We, the Jury Read online

  “I’ll lose myself in the work I love,” she said. I think she’s really trying to find herself in the work.

  Speaking of Cranston, he catches my eye and shakes his head sadly. It’s not clear to me whether he’s commenting on the judge’s error, Jenna Blaylock’s sharp tactics, his own sorry courtroom performance, or the demise of his political aspirations because Blaylock kicked his ass in this trial. I respond with the curt nod I learned at bureaucrat school. Cranston thinks I’m his friend because we’ve had maybe a dozen trials together, and he’s not a bad person. Not a good person, either. But he’s not my friend—no attorney is. It’s a matter of principle.

  One of those media jerks, a tabloid blogger named Kelsi Cunningham, lingers after everyone has left the room. The media infested the Sepulveda County Courthouse over this case, and Cunningham is the queen roach. People v. Sullinger is the trial of the century in our county, the biggest since 1928, when a silent-movie comedian sued a local newspaper for libel after it accused him of engaging in sodomy with a male gaffer—though I doubt there were any female gaffers back then, so maybe I’m being redundant. In those days, our county was a resort, a place where the elite could come and live out their fantasies by the river. The poor guy, who called himself Porky Potter, ironically, was more Oscar Wilde than Liberace. A jury found the article to be true, and truth is a defense, so there went Potter’s career down the American Standard.

  The Sullinger case is much bigger, even accounting for inflation in the public’s appetite for sleaze. Sullinger has sex, gruesome violence, deceit, and family tragedy. But there’s something else. This trial involves an important legal issue—namely, whether a man can beat a murder rap by claiming he’s a battered husband. Should there be such a defense? Judge Quinn-Gilbert said yes in her jury instructions. That’s good enough for me.

  As I said, I don’t like any of the media, but Cunningham is the worst sort. (Yes, I’m repeating myself, but the judge’s husband, Jonathan, once told me, “Why say something once when you can say it twice?”) If there’s testimony about sex, it’ll be the lead headline on her website. If there’s testimony about violent sex, it’ll get forty-point type. She sidles over to my desk and says, “The way your judge instructed the jury—what a clusterfuck.” The woman has a potty mouth, piercings in more places than just her earlobes, and a tattoo on her ankle. So much for journalistic dignity.

  “I’m locking up,” I say as I stamp filed on an emergency motion for another case, which the defendant’s lawyer should have filed downstairs in the main clerk’s office, but which I’m accepting in the courtroom out of the goodness of my heart—because the main filing window is closed, and this goof attorney will blow a deadline if I don’t.

  “Oh, come on. Are there issues with her … mental acuity? Others in the courthouse say so. Talked to me on background. The trial’s over, and everybody saw and heard—”

  It’s bullshit. The judge has been under great stress, and the bailiff, Deputy Kobashigawa, and I have had her back. Cunningham is on a fishing expedition. Well, this fish isn’t going to bite rotten bait. I assault her with my most withering glower. “I’m locking up now.” I stand, walk over to the door, and hold it open for her.

  As she passes, she says, “My company pays its sources, you know. Nothing illegal about it. A courtroom clerk can’t earn much.”

  Nothing illegal about paying off a county employee? Yeah, right. As soon as she’s clear of the door, I shut it and turn the lock hard.

  My desk phone buzzes, and as always, I answer before it buzzes a second time. I’m proud of never keeping Her Honor waiting. I’ve even raced across the room to get the phone on the first buzz.

  “Yes, Judge?”

  “Is there anything on the calendar this week I need to prepare for?” she asks wearily.

  “Zip, Judge. Just waiting for the Sullinger verdict.”

  “Good. That’s good.” There’s silence, but I never hang up on a call with her until I hear a goodbye or a dial tone. She breathes into the phone. I hear a snuffling, then a long, labored breath. Finally, she says, “Well, that wasn’t my finest hour, Mick.” The statement isn’t an observation but a question, and I answer the only way I can.

  “You made it right,” I say, though how can you ever know if that’s true? “This has been a long, hard trial, a real bear. Not made easier by the broken heating system. I’ll get maintenance to fix the thermostat tonight. If they don’t show, I’ll fix the darn thing myself.”

  “You’re a good man, Mick,” she says.

  THE HONORABLE

  NATALIE QUINN-GILBERT

  Traditionally at common law, a jury of twelve veniremen decided a criminal case, and their verdict had to be unanimous. Then, in Williams v. Florida, 399 U.S. 78 (1970), the United States Supreme Court concluded that the twelve-person jury was a historical accident born out of superstition and mysticism—twelve apostles, twelve stones, twelve tribes—and that a jury comprising as few as six citizens could insulate jurors from outside intimidation while at the same time allowing for adequate deliberation and providing an adequate cross section of the community. Legal scholars who favor a jury of fewer than twelve people argue that six-person juries promote efficiency. Those who oppose smaller juries fear that the more powerful jurors will prevail over the weak at the expense of justice. Our state’s compromise is to require a minimum of eight jurors and a unanimous verdict. If two drop off, however, the remaining six may decide by unanimous vote. I have faith in these jurors. A good group. I wish there were twelve. If the choice is between cumbersome and unjust, I’ll take cumbersome. But I’m obviously in the minority.

  THE BAILIFF

  BRADLEY KOBASHIGAWA

  I won’t turn in my sheriff’s badge. It’s shaped like the Star of David and has a blue cross at the top point. The combination means we serve everyone. The division chief wants me out. That’s why he assigned me to be a courtroom bailiff. No matter. I won’t resign. I’ll remain a deputy sheriff no matter how bad the assignment.

  Most of the time, I feel like a custodian. I clean up the courtroom. I lock and unlock doors. During trial, it’s different. During trial, I’m a police officer again. It’s my job to make sure the courtroom is secure. To make sure no one is stalking the judge. There are haters and lunatics out there who would just love to kill a judge or a lawyer or a defendant. This Sullinger case is tough. So much publicity. The crazies came out to root for their favorite side. Like they’re watching a football game. No, more like they’re watching a video game, where the characters look just like real people but exist only to kill or be killed. The people in a trial are human beings, not pixels.

  Once jury deliberations start, I’m a babysitter. Or maybe one of those—what do they call those hotel guys? Concierges? Don’t get me wrong, I take this trial and my job serious. It’s my job to get the eight jurors through this. Also, I enforce the law by making sure they don’t violate the rules. Like Judge Quinn-Gilbert says, I’m their connection to the outside world.

  They line up in numerical order. I don’t even have to remind them anymore. They wait for me to unlock the door. Juror No. 1 is grinning. She looks like she’s first in line for a Disneyland ride. She’s about to decide a man’s future. There’s no reason to grin. She should take this proceeding serious. Since the first day of jury selection, she’s acted like she earned the right to be number one. Really, she just got the number assigned from a computer in the clerk’s office. She’s a records manager at an insurance agency. She’s in her midfifties and has never been married. She has a twenty-four-year-old son who works on a golf course in Scottsdale, Arizona. She loves her cats. The second I open the door, she rushes inside and takes the chair at the head of the table.

  Juror No. 6, the Architect, and Juror No. 17, the Housewife, go in next. They sit side by side. They always eat lunch and get afternoon coffee together. The Architect looks at me a lot. Checks me out. Once, she said,
“I can tell you work out, Deputy Kobashigawa.” Hot smile. She’s my type. Tall, athletic, not too curvy. A yoga- or Pilates-teacher look. Pretty face that doesn’t look as hard when she’s flirting. Divorced, which I don’t mind, because so am I. In her forties like me, which I don’t mind, either. Tempting, but I can’t. It’s not about the conflict of interest. Trials end fast. It’s just that she’s way too rich and smart for me. She minimizes rich and smart by saying she designs public toilets for a living. Funny. But really, she designs all kinds of buildings for parks and recreation. Most women I meet don’t want to be smarter or more successful than men. It’s not because I’m old-fashioned that I believe this. I wish it was different. I think it’s in female genes to feel that way—not their fault. Probably all the Architect wants is sex.

  The Housewife is a stay-at-home mom. In her midthirties with three children. The oldest is five years old. How does she manage? I have one son, and when he was that age, he put a strain on my marriage. My bad. I was always patrolling the streets at night.

  The Housewife doesn’t work out at the gym. I’m sure she has no time, but it would be good for her to work out. Chasing kids isn’t enough. She’s round all over. No more than five-two, with a round face, round eyes, round figure, round arms. Baby weight. Every day, she comes to court dressed in a white blouse and blue jeans. Like a uniform. She’s smart like the Architect. She has a master’s degree in communications. She made such a big deal about that during voir dire. I felt sorry for her. She’s very uptight. Working out would help that. My workouts help me blow off the steam. As soon as the jury is discharged for the day, I’m going to the gym.

  I know why the Architect and the Housewife are drawn to each other. Each has what the other wants. Sometimes that results in friendship; sometimes it results in enmity.

  I don’t work out at the Sepulveda Gym anymore. Too many deputies there. Ever since the incident, they treat me different. They nod, grunt hello, but that’s it. No dinner and a beer after, no conversation that lasts longer than a minute. Not even an offer to spot me—not that I would trust them to. So I go to the 24/7 fitness place by my house. It’s not ideal. They don’t have hundred-pound dumbbells there, but I make do.

  Juror No. 11, an anthropology major at the local college, stops at the door. So does Juror No. 29, a jury consultant with a PhD in statistical psychology. Together, they help Juror No. 33, a grandmother, into the room. The Grandmother is a retired high-school teacher and vice principal. She’s seventy-eight, wears a hearing aid, and walks with a cane. She’s been married fifty-seven years. Her husband has Alzheimer’s. My dad’s dad had it. Forgot he was in the Manzanar internment camp during World War II. Forgetting has a silver lining.

  Judge Quinn-Gilbert offered to excuse the Grandmother for cause on the grounds of family hardship. For most of the jurors, that offer would’ve been manna from heaven. The Grandmother said no because jury service is her obligation as an American citizen.

  Mick, the clerk, thinks different. He thinks the Grandmother doesn’t care that much about public service, just needs a break from taking care of her husband. I don’t agree. I’m a romantic. Not many people would think a former patrol cop could be a romantic, but I am. Not just a “flower-and-candy husband” romantic, but a romantic toward life. My ex-wife hated that about me.

  Mick and I seem like different personalities, but we’re friends. We both served our countries—I was a marine, and he was in the army—and now we both serve the same judge. Mick is worried about Judge Quinn-Gilbert. I think it’s just the stress. She’s been under a lot of it with this trial.

  The Student helps the Grandmother into a chair.

  “You’re a very sweet girl,” the Grandmother says.

  The Housewife and the Architect look at each other, and the Housewife rolls her eyes, I guess because the Grandmother just referred to a twenty-year-old African American woman as a “girl.” The Student smiles a thank-you to the older woman. The Jury Consultant and the Student take seats flanking the Grandmother.

  Juror No. 43, the Clergyman, sits at the far end of the table. A big man from Texas or somewhere in the South, if I have his accent right. You’d think a man of the cloth would have people skills. Not this one. I overheard the Architect whisper to the Housewife, “He thinks he’s holier than thou.” The Housewife laughed. People even talk behind the back of a Methodist minister. People talked behind my back during the internal-affairs investigation. They still do, even in the courthouse. I’d like to say I don’t care, but I do. I’d like to think it doesn’t matter, but it does. Malicious gossip is sometimes the truest assessment of a person. Raw, unfiltered, harsh, intoxicating, like a rough-fermented brew. Maybe most times. That’s why the words hurt so much.

  Mick admires the Clergyman, who quit his church and started his own independent congregation because the Methodists keep deferring approval of gay marriage. This fact didn’t come out in voir dire, so the other jurors don’t know about it. The Clerk knew about it before, independent from this jury. Maybe the others would be kinder to the Clergyman if they knew. Others might dislike him more. I wouldn’t say this to Mick or the judge, but I’m not sure about gay marriage. That doesn’t mean I don’t admire the Clergyman for standing up for what he believes.

  Last to come into the room is Juror No. 52, the Express Messenger. He calls himself an actor. He looks around and mouths the words This sucks. He’s used those two words so often that the Grandmother threatened to report him to the judge. “That would suck,” he replied. After that, the Express Messenger whispered the words so the Grandmother couldn’t hear. What he didn’t know is that the Grandmother reads lips. She didn’t report him to the judge. She reported him to me. I had a little talk with him. He doesn’t say “this sucks” in the Grandmother’s presence anymore. Except now.

  The Express Messenger is thirty-one, but he reminds me of my twelve-year-old. Dreaming impossible dreams without understanding that they’re impossible. Oh, I know you’re supposed to keep dreaming, reach for the stars, grab the brass ring, seize the day, never give up, never give in, and all that. The biggest risk in life is not risking. I read that on the cover of a Spanx underwear box. You know who preaches stuff like that to ordinary people like us (underwear companies aside)? Extraordinary people who are already on top, who are living their dreams; lucky, talented, blessed people; pampered pop stars, successful authors, rich actors, superstar athletes, billionaires, politicians. That’s who tells us this stuff. Sure, they might’ve worked hard. But I hate to tell you this: they didn’t get where they are only because of hard work. In high school, I worked hard to throw a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball. Couldn’t have worked harder. I maxed out at eighty-four and blew out my arm in the process. How cruel of the top dogs to tantalize us when they know quite well that few of us can be them. My twelve-year-old doesn’t need to know this yet. The thirty-one-year-old Express Messenger does. It might not be fair, but that’s the way it is.

  Then there are those of us who don’t ask for the stars, who just ask for a tiny piece of our own planet, get it for a while, and have it taken away. After I threw out my arm, all I wanted to do was be a cop, not a courthouse custodian and babysitter. But it’s my duty to do those things, and Brad Kobashigawa does his duty.

  Maybe I’m not such a romantic about life anymore.

  “Okay,” I say. “Everybody’s seated. Through those doors are the restrooms. One for the men and one for the women. You have pitchers of water and the evidence binders and pencils and pads of lined paper. You know the rules. Please refrain from using your cell phones in here.” I walk over and stop at the door to the courtroom. “All right. There are two buttons. One is green. That’s to notify the judge that you have a question. The other is red. Press that button only if you’ve reached a verdict. There’s no yellow. It’s not like a traffic light. Go, stop, and nothing in between. I’ll be outside in the courtroom if you need me. I’ll be back at five-fifteen to send
you home for the day if you haven’t reached a verdict. Any questions?”

  The jurors look at each other and shake their heads. The Clergyman doesn’t look at anyone. He just keeps his head bowed, as if in prayer.

  THE HONORABLE

  EDISON HALLECK

  As presiding judge of the Sepulveda County Superior Court, I’m responsible for arranging tours of the courthouse for county residents. This tour business is a misguided outreach program that my predecessor conceived as a way to make the court system less byzantine and more accessible to ordinary citizens. As it transpired, ordinary citizens have no desire to spend time touring a building that has only unpleasant connotations. People must come to court because bad things have happened. You’d do better arranging a tour of an endodontist’s suite.

  Alas, the Norman Patrick Gleason County Courthouse and Hall of Administration has no charm. Constructed in 1959, the building occupies an entire block in the town’s center. Because the courthouse was built on a slope, its two main entrances open onto different floors, the third and the fourth, confusing visitors, who often look in vain for a particular courtroom or administrative office, only to discover they’re on the wrong floor. The several architects responsible for designing the building proclaimed that it would stand as a marvel, but they couldn’t have been more mistaken. Citizens consider the building—a drab, rectangular middle-rise constructed of a glass curtain wall and concrete—to be an eyesore. Those who care about such things look at vintage photographs of the old courthouse, a wonderful art deco building constructed in the 1920s, and curse the city fathers of yore who demolished it on the grounds that it was gauche and outdated. This edificial carnage wasn’t an isolated incident. During the 1960s and ’70s, big cities as well as small towns in our state thoughtlessly destroyed its best architecture: art deco; programmatic-architectural buildings shaped like hot dogs, Dalmatians, derby hats, and doughnuts; Googie coffee shops, motels, and drive-in theaters.