Steven Womack - By Blood Written

The courtroom was packed. A murmur went up as she walked in, followed by Michael and the team of lawyers.

She stopped, and a court officer nodded to her, then motioned toward the far side of the courtroom. She stepped aside as Michael entered the courtroom, then followed him around the edge of the audience and over to the defense table near the large windows. The courtroom seemed smaller than she expected. Cramped, in fact. But the ceiling was easily twenty feet above their heads, giving the room a cavernous feel. The air inside was still, almost stale, and the temperature was already rising from the dozens of bodies packed onto the hard wooden seats.

Michael, Wesley Talmadge, and the two assistant lawyers stepped through a wooden gate and entered the area in front of the bench. They started unloading their briefcases as Wesley pointed to an empty space on the bench right behind their table. Taylor eased in past four people and sat in the middle, placing her purse on the floor next to her foot.

She looked over to her right, where a tall, graying man and a younger woman assistant already sat with files and notepads piled in front of them. The man looked tired and a little rumpled, Taylor thought. The young woman seemed well-scrubbed and bright, almost eager.

Suddenly the door to the right of the elevated judge’s bench opened and an elderly man in a court officer’s uniform stepped through. “All rise,” he said loudly.

A rustle echoed through the courtroom as everyone shuffled to his feet. “Davidson County Criminal Court Division Four,” the court officer continued, “of the Twentieth Judicial District of the State of Tennessee is now in session, the Honorable Judge Harry Forsythe presiding. God save this honorable court, the State of Tennessee, and these United States of America.”

A large man with a massive head, a long shock of graying hair down over a broad forehead, and large rheumy eyes stepped quickly through the doorway and took the three steps up to the bench quickly. He placed a bound portfolio on the bench, then arranged his robes and sat down in a large leather chair.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he announced in a sonorous voice that clearly was used to command. “We have quite a crowd in here this morning. I want to remind you all that I expect proper courtroom decorum as we get this trial under way. I also want to remind you that there are no cameras or recording devices of any kind allowed in this courtroom.

“And,” he added, smiling out over the crowd, “if I hear a cell phone go off in this room, it belongs to me. Believe me, I have quite a little collection of them. Couple of shoeboxes full, in fact. And for those of you with the fancy vibrate feature, if I see a cell phone answered in this room, the same rule applies.”

Taylor leaned down, stuck her hand in her purse, and pulled out her phone. She flipped it open, powered it down, then sat back up.

“Madame Clerk, do we have the proper forms completed for all pleadings and counsel of record?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” a slim woman said from a desk in front of the bench.

“Is counsel present?” Forsythe asked, his voice booming.

The lawyers rose. “Yes, Your Honor,” the tall man at the prosecutor’s table said. “District Attorney General T. Robert Collier for the state, with Assistant General Jane Sparks in assistance.”

“Wesley Talmadge for the defense, Your Honor, with Jim McCain and Mark Hoffman in assistance.”

“Very good,” Forsythe announced. “Are there any last-minute motions or pleadings before we get going?”

“Nothing for the state, Your Honor.”

“Nothing for the defense, Your Honor.”

“Then we’re ready to go. Bailiff, seat the jury.” The lawyers all sat back down.

Taylor took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then let it out slowly, trying to lessen the tension in her abdomen.

She’d forced herself to eat a bagel earlier, just to have something in her stomach. It tasted like cardboard. Her stomach rumbled. She hoped no one heard it.

The jury filed in from a door to the judge’s left. Taylor watched as the mixture of people, fourteen in all-twelve jurors and two alternates-took seats behind the jury box.

She scanned the faces: eight men, six women. Ten whites and four blacks. Three clearly older, four in their twenties or perhaps early thirties, the rest somewhere in the middle.

How odd , she thought. These are the people who can kill my fiance.

“Please be seated, ladies and gentlemen,” the judge announced. “We’re going to get started here in a few moments, but first I want to remind you of a couple of things. First, you are not to discuss this case among yourselves or with anyone else. You are not to form an opinion until all the evidence has been presented and I have instructed you in the law and given you your charge. You will be sequestered for the length of this trial, and during that time, you will read nothing of this case in the media, either in newspapers or magazines or on television. As you know, this trial has drawn a great deal of media attention. It is your responsibility as jurors and citizens to neither expose yourself to all this attention nor take any of it into any consideration. Does everyone understand this?”

The jurors shook their heads, almost in time with one another.

“During these proceedings,” the judge continued, “you will be given an adequate number of breaks for meals and the necessities of nature. But if for any reason you need an extra or unscheduled break, simply make a motion to get the attention of the court officer and he will help you. You are not to talk among yourselves during the trial itself, although you may make notes as you see fit. You are also not to speak to any of the counsel, the defendant, or the witnesses during the course of these proceedings. If you have any questions or need any assistance with anything, just write a note and pass it along to the court officer, who will then give it to me.

Does everyone understand this?”

Again the jurors nodded. Taylor tried hard not to stare at them. She looked over at the defense table. Michael sat stoically, not moving, his face revealing nothing, his black, pin-striped suit pressed and professional. A very expensive consultant had advised him on the clothes to wear during the trial, how to cut his hair, how to look in front of the jury.

“Finally, to briefly go over the procedure again, we will begin with the state making an opening statement. During this statement, the district attorney general will outline the case that the state intends to present before you. An opening statement is just that, ladies and gentlemen, a statement. It is not evidence. It is not to be taken by you as fact or construed as evidence. It is simply outlining the case the state intends to make. Then the defense can make an opening statement, although they are not required to. They can also defer their opening statement until the state has completed making its case before you. If they choose not to make a statement or to defer their statement, you are to draw no inferences or conclusions about that as to the defendant’s innocence or guilt.

You are to make those conclusions based solely on the evidence presented in this courtroom and on the charge I will give you as to the law.”

Forsythe looked from the jury over to the defense table.

“Does the defense wish to have a formal reading of the charges at this time?”

Talmadge rose quickly. “The defense waives formal reading of the charges, Your Honor.”

“Very well. General Collier, you may proceed with your opening statement.”

The tall man rose slowly and walked to a wooden podium in the center of the room. Taylor thought it odd that he had no notes, that he was apparently going to speak off the cuff.