“Counsel,” Judge Tyler interrupted, “this isn’t closing argument. Get on with the voir dire.”
“That’s what I’m doing,” Ben assured him.
“Well, maybe they allow you to plead your whole case during jury selection over in Tulsa County,” he said sternly, “but I don’t.”
A small tittering emerged from the gallery. And just in case the jurors didn’t already know Ben was the out-of-towner, the fact was now abundantly clear.
Ben approached the jury box. It was hard to know where to stand. He tried to position himself as close to them as Swain had been, but when he did, he saw the front row of jurors instinctively shrink back in their chairs. They didn’t want him that close; he was invading their personal space. The message was obvious: Swain was their friend; Ben wasn’t.
“My first question is this,” Ben said. “Do you feel that if you are called to this jury, you will be able to apply the reasonable-doubt standard?”
No hands. No reactions.
“Perhaps I should explain what I mean by that. Beyond a reasonable doubt means—”
“Now I’ll object to that,” Swain said. He popped a suspender for effect. “He’s not allowed to define reasonable doubt. He can’t even do that in closing argument. That’s your honor’s job.”
“The objection will be sustained,” Judge Tyler pronounced.
Ben frowned. He was getting nowhere fast. “Let me try it this way. How many of you have heard or read anything about this murder case?”
Eighteen hands shot into the air.
“Your honor,” Ben said. “Under these circumstances, my motion for change of venue—”
“Will be denied. Proceed, counsel.”
Ben sighed. “Well, how many of you have already made up your mind about what happened?”
Eighteen hands fell. Which made sense, of course. This was an exciting case. These people wanted to sit on the jury, except perhaps Clemons. They weren’t about to admit they were prejudiced.
“Do any of you know the defendant? Have you had any contact with him at all?”
Only a middle-aged woman in the third row raised her hand.
“Thank you,” Ben said. “And you would be Ms. …”
“That’s Mrs. Conrad,” Swain informed him.
Thanks, Mr. District Attorney, for reminding us that you know everyone here and I don’t. “Mrs. Conrad. How do you know Donald Vick?”
“Well, it’s like this,” she explained carefully. “After that tornado last spring took the north wall off my house, I moved into a boardinghouse where this man was also staying.”
“I see,” Ben said. “Would that be Mary Sue’s place?”
“Why—yes,” she said, obviously surprised. Score one for the out-of-towner.
“Did you get to know Mr. Vick during that time?”
“Well, not too much. He was a quiet one. Kept to himself. Rather morose. Always seemed like he was … thinking. Or planning—”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Conrad, I think I’ve got the idea. Anyone else?”
Ben continued voir-diring the veniremen for another half hour, but he acquired no fresh information. All of them knew enough about the case to have preconceived conclusions, but no one would admit it. Ben would have to proceed on instinct.
Unfortunately Ben knew his instincts were lousy. This was a part of the trial where he typically depended on Christina. She had a knack for puncturing the subterfuge and perceiving what was really on people’s minds. But Christina wasn’t helping today. She wasn’t even in the courtroom.
In chambers, Swain used only one of his preemptory challenges, to take Mr. Clemons off the jury. Ben removed Mrs. Conrad and four other older women. Older women tended to be harsher judges and to give harsher sentences. A statistical generalization, to be sure. Barely better than a stereotype. But at the moment it was all Ben had.
And that left twelve jurors. No recalls were necessary. In barely more than an hour they had selected the twelve men and women who would decide Donald Vick’s fate.
The judge and lawyers returned to the courtroom. Judge Tyler charged the final twelve jurors.
“I’m glad we got that taken care of,” Tyler said. “Lawyers tend to be a long-winded bunch. Anytime we can select a jury in less than a day, I feel accomplished. The rest of the veniremen in the courtroom are dismissed.”
Tyler glanced at his watch. “We’ll call it quits for the day and let you all get home and make the necessary arrangements with your employers and families. Be back at the courthouse at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Tyler glanced at the counsel tables. “That includes you gentlemen, too, of course. Have your opening statements ready, and let’s keep them down to half an hour, tops. And then, ladies and gentlemen, we shall see what we shall see.”
44.
“DON’T FORGET DINNER,” BELINDA said as she and Ben left the courtroom. “You promised.”
“And it’s a promise I don’t intend to break,” Ben replied. “But I have tons of work to do before the trial resumes tomorrow. And there’s another stop I want to make before it’s too late.”
“How about you pick me up outside the Hatewatch office around eight-thirty?”
“Deal.”
Ben walked three blocks down Main Street, past the autoparts store, Ed’s Gas’M’Up, and the Bluebell Bar. He resisted the temptation to stop in and chat with Mac. He had a hunch Mac wouldn’t be that happy to see him; in fact, he might try to bill Ben for the damage to his pinball machine. Instead Ben kept walking until he arrived at the offices of The Silver Springs Herald.
Unfortunately The Herald saw him coming. As he approached the streetfront window, a middle-aged man in a tweed suit jumped up and made a beeline for the entrance.
Ben managed to get his foot in the door just before it was shut.
“Sorry,” the man said. “We’re closed.”
“I want to speak to the editor,” Ben said.
“He’s not in!” the man insisted. He was wearing a name tag: HAROLD MCGUINESS—EDITOR.
“You’re McGuiness!” Ben shouted. “You’re the man who keeps writing about me. I have a bone to pick with you.”
“I write all the articles for The Herald. What of it? We’re still closed.” McGuiness tugged on the doorknob, trying to pull it shut.
“My name is Ben Kincaid.”
“You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t read my own paper?”
“I’ve been misquoted in your distinguished journal. Repeatedly. I want you to print a retraction.”
“Sorry. Can’t be done. Now, if you’ll kindly remove your foot—”
“I’ll remove my foot when you agree to print the retraction. Bad enough you’ve convinced everyone in town I’m a sleazebag. Now you’ve got the judge thinking I’m badmouthing him. I never uttered a single syllable that you attributed to me.”
“Never said you did.” McGuiness yanked the door so hard the glass rattled in its frame. “Now get out of here.”
“I could sue you for libel. You put quotation marks around a statement I didn’t make.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s an exact quote. Least that’s what the United States Supreme Court says. And as long as I didn’t act with malice, I’m well within the bounds of the law.”
Unfortunately, Ben was familiar with the current case law on libel. “Look, I don’t want to sue anyone. I merely want to set the record straight. Why don’t you interview me—”
“Thanks, don’t care to. Got what I need from secondary sources.”
“You’ve ruined my reputation. Everyone in town thinks I’m going to use city-slicker tricks to put a murderer back on the street.”