Paul Levine - Trial and Error

Numbers one through twelve nodded eagerly, a jury box of bobbleheads.

“It’s never enough for the sheep to baa in unison. Get in their faces, one-on-one, and challenge their beliefs.”

Steve again. Never trusting the voice of the crowd. He was right. You needed to separate the individuals from the pack, divide the leaders from the followers, the smart ones from the dummies.

“If you don’t know who’s gonna be foreman by the time the jury takes its oath, you haven’t been paying attention.”

Victoria spent the next hour going through her prepared questions and listening intently to each answer. Then she reviewed her chart. It was a twelve-grid document with sliding tabs where she could slip prospective jurors in and out of their slots. Number three had a quizzical look on his face. Nobuchi Fukui, CPA. College educated, married, three children. Owned his own home in Kendall, commuted downtown to his accounting firm. A decent prosecution juror.

“Mr. Fukui,” she said. “A man doesn’t pull the trigger, but he’s charged with murder. Does that rule seem harsh to you?”

“Not at all. Not if the fellow precipitated the violence. People have to take responsibility for their actions. That’s what’s wrong with this country.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fukui.” Not just a decent prosecution juror. A great prosecution juror. She turned to the judge. “Your Honor, we tender the panel to Mr. Solomon.”

Steve bounded to his feet and took up his position an even five feet from the rail of the jury box. No legal pad. No twelve-grid chart. He prided himself on being able to remember a dozen names and attach the right one to each juror.

“Let’s start with you, sir. Mr. Fukui.”

“Yes, sir,” Fukui said suspiciously.

“Here’s a real case. Two teenage boys, neither one armed, try to break into a warehouse out near the airport. They’re not very good burglars, never did it before, and they can’t even get inside. Now, here come the cops. They chase the boys across a field. A cop shoots and kills one of the boys. Under Ms. Lord’s theory, the other boy must be convicted of felony murder. He’ll spend the rest of his life in prison.”

“Objection, Your Honor.” When a puppy is naughty, Victoria knew, you have to quickly show who’s the boss. “It’s not my theory. It’s the law. ”

“But is it justice?” Steve shot back.

“That’s not the issue,” Victoria retorted.

“Now, there’s an admission for you,” Steve proclaimed, turning to the jury with a knowing look. “The prosecutor believes in law without mercy. Law without justice. A cold, hard, unfeeling law.”

“Your Honor!” Victoria pealed, trying to get Judge Gridley’s attention.

“Okay, you two.” The judge sighed. “We’re gonna get through jury selection without any caterwauling. Now, Mr. Solomon, ask your questions and quit your speechifying.”

“Of course, Your Honor.” Steve turned back to Nobuchi Fukui. “Now, sir, let me take you back to that warehouse. In fact, let me take all twelve of you back there.”

For a moment, two jurors seemed poised to get out of their seats, as if a bus was waiting to drive them to a warehouse near the airport.

“Mr. Fukui,” Steve continued, “do you think the kid who bungled that burglary should be convicted of murder?”

“Well, it’s not really up to me,” the man said. “If that’s what the law says…”

Perfect, Victoria thought. Make Nobuchi Fukui the foreman.

“The law, ” Steve said dismissively. “The law once said that women couldn’t vote. The law once said that certain folks had to ride in the back of the bus. The law once said the government…” He stabbed a finger toward Victoria, as if she were the face of Evil. “…yes, the government, could lock up innocent American citizens because of their Japanese ancestry.”

How cheesy, Victoria thought. Next, Steve will be asking Mr. Fukui if he’d like sushi for lunch.

“Just because it’s written in books doesn’t make it right.”

“Objection, Your Honor.” Victoria was on her feet again. “Mr. Solomon hasn’t even waited for the trial to start before seeking jury nullification.”

“Ms. Lord’s right,” the judge said. “Mr. Solomon, you shall refrain from implying that the jury may disregard the law. That’s my job.” The judge seemed to ponder that for a moment. “That is, I’ll instruct the jury on the law.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Steve said with a slight bow. Another one of his sneaky tricks. Acting as if he’d just won a motion when he’d been slapped in the face.

“This case is about the cruel and inhuman treatment of animals,” Steve told the panel.

No, it’s not, Victoria thought.

“Now, thanks to your questionnaires, I already know who among you have pets at home, and I feel quite a kinship with you.” He moved closer to number four, a middle-aged woman with enough coppery hair for an osprey to make a nest. Eyeglasses dangled from a beaded chain around her neck. “Mrs. Overton, I’ll bet you love that orange tabby of yours. I know I love mine.”

Oh, Jesus. Steve doesn’t have a tabby. He’s allergic to cats. He curses at cats, from the ones who knock over the garbage can to the ones who sing “Memory” and “Mr. Mistoffelees.”

Mrs. Overton beamed at Steve, instantly suckered by his bull.

“Would you be shocked to know, Mrs. Overton, that cat innards are used by some unscrupulous companies in the manufacture of women’s cosmetics?”

“Oh, my goodness,” she murmured, bringing a hand to her mouth.

“And that neuroscience labs operate on monkeys without anesthesia, for research purposes?”

“Barbaric,” the woman agreed.

“And that the testicles of little puppies are crushed into a powder that some men use to enhance their own potency?”

“The beasts,” Mrs. Overton whimpered.

Victoria didn’t know how much of that was true and doubted that Steve did, either. When he was on a roll, he roared like a fiery preacher in a revival tent, promising riches for allegiance to the Solomonic way, threatening hell for followers of the state.

“Now, Mrs. Overton, my client, young Gerald over there…”

He pointed at young Gerald, who smiled sheepishly at the jurors.

“…has witnessed firsthand the terror and abuse suffered by helpless animals at the hands of heartless and greedy humans. And young Gerald’s sole intent the night of the incident was to protect two magnificent dolphins, those most gentle and intelligent of creatures.”

Mrs. Overton nodded. As did they all. A dozen citizens, good and true, horrified by the rampant abuses against animals.

“And what was it that young Gerald saw that night? Words alone cannot convey the images that were burned into his impressionable mind.”

Steve bent down and reached into his briefcase.

What could he be after? Surely there were no files in there.

A cat!

Steve pulled a plump orange tabby out of his old trial bag, waved it over his head, wrapped two hands around the cat’s neck, and pulled. Hard. Then harder, veins throbbing in his own neck.

“Mr. Solomon!” The judge sounded alarmed.

Elwood Reed, the bailiff, stirred from his slumber and even tried to get to his feet.

Mrs. Overton’s lips trembled.

Suddenly, the cat ripped in half, the head in Steve’s right hand, its body in his left.

Someone in the gallery screamed. Mrs. Overton seemed close to fainting. Another juror gagged.

Stuffing fluttered out of the cat like wispy feathers. The animal was real, or had been. A prior owner had the little tabby stuffed. Steve must have picked it up at one of those dusty curio shops on Calle Ocho.