Everybody in the room drops as if legs just gave out.
The judge sits for a moment looking out at the courtroom, a death stare, his eye scanning the crowd, his expression one of paternal irritation. “Before we start,” he says, “I want to make a few things clear. Those of you in the audience, no matter what you might think or how strongly you might feel, you are not participants in this trial. You are here to watch and observe, and that is all. There will be no demonstrations or disturbances allowed in my courtroom. Any talking, clapping, booing, hand signals, written signs, or other gestures, any demonstration of emotion of any kind, and you will be removed. I don’t want to see any newspapers, books, magazines, or anything else being read in this courtroom while the trial is going on. If I do, you will be removed. If you want to read, go to the library. There will be no food or beverages anywhere in the courtroom, no candy or gum. If you want to stick gum under a chair, do it at home at your kitchen table, not here under my benches.”
He goes through the routine about cell phones, cameras, and recorders not being allowed inside the courtroom. “If you have any one of these, give it up now or lose it.” He pauses a second. Nobody holds up a hand or steps forward. “If I hear a cell phone ring, you may as well hand it to the bailiff to answer, because that phone now belongs to the county.
“Cause a problem in my courtroom and you will go to jail.” He gestures with his gavel toward the door at the lockup, which is now closed. “You will not pass go, and no one from the press will be allowed to talk to you so as to immortalize your message to the world. Do I make myself clear?”
Some in the audience are probably wondering whether this includes having Herman pulverize them in the form of a human blocking sled before they get to go to jail.
“If it becomes necessary, I will clear the courtroom. If this happens, no one will be allowed back into the audience. You can watch the trial on closed circuit downstairs. I will tell you right now that that room is tiny, the chairs are uncomfortable, and the bailiffs are just as uncompromising.”
He continues directing his death gaze out at them for what seems an uncomfortable eternity, then settles back in his chair.
“The clerk will call the case.”
Ruiz reads from a single typed sheet in his hand. “People of the State of California versus Carl Everett Arnsberg. Case number…”
We waive a formal reading of the charges, and then Quinn looks over at one of the bailiffs. “Bring in the jury.”
From a door just off to the right and next to the jury box, they come out, two men, one of them middle-aged, wearing a suit and a stern expression, followed by a younger man in blue jeans and a slip-over shirt. Then three women file out, two of them African American, one dressed neatly in a pantsuit, the other in jeans and a brightly colored top. The third woman is older, wearing a black wool skirt and a matching top with a Chinese red cashmere scarf around her neck, one end tossed over her shoulder. She is sporting bright jewelry-large rings on three fingers of one hand and a gold bracelet on the wrist of the other. When she leaves at the end of the day, you’ll be able to find her by following the parade of felons attached to her jewelry after she passes the probation office downstairs.
The procession into the jury box continues.
We have dossiers on all of them, information down to whether they have nicknames and if so what they are, their jobs, income levels, the churches they attend if any, the number and names of their children and grandchildren. If it is possible to psychoanalyze them without shooting them up on drugs, we have done it, both sides, Tuchio with his state-paid consultant-cum-shrink and we with ours.
Like any jury, this one is a microcosmic social cauldron, an economic, racial, and political melting pot with the burner turned off. Other than being voters or having a driver’s license-which is how they got pulled into the jury pool to begin with-and besides the fact that they breathe air and will bleed if cut, there is almost nothing that any of them have in common. They’re here for two reasons: because the witch doctors of jury consulting believe they possess some hoped-for bias that will help either one side or the other or because one of us, Tuchio or I, ran out of bullets in the form of peremptory challenges to blast them off the jury.
They file into the jury box until it is full. The last six take chairs that have been set up just outside the railing to the box, directly in front of it. These are the alternates. For the time being, all of them are sleeping at home, comfortable in the thought that at least at night they can return to the real world and their families.
As soon as the last one takes his seat, Quinn starts in.
“Good morning!” He beams down at them from the bench-Mr. Happiness. Those in the audience have to be wondering if they’ve drawn Jekyll and Hyde as a judge and, if so, where he keeps his syringe.
Plato Quinn may play God in his own court, but he has presided over enough trials to know that in a case like this there is one group he has to cater to, come hell or high water. He’s looking at them now, flashing more teeth than the average alligator. He will feed them, worry about their bladders, give them regular breaks along with a steady diet of entertaining homilies from the bench, and if possible get them home early whenever he can.
This is an expensive, high-stakes case. Quinn knows that if he ends up with an unhappy or rebellious jury, he can find himself staving off a mutiny as he bails to avoid a mistrial. When taxpayers fork over millions on a case that will be constantly on the airwaves, with updates every minute or so, the last thing anybody wants is a story with no ending. The political powers aren’t likely to forget who was at the helm if the trip has to be taken again and the case tried over.
“I hope you all slept well last night.” He gets a few nodding heads, some half grins, and a broad smile from the woman decked out in her best going-to-court outfit, complete with rings and jangling jewelry.
“We have a little work to do today, but it shouldn’t take too long. I’m hoping for a light day. I know it’s Friday, so I hope to get you out of here and on your way home before the rush hour.”
This brings a lot of vigorous, happy nodding from the direction of the box.
The judge shoots a look at Tuchio, whose opening statement is the principal order of business for the day, a little gentle stage direction from on high not to be too long-winded.
“We’ll also get to know each other a bit better. I hope you’re all comfortable with the court staff.” Quinn introduces his clerk and the bailiff, whom they already know. What they don’t know is that if they are sequestered, he will become their personal jailer.
“These people are here to make sure that your time on jury duty is as pleasant and comfortable as we can make it.” Quinn makes it sound like a party, cookies and milk over photographs of Scarborough, his head all bloodied by the claws of a hammer.
Some of the jurors are looking around, taking their first gander out at the bleachers, where there is standing room only and a sea of serious faces, some of them still flushed by the threats from the judge. The jurors are probably realizing for the first time how important they are, the random hand of government having given them the power, like the emperor with his arm outstretched, closed fist with thumb protruding, suspended over the question of life and death.
Quinn does a few more introductions. He starts on us.
“You already know Mr. Tuchio, the district attorney.”
The Tush gives them a big smile and waves from his chair.
“And Ms. Harmen, who will be assisting him.”
She nods and favors them with the pearly whites.
“And of course counsel for the defense, Mr. Madriani.” The judge nods pleasantly toward me. “I see Mr. Hinds is not with us today.”