Paul Goldstein - A Patent Lie

Seeley glanced sideways at Thorpe who, for once, was not crowding him at sidebar. The old lawyer's face was clotted, a deep, unhealthy crimson. Whatever the outcome of this trial, Thorpe's career as one of the handful of lawyers of choice for large, difficult cases was over. St. Gall's public relations team could put whatever spin they wanted on Odum's musings, but no Fortune 500 corporation would ever retain a trial lawyer so tainted by the scent of corruption.

The judge's polished red nails tapped at the wood trim of the bench. “Unless either of you gentlemen has a well-grounded objection, I am going to interview the jurors in my chambers to determine whether any of them has been prejudiced by this morning's story.”

Seeley was already thinking about numbers. If three of the eight jurors saw or heard Odum's story, Farnsworth would lack the six she needed to complete the trial. “We have no objection, Judge.”

Thorpe said, “None, Your Honor.”

Farnsworth instructed her clerk-“Bring them in one at a time, starting with juror number one”-and the court reporter-“This will be on the record, so bring your machine.” To Seeley and Thorpe she said, “You gentlemen are welcome, but only you, none of your colleagues, and just to observe. I don't want anyone intimidating my jurors.”

The small parade followed Farnsworth down the narrow hallway and past the jury room, moving quickly at the judge's pace. The clerk waited for them to settle themselves in chambers before returning to the jury room to collect juror number one, the AT amp;T cable splicer from Napa.

“Please come in, Mr. Gutierrez.” The judge was all warm smiles. She patted the empty chair next to her. “No one here is going to bite you.” As she explained to him the importance to the fact-finding process of insulating the jury from information acquired outside the courtroom, Gutierrez neither spoke nor even nodded. But the acuteness in the way he listened, a slight sharpening of his features, left no doubt that he was taking it all in.

“Have you heard or seen anything about this lawsuit outside the courtroom?”

“No, Your Honor.” Seeley noticed that Gutierrez held his head up, jutting his chin a fraction of a degree, the way a career military man might or someone accustomed to wearing a construction hard hat.

“Do you read the newspaper in the morning, Mr. Gutierrez? Watch the television news?”

Gutierrez shook his head and, for the first time, his expression relaxed. “Your Honor, it takes me an hour-and-a-half to get here in the morning. I barely have time to brush my teeth.”

“Do you listen to the radio when you drive down here?”

“No, there's not much to listen to.”

“How do you keep yourself occupied, then?” If she wasn't genuinely interested in the answer, she was an accomplished actor.

“I listen to audiotapes.”

“What are you listening to these days?”

“The new biography of Albert Einstein. It's pretty good. It moves right along.”

“I'll have to buy the book.” She rose to take the cable splicer's hand. “I want you to know how much the court-how much I — appreciate the work you are doing on this jury, Mr. Gutierrez. I'm certain it can't be easy.”

When he went out the door, Farnsworth's glance raked the two lawyers, as if she needed to remind them that she preferred jurors to lawyers.

The second juror, one of the secretaries, came into the room, and before she could take the chair next to Farnsworth, blurted, “I know what you're going to ask me,” then broke into tears. Between sobs, she explained that her roommate had come into the kitchen and spilled the Chronicle story before she could gather her wits to stop her. “I told her when the trial started that we couldn't talk about the case.”

The woman's face was a blur of tears and dissolving makeup. She said, “Do you think the story in the paper was true?”

Farnsworth briefly tried to console her-the woman was bereft at the prospect of leaving the jury-but said, no, it would present too great a risk if an appeal were taken for her to remain on the jury. “I'm sorry, but I must dismiss you.” Farnsworth nodded to the clerk, who led the woman out.

Farnsworth's dwindling jury was, Seeley knew, all that stood between the truth of Odum's story and the lies that Vaxtek's and St. Gall's public relations firms would soon enough begin circulating. He said, “You know, Judge, by tomorrow this story's going to be all over the news. If this jury doesn't hold together, it won't be possible to retry the case.”

“I'm fully aware of that possibility, Counselor.” The words could have been splinters of ice.

With questions and persistent prodding from the judge, jurors three and four, the other secretary and the nurse, stuck to their stories that they didn't know a single fact that had not been presented in court. Juror five, the real estate broker who hadn't worn the same outfit twice over the course of the trial, started down the same path.

Farnsworth glanced at the yellow legal pad on her lap. “What about your husband, Mrs. Barton. Does he read the paper?”

“Only when I'm in the shower and he's making breakfast. He puts it away as soon as I come in.”

“And he didn't tell you anything about a story in the Chronicle?”

“No, of course not. I've told him not to.”

“Well, then, what did you and your husband talk about this morning?”

“Ah… well… the 49ers. We're great fans.”

“How are they doing this season?”

Mrs. Barton hesitated. “They're a fine team.”

“I'm sure they are, but I don't always get a chance to look at the sports pages. How did they do on Sunday?”

The polished woman sputtered but had no answer.

Farnsworth looked over at Thorpe whose expression signaled nothing and then at Seeley, who gave her no encouragement.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Barton, but I'm going to have to dismiss you from future-”

“I only wanted to help!”

“I'm sure you did.” The judge was cooling quickly, and she signaled her clerk to bring in the next juror. “You have the appreciation of this court for staying with the trial so far.”

The kid, Gary Sansone, was the sixth juror. His hair was in a ponytail today, and he twisted it with his fingers after he took the chair next to the judge.

Farnsworth went through the preliminaries, then said, “Did you see this morning's Chronicle?”

“I don't read newspapers.”

“What about television? Radio?”

“Ditto. Old-line media's a waste of time.”

“Where do you get your news?”

“On the Web. CNET, Slate sometimes. I have a few favorite blogs.”

“Have any of them carried stories about our trial?”

“I wouldn't know, ma'am. I haven't looked at them since we started.”

How about e-mails, Seeley thought. Your buddies must know you're a juror in this trial. One of them must read the paper or watch the television news. You're the only juror who doesn't wear a wrist-watch. If you check your phone for the time, you must check text messages, too. Seeley imagined that the same thought had occurred to Judge Farnsworth.

Farnsworth said, “Then you have received no information about the parties or their dispute other than the evidence presented in court?”

“That's right, Judge.” He clapped his hands on his thighs and prepared to leave.

Farnsworth hesitated, as if she thought that the kid's lightheartedness was a front, masking a deeper knowledge of the case than he wanted to let on. Finally, she said, “Well that's good. I'm glad you can remain on our jury.”

She was even more cursory with the remaining two jurors-the retired schoolteacher and the accountant whose domestic partner had evidently been less talkative than the real estate broker's husband.