Are you sure they’ve tried everything?”
“Ben, I’ve been involved in this investigation personally. As you know, I worked arson cases for several years. I know how to roll up my sleeves and root around in the ashes. There just wasn’t anything there.”
Ben nodded grimly. “Say, while you were rooting around in the ashes, you didn’t happen to see my opening statement, did you? In all the excitement, I’ve forgotten what I was planning to say.”
Mike smirked. “I expect you’ll think of something. Lawyers always do.” Mike walked behind his desk where he kept a small compact refrigerator, opened it, and pulled out a Red Dog. “Care for a beer?”
“Thanks, no. Have to deal with Joey.”
“And I’m on duty. But why be a stickler about details?” He screwed off the top and took a long draw. “Are you sure you don’t have any idea who’s gunning for you, Ben?”
“I’m sure. Who would do something like this?”
“I don’t know.” He paused. “Unless he’s someone you really pissed off.”
“I don’t think so. I think it’s someone who’s been drinking in the endless press coverage of this trial. Someone who believes this really is the trial of the century.”
Mike smiled. “Have you noticed how one of those comes along about every two or three years?”
“I suppose if someone listened to that media crap long enough, and watched it often enough, defense attorney Ben Kincaid might start to seem like a celebrity worth stalking. I’ve been more visible on television during the last two weeks than Heather Locklear.”
“Not in nearly as good shape, though.” Mike took another swallow. “You can’t fault the press for covering the story. It’s a matter of public interest.”