"Now, I'm going to sit down," Waddle declared, the spear still vibrating. "And I want you to pay as close attention to Ms. Lord as you did to me. All the state wants is for justice to be done. A fair trial for all."
"All the state wants is a fair trial," Pinky Luber said. "Fair for the defendant, but fair for the people of Florida, too."
Steve hit the pause button and the picture froze. The videotape from WLRN-TV was twenty years old, but Pinky didn't look much different. Bald, pudgy, pink-faced. Like all the good trial lawyers, he was comfortable in front of the jury box. It was his turf, and before he surrendered an inch of it to the public defender, he was going to get his licks in. Even in voir dire.
Steve put his feet up on his cocktail table, poured himself a tall glass of Jack Daniel's-it was going to be a long night-and hit the play button.
"Mr. Willie Mays is accused of a horrific crime," Luber continued. "A vicious double homicide, the murder of an innocent woman and her baby. Now, I've got some questions to ask each of you to help us seat a jury that will be fair to both sides."
On the screen, Luber stood within arm's length of the jury box, close enough for eye contact but without invading anyone's space. "Juror One. Mr. Connor, let's start with you."
The video cut to a shot of the bench and Judge Herbert T. Solomon. Unlike Pinky, he had changed considerably. On the screen, he was a handsome man in his forties with an expensive haircut and aviator eyeglasses. His jawline had not yet gone soft, his hair was not yet gray, but there was something else different, too. An expression Steve could barely remember. As Herbert looked toward the jury box, the judge wore a relaxed and confident smile. He seemed happy. This was his courtroom; he was doing a job he loved. What must it be like to lose all that? How deep were his wounds?
Reginald Jones sat at the horseshoe-shaped desk below the bench, a supplicant before his king. Jones' tools were neatly arranged in front of him. Notepads, evidence stickers, a stamping device, and the court file itself: State of Florida versus Willie Mays.
Steve sipped his sour mash whiskey and watched Juror One explain that he had no moral or religious objections to capital punishment. "The Bible says an eye for an eye."
Bobby, barefoot as usual, padded into the living room, toting a legal pad and a guava smoothie. "I've broken down all the stats, Uncle Steve, but I don't know if they help you."
"Let's see what you've got."
While Luber asked his questions on the videotape, Bobby explained how he put together the demographics of the jurors in seventeen murder trials. Sometimes, the questions themselves would reveal the person's race. "As an African-American living in Liberty City, were you ever mistreated by Anglo police officers?" Sometimes, the answers were the key. "What those cops did to poor Mr. McDuffie was a crime, but I didn't take to the streets and riot like some of those fools." And other things, like membership in the African Methodist Church, civic organizations, and a residential address could help.
"Of the two hundred and four jurors seated in all the trials, twenty-three were African-Americans," Bobby said. "That's about eleven percent, which is less than the population but not, like, really outrageous."
"Not low enough to show systematic exclusion."
"That's what I mean, Uncle Steve. Every trial had at least one black juror and some had two."
"But never more than two?"
"Nope. Unless you count alternates."
"Anything else?"
"The African-Americans were almost never tossed off. Whatever ones got into the box were accepted by both sides."
"Just like the Mays case. Only five on the panel, and three got seated, one as an alternate. Unbelievable odds."
"Maybe it's because the African-Americans were such solid dudes."
"Meaning?"
"The black jurors all seemed to have good jobs."
Bobby handed Steve his notes. Next to the name and address, his nephew had listed the black jurors' occupations. Postal worker. Dentist. Accountant. Homemaker. Paramedic. Dentist. Probation officer.
Probation officer?
"This isn't a jury pool!" Steve thundered. "It's a Rotary meeting. A Republican convention. These guys drive Buicks. Where are the people on work release? On food stamps?"
"Did you watch the beginning of the tape, Uncle Steve?"
"Nothing to watch but an empty courtroom. I fast-forwarded to voir dire."
"You've gotta let it play a while. Mr. Jones came in and was doing something, but I don't know what it was."
Steve rewound the tape to the beginning. Just as before, the camera was on, but the courtroom was empty. Minutes passed.
"Who says trials are boring?" Steve asked.
"Let it play."
A few seconds later, a uniformed bailiff led several dozen people into the courtroom. They wore plastic name tags identifying them as jurors. At the moment, though, they were only potential jurors. Veniremen. More minutes passed. The civilians sat on the hard benches, some reading newspapers, most looking bored.
Reginald Jones walked in, pushing what looked like a grocery cart filled with files. He took his seat below the bench, smiled toward the gallery, and began speaking. No audio here, so Steve couldn't tell exactly what he said. But soon, a line formed in front of Jones' desk, and Steve knew what was going on.
"Jones is asking who wants out of jury service on hardship grounds," he told Bobby.
In a few moments, half the panel queued up in front of the deputy clerk's desk. Apparently a lot of people were caring for dying aunts. It only took another few moments for a pattern to begin emerging.
"He's letting the black jurors go home," Bobby said, just as a young man with dreadlocks hurried out of the courtroom.
"Not all of them. He's keeping the older African-Americans and the better-dressed ones, along with most of the whites."
"But there's a white juror getting excused." Bobby pointed to the next man in line. "He's so big, maybe Mr. Jones was afraid of him."
True, the guy was a load, his shoulders nearly filling the screen. Jones smiled broadly, energetically pumped the man's hand, then handed him a slip of paper. The man nodded and headed for the door. Jurors in the gallery applauded, and the man waved at them, stopping when someone offered a pen and a piece of paper. An autograph hound. Then Steve recognized him.
"Ed Newman," Steve said. "All-Pro guard for the Dolphins in the eighties."
"Maybe he had a Monday night game and couldn't sit on the jury."
"Keep watching. It's getting interesting."
The next person in line, who appeared Hispanic, wore a blue mechanic's jumpsuit, and Steve could make out the logo of the late and lamented Eastern Air Lines. Sorry, no excusal. Behind him, a well-dressed middle-aged white woman. Sorry, ma'am. You gotta stay, too. Then a white middle-aged man in a suit. Another smile from Reggie Jones. He stamped a slip of paper; the man bowed in gratitude and headed out. The camera picked up the black yarmulke on the man's head.
"The guy's a rabbi or something," Bobby said.
"So's Ed Newman. Jewish, I mean."
Newman, one of those brainy football players of a generation ago, went on to law school and had become a fine judge himself. But that's not what Steve was thinking about. The pattern was taking on another dimension, Steve thought.
"A Jewish football player?" Bobby said. "Cool."
"The Dolpins have had a few landsmen. Steve Shull was a linebacker at the same time Newman played. And you remember Jay Fiedler?"