Steve Martini - The Judge

Like most things with this judge, Radovich does voir dire in his own way. For this trial, because of the early publicity, he has called five hundred prospective jurors. Our first meeting was in a county auditorium, where Radovich asked some preliminary questions, what people saw and thought they knew. He weeded out nearly two hundred souls, including a woman whose husband had been cited downtown in a prostitution sting. It is unknown whether she would have hanged the police for their efforts, or Acosta for being so stupid. Radovich didn’t care.

“Mrs. Ramirez, how are you today?” I ask her.

“Fine.” She smiles, no toothy grin, but businesslike. She may be in her late thirties, but looks older. She is slender and small, a kind of Latin pixie with wavy dark hair pulled back by a comb.

“You have been very forthcoming in your juror questionnaire,” I say. “You have volunteered a lot of details regarding your background. I want to thank you.”

“I wanted to be honest,” she says. “I am a recovered drug user. I have been taught that acknowledgment and acceptance is the first step in any cure. I do not deny my past,” she says.

She would give me twenty more minutes of this, admission of sin being good for the soul, the Church of Reformed Zealotry, but I cut her off.

“A healthy attitude,” I tell her.

There are now big red flags fluttering in my brain. To one holding such views, the Coconut could be seen as in a state of denial, the only cure being some further fall from grace.

She is immaculately dressed, in a silk print and high heels, wearing tasteful earrings, an outfit to make an impression. What makes me think that she wants to sit on this jury?

“As long as you have been so honest with us I think we have an obligation to be honest with you, and with the rest of the panel. You have no criminal record. Is that right?”

“No.”

“And you have never been arrested for drug use, have you?” My merit badge for the day: Self-esteem 101.

“No.” With this she sits an inch taller in her chair. She may have been a walking pharmacy, but the cops never caught her.

“And you never dealt drugs? Sold them for cash to anyone else?” On this I am on squishy ground, so I try to make the question as narrow as possible. I hold my breath until she answers.

She makes a face like perhaps she is weighing her answer-maybe given them to others, but never for money. Then she finally says: “No.”

The relief on Radovich’s face up on the bench says, “Thank you.”

It seems that the cozy rigors of therapy, acknowledgment, and acceptance do not include admissions that might involve a stretch in the joint. Maybe there is hope for this woman yet.

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.