William Bernhardt - Capitol Offense

Dennis nodded thoughtfully. “I appreciate the heads-up. So we have to make sure they don’t get the idea that I’m shamming.”

Ben leaned forward. “They have to think-no, they have to know that you’re sincere. Understand me?”

Dennis beamed. “Great. I can do sincere.”

Christina threw down her pencil and left the room.

This was the most difficult jury selection Ben had tackled in his entire career.

Of course every potential venireperson empaneled had heard of the case-how could they not? And of course most said that although they might have formed some opinions about the case they still felt they could weigh the evidence presented in a fair and impartial manner. A few had already made up their minds-guilty as charged-and they were removed. But that still left a big pool that somehow had to be whittled down to eighteen people who might lend a sympathetic ear to Dennis’s story. Ben had no idea how to do that. All the traditional questions were useless.

He did learn that none of them had seen him on Nancy Grace . But 60 percent of them had read about it the next day in the Tulsa World .

Dennis was right again.

“Let’s have a show of hands. How many of you have had some kind of encounter with the police at one time or another?”

Most of them had. A few of them were related to police officers, and one woman was a former police officer herself. They would probably have to be removed by a peremptory challenge. But where to go after that? Upon closer questioning, Ben learned that most of the encounters were simple traffic infractions and no one was particularly angered or frustrated by the police. Yes, the cops were self-righteous jerks, but that was to be expected, they seemed to be saying. No one carried any serious grudges, much less murderous intent.

“How many of you are married?”

Most were.

“How would you feel if your spouse or significant other were in danger-or in pain-and there was someone who could help, but they refused to do so?”

He had hoped this question might stir up some strong feelings, but he was disappointed. Of course they cared about their partners, but it all seemed very abstract. No one would admit they might be moved to extreme action. They’d go through proper channels, they said. Friends and family first. Then police. Perhaps the media. But nothing else. Certainly no recourse to violence.

“I know that for many of you, your faith, or religion, is very important. Do any of you believe that your faith might make it impossible for you to view the case fairly?”

Predictably, the initial response was, No way, dude. All but two of them said that faith was an important part of their lives, but their faith made them stronger and smarter, better able to serve on a jury. Ben continued to press. He knew Guillerman would remove anyone opposed to the death penalty, so he didn’t bother asking questions down that line. He did find three who believed that “an eye for an eye” was God’s law, and that most likely spelled trouble. Ben used the Good Samaritan story to suggest that the police were lousy Samaritans and didn’t help when they could, but it wasn’t working. He was pleased to see that many said forgiveness was important. Jesus came to forgive us and wanted us to forgive each other as well, et cetera. But when it came time for them to retire to the jury room, would the Old Testament trump the New Testament? Or the other way around? How could he possibly know?

By the end of the third day of questioning, Ben felt he had targeted the most dangerous ones, the people who absolutely had to be removed. But he had no sense of who the good ones were, which jurors might actually help his case. And he had no idea how to find them.

He was almost prepared to sit down and flip a coin when Christina passed him a scrap of paper.

He glanced down. Ask if they have a cat .

Huh? He gave her a puzzled look. And she returned a look that he recognized as meaning: Just do it.

“I was wondering,” Ben said, clearing his throat, “how many of you have a pet?”

Almost all did. And even though he knew that, statistically, dog owners outnumbered cat owners, he found that was not true in this jury pool. Almost 70 percent of them had at least one cat at home.

He started with the woman in Chair #1. She was in her mid-sixties, widowed, retired from school teaching.

“How long have you had your cat, Mrs. Gregory?”

“Almost ten years now. Since my sweet Henry died.”

Interesting juxtaposition of facts. “Do you spend a lot of time with…?”

“Percy.”

“Yes. Do you spend a lot of time with Percy?”

“Oh, land sakes. As if I have any choice. That little rascal follows me everywhere I go. When I do my crocheting, he drapes himself across my wrists and just lies there. Doesn’t seem like a comfortable place to be, what with my constant movement and such. But he never seems to mind.”

“I gather you’re pretty fond of your kitty.”

“I suppose so.”

“And I’ll bet Percy is fond of you.”

“Well, you know cats. I feed him. That gives me an edge.” She chuckled a little at her own joke.

“How would you feel if someone tried to take Percy away from you?”

“Mercy’s sakes. Why would anyone do that?”

“Just imagine. Maybe something happened to him. Maybe he was hurt. And someone prevented you from helping him.”

“Well… I wouldn’t like that one bit.”

“What if someone knew where he was, or knew how to find him, but they wouldn’t help you? What if Percy was suffering because someone else could help but refused? Would that make you angry?”

“I should say so. I don’t know what I’d do. I-I don’t think I could keep my head together.”

Exactly. “And if you lost Percy, if he died, because that someone wouldn’t help you, what do you think you’d do to them?”

Her chest swelled. “I wouldn’t let anyone get away with hurting my Percy. I’d-I’d run them through with my crochet needles if I had to!”

Ben glanced at Christina. She winked back. This was what they needed. People might not be willing to admit to extreme, even uncontrollable emotions with regard to their spouses. But a kitty was a different thing altogether.

By the end of the fourth day, the jury was finalized. They had two African Americans, two Hispanics, one Asian, and seven Caucasians. One chiropractor, two teachers, two retirees (including Mrs. Gregory), a software programmer, an oil firm office secretary, and five housewives. Plus six alternates. For better or worse, the jury had been selected. The die was cast. The trial was ready to begin.

After Judge McPartland dismissed them, DA Guillerman pulled Ben to one side.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this, because I think we’ve got a great jury and we’re going to bury you at trial, but I’ve got an offer.”

“Go on.”

“I mean, I’d love trying this, but it comes at a bad time. I need to focus on getting reelected. Fund-raising. It takes a lot of money to mount a campaign these days.”

“You mentioned that before. So what have you got for me, David?”

“Twenty years.”

“My client isn’t interested.”

“In twenty years? Which means he could be out in ten. On a cop killing? That’s as good as it’s going to get.”

“Thanks. Not interested.”

“I can get him transferred out of state. Someplace cushier than McAlester. I know he’s not a hardened criminal. There’s no reason he should be hanging out with them. He can spend his time playing tennis and reading Proust. Maybe crank out some scholarly articles in his spare time.”

“His academic career is over if he goes to prison and you know it as well as I do. It’s probably already in danger.”