The older woman, gray haired and Caucasian, sitting next to Ramirez moves perceptibly away, her eyes cast down at Ramirez’s purse. I suspect she is wondering what is in it at this moment, thoughts of little twisted white cigarettes, the horrified visions of needles and vials of pills.
I steal a glance at Acosta. He is smiling at Ramirez, his head I am sure dancing with images of joints being passed around the table during deliberations, followed of course by a mellow verdict.
I take her through the topics of concern, the burden of proof in a criminal case, proof beyond a reasonable doubt. She understands this. That the state must carry this burden and that the defendant has no obligation to prove anything in this case. She understands. Whether she has any difficulty presuming my client innocent in the absence of any evidence to the contrary. She says she does not.
“I see you have a position,” I tell Ramirez, “of some responsibility with this county commission?”
“We sit twice a month,” she says, “to act as a local clearinghouse for federal grants, and to review programs for funding.”
“And I take it you have considerable authority in these regards?” I ask her.
“Vice chairperson,” she says. “Next year, unless someone runs against me, I will be the chair.”
I give her congratulations, and then the question: “Are you expecting opposition?”
“Oh, no. But two years ago there was a contest. But that was different,” says Ramirez. “Some personality differences. I get along with everyone,” she says.
“So this is an elective post?”
“Yes.”
“This is considered quite a prize, to be chair?”
“It would go on my résumé,” she says.
“Then you know something about the responsibilities of public office?”
She gives me an expression, as if to say, “This goes with the turf.” I press her to answer the question for the record, and she says, “Yes.”
“What do you think of a man who is alleged to have committed the acts charged against Mr. Acosta? A former judge.”
“These are serious matters,” she says, “if they are true. Of course I have seen no evidence,” she adds.
“Of course.” I am getting a bad feeling, a woman anxious to leave behind a troubled background, who wants desperately to get along.
“How would you judge the testimony of a police officer, Mrs. Ramirez?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, would you be inclined to believe it? Or would you tend to distrust it?”
“Neither,” she says. “I would listen to it. I would have to evaluate it with all of the other testimony I hear.”
Very good, I think.
“Have you ever had any involvement with the police department?” I ask here.
“I’ve never been arrested.” She wants to take my merit badge.
“That’s not what I mean. Have you ever worked with the police?”
“Oh.” She puts it back.
“Not the department,” she says.
“With any police officers?” I say.
“On the commission,” she says.
“And what is your involvement with police officers on the commission?”
“They come before us from time to time, with recommendations on funding for various programs.”
“That’s all?”
She thinks for a moment. “Oh, and two members of the commission, by law, must be a member of law enforcement,” she says, “one from the city, one from the county.”
This was what I was searching for.
“How many members are on this commission?”
“Five.”
“So it would take three to elect you to the chair?”
By the look in her eyes, suddenly I sense that she can see where I am going.
Radovich is leaning over the railing on the bench to get a better look. His country nose sniffing for the scent of bias.
She does not answer my question. I prod her, and she says, “Yes.”
“Mrs. Ramirez, what if one of the other non-law enforcement members of the commission decided to run against you for the chair of the commission? If that person were to approach the two law enforcement members for their support, it would be necessary for you to be on good terms with those law enforcement members, wouldn’t it?”
She makes a face, some concession. “It’s not likely to happen,” she says.
“But if it did?” I no longer want to burn one of our limited preemptory challenges. Ramirez must go.
“I would do what is right,” she says.
“Even if it meant losing your position as chairperson of the commission? Not being able to put this on your résumé? That is a heavy price to pay for sitting on a jury in a criminal matter.”
“It’s an important case,” she says. As the words leave her mouth she knows she has said the wrong thing.
“Important to whom?” I ask.
“I mean, just that it’s important,” she says. “A big case.”
The “event of the season” is what she is saying.
“Could it be important to the police officers who sit with you on the commission?”
“I don’t know,” she says.
“Is it fair to assume that they would not be happy with you if you were to vote for acquittal in this case?”
“They are fair men,” she says.
“But they would rather you voted for conviction?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t discussed it with them.”
“You understand that either way, if there is a verdict, they will know how you voted, because in order to arrive at a verdict the vote must be unanimous?”
If she didn’t have a problem before, she does now. The powers of suggestion, and the burdens of higher office.
“Very nice, Mr. Madriani. You don’t need to go any further,” says Radovich.
“Mrs. Ramirez?”
She looks up at him.
“I want to thank you for coming here today and for giving us so much of your time.”
She doesn’t get it.
“You’re excused,” says the judge.
“I could be fair,” she says.
“I understand,” he says. “You’re still excused.”
Radovich leans over the bench a little, a broad smile on his country face, and whispers to me, out of earshot of the jurors, those in the panel, and those beyond the railing, “Remind me never to let you near my well with any of that poison.” It is a good-natured but wary smile that he unleashes as I take my seat.
Looks to kill from Ramirez as she vacates the seat on the panel.
It is nearing noon and Radovich calls it quits for the morning. He takes an assessment from the lawyers, the consensus being that we should finish jury selection by tomorrow.
“I will see the attorneys in my chambers now,” he says. “Mr. Kline, you have something you want to discuss?”
As we enter the judge’s chambers, Kline is bumping me in the ass with a handful of papers.
“Very good,” he says. “We had rated Mrs. Ramirez as high on our list.”
“I’ll bet you had,” I say. “Let me guess. She was your ace against acquittal?”
He won’t say, but it is my guess that they were banking on Ramirez to hang the jury if suddenly the fates favored us in deliberations.
“You did your job well,” he says. Kline is the picture of your average good sport. He would have me believe that holding a grudge is against his religion, a creed to which Lenore does not adhere.
“We would like to have kept her on the jury, or at least forced you to waste a preemptory challenge,” he says.
“The fortunes of war,” I tell him.
“Oh, not war,” he says. He searches for a moment for the right term. “Maybe friendly forensic combat,” he says. Then a glint in his eye as another thought enters his mind. “Though I suspect your colleague will be taking no prisoners.” He is talking about Lenore.
I could tell him that mutilation on the field of combat is more likely, but I think Kline has already figured this out.
“The indomitable Ms. Goya,” he says. “Well, we shall see what the future holds,” he tells me. He gives me a look that would indicate there is something prophetic in this, then turns and takes a seat directly across from Radovich.