Joseph Teller - The Tenth Case

And Samara?

It was hard to tell. About the last thing she struck Jay walker as being was a religious person. Yet looking at her now, as she sat alone toward the very back of the court room, he had to marvel at her composure. Didn't she know what was going on?

From time to time, he would wander over and sit down next to her, though whether the gesture was made to offer her comfort or to receive it from her, he couldn't have answered with certainty. But each time he joined her, it would only be for a few minutes. Soon it would become clear that their metabolisms were totally out of synch, he with his frenzied hordes of butterflies, she with her strange, calm composure.

He was reminded of a young woman he'd once come across in an emergency room. Jaywalker had been there because he'd dislocated a shoulder in a Saturday morning pickup basketball game and was waiting to have it popped back into place. The woman, who wore a gauzy purple shawl over her head and spoke only Spanish, was there on much more serious business. Her three-year-old son had fallen three stories from an unprotected window onto the asphalt pavement below and was clinging to life. Yet she sat there in the waiting area the entire time, her hands clasped together, a beatific smile on her face. From time to time, he could hear her speak the words, "Si dios quiere." If it's God's will.

What a blessing, he'd thought back then.

What lunacy, he thought now.

Jaywalker found out a little later that the boy had already been dead when he'd arrived at the hospital. He learned that from the doctor who popped his shoulder back into its socket. The boy had probably died right there on the pavement, the doctor told him, or in the am bulance. They just hadn't gotten around to telling his mother yet.

Samara, too, was already dead. But no one had gotten around to telling her, either. So she sat there now, com forted by her faith or her innocence, or whatever else it was that allowed her to get through this.

6:33.

The buzzer sounded.

The butterflies erupted into flight, and Jaywalker could actually feel his heart begin to fibrillate. He held his breath, waiting for a second buzz. Two buzzes meant a verdict; one signified nothing but a question or request of some sort.

There had only been one.

He allowed himself to exhale and take a new breath. The fibrillation gradually subsided. This was how his heart would give out, Jaywalker felt quite certain. He would die waiting for the second buzzer to sound.

A court officer appeared with a note. He was a friend of Jaywalker's, and as the two of them made eye contact, the officer pursed his lips and shook his head from side to side, almost imperceptibly, but not quite.

Fuck.

Dear Judge Sobel:

We the jury are very close to reaching a unanimous verdict, but first we have a question. Are we allowed to find the de fendant guilty, and recommend mercy at the time of her sentence, because of her past?

Stanley Merkel Foreman

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

So this is how it ends, thought Jaywalker. For Samara, for him, for the whole stupid business of having decided to be a criminal defense lawyer in the first place.

The judge was summoned to come down from his chambers. Even before he arrived, the media began appear ing, filtering into the courtroom. So far as Jaywalker knew, nobody had told them there was a note, much less what it said. But they knew. The fuckers knew. A couple of them tried to talk to him. Those who knew him knew enough to steer clear.

He walked back to where Samara sat. The expression on her face told him that while she still might be composed, she wasn't stupid, and she wasn't oblivious.

"Not good, huh?"

"Not good."

He told her what the note said. He didn't have to tell her what it meant. She nodded. He decided she was probably in shock, and that was why she could remain so calm.

The judge appeared, and Jaywalker led Samara to the defense table and sat down next to her. Sobel informed the lawyers that he intended to bring the jurors in and tell them that while they were free to make any recommendation they wanted, they needed to understand that sentencing was the province of the court, and he would feel free to reject their recommendation or even ignore it altogether, should it come to that.

Jaywalker objected. He wanted the judge to forbid the jurors from making any recommendations. If they felt Samara deserved mercy, they should acquit her.

Sobel said he would stick to his answer.

6:51.

As the jurors file in, they seem to give the defense table a wider berth as they pass it on their way to the jury box. They studiously refuse every chance to make eye contact. They study their hands, their feet, the judge, each other. And Tom Burke. They look like they've come from a funeral or a wake, held for someone very young, someone who hadn't been expected to die.

Jaywalker stares at them, trying to make it even harder for them. The only thing he gets in return is a fleeting glance from Juror Number 8, Carmelita Rosado, the kindergarten teacher. Yet even in that fleeting glance, he can see that her eyes are glassy, suggesting that she's been crying.

He grabs that scrap of information and holds on to it for dear life. He drags Samara onto it with him, and together they cling to it as tightly as they can.

"Will the foreman please rise," says the clerk.

Mr. Merkel stands.

"In the case of The People of the State of New York versus Samara Tannenbaum, has the jury reached a verdict?"

More butterflies, more fibrillation.

"No."

"Thank you. Please be seated."

It has only been a formality, one of the many rituals that take place during any trial. Yet even knowing that, and knowing full well from their note that the jurors haven't reached a verdict, for Jaywalker the little charade has amounted to a near-death experience. As for Samara, who doesn't know the rules of the ritual, he can't even begin to imagine what it must have been like. But outwardly, at least, she refuses to crumble.

The judge reads the jurors' note aloud and responds to it as he earlier indicated he would. When Mr. Merkel raises his hand with a question, the judge politely refuses to hear it. Instead, he sends the jurors back to the jury room, with instructions to communicate through another note.

So five minutes later there's another buzz, another onset of fibrillation and another note.

Dear Judge Sobel:

We the jury are disappointed in your an swer, but will abide by it. At this point, we are extremely close to reaching a unani mous verdict. We request that you allow us to continue our deliberations until 8:00 p.m., to give us a chance to resolve our differences. If we are unable to do it by then, we would like to stop for the eve ning.

Stanley Merkel Foreman

With both lawyers in agreement, Judge Sobel com poses a note of his own and has it delivered to the jury room. Essentially, it informs the jurors that their request will be granted.

7:00.

One hour to get through.

By now it's absolutely clear to Jaywalker that the jury stands eleven-to-one for conviction, or at best ten-to two. From her glassy eyes, he guesses that Carmelita Rosado is his holdout. If there's another, he'll put his money on Juror Number 10, Angelina Olivetti, the actress waiting tables between casting calls. Two young women, both on the quiet side. Jaywalker thought about chal lenging both of them, but ended up having to save his per emptories for other jurors he feared more. While neither Rosado nor Olivetti struck him as particularly defense oriented, he was at least able to take comfort from the fact that they seemed weak. In other words, while they might go along with the majority, they weren't leaders. They weren't the kind of jurors likely to organize a stampede to convict Samara.