Perri O’Shaughnessy - Breach Of Promise

Milne’s roost occupied the right front corner. Over at the long table to Nina’s right, Riesner and his new associate, Rebecca Casey, put their heads so closely together, Nina could swear they touched. If he had done that to her-come to think of it, he had done that to her a couple of times-she would be cringing the same way she would from a scorpion in her shoe. In their encounters, Riesner usually edged up close, getting in her face, trying to intimidate.

Rebecca, pleasant-faced and professional-looking, was Riesner’s match for Winston Reynolds. Educated at Stanford, she was younger than Winston, somewhere in her late thirties. Her confident air and no-nonsense attitude must be helpful when negotiating the testosterone-laden halls of Caplan Stamp etcetera. She nodded at something Riesner was saying and passed a quick note behind Riesner to Mike, who also sat at their table in a spiffy suit he had surely never worn before, his thick neck bulging out of the collar.

In that suit, Mike didn’t look honest. Was it the perspiration dotting his forehead and the bashed-up nose? His jaw worked as he gritted and relaxed his teeth. The yellow-tinged lights in the ceiling of the paneled courtroom shone down on him without mercy. He looked unwell, the flesh on his face sagging more than Nina remembered from his deposition a few months ago.

Obviously he felt the pressure of the judgment facing him up front as well as the judgment behind him, which consisted of the corps of reporters and other media types jamming the courtroom. Lindy, who sat on Nina’s left, closest to the jury box, had been leaning over frequently to look at him, not a wise idea. Winston, who had handled the voir dire the day before, loafed in his seat next to her. He was relying completely on Genevieve, but Nina couldn’t do that.

Nina turned back to Mrs. Lim and asked a few more polite questions. Aside from the fact that she fit Genevieve’s profile of a “friendly” juror, Nina liked Mrs. Lim’s earnestness and the thought she put into her answers. She looked successful and smart in the tweed suit, like someone who would listen carefully to the judge’s instructions and think through the issues.

Genevieve returned in the nick of time, sliding in next to Nina, and said breathlessly, “Paul just found out that she filed an employment discrimination complaint with the Office for Civil Rights twenty-two years ago, when she was just getting started in the business world. Don’t look at me! We’ve got to have her. Look bored.” She yawned and opened her notebook. Nina looked at the clock above the jury seats. Eleven-eighteen, already well into the fifth day of jury selection.

“Thank you, Mrs. Lim,” Nina said. Using the prospective juror’s name was another of Genevieve’s innovations and an indubitable improvement. The more you acknowledged a person’s identity, as she put it, the more loyalty you won. The grocery clerks where Nina shopped used the same technique after she handed them a check. “Thank you, Mrs. Reilly,” they would say, and she’d think almost subliminally, exactly as intended, aw, they noticed me.

Milne announced, “Mr. Riesner? I believe you have the next challenge.” Riesner could now exercise one of his six peremptory challenges on any of the twelve nervous people sitting up there, some nervous because they wanted to be excused, some interested enough in the process and free enough of commitments to want to stay there.

“The cross-defendants will thank and excuse Mr. Melrose,” Riesner said, offering Mr. Melrose the consolation prize of a simpering smile that said, nothing personal, I’m sure. He had chosen well. Nina had decided that Melrose, a Lutheran widower with a sad look in his eyes, would be kindhearted about the situation, a reaction that could only help Lindy. Poor Mr. Melrose edged his way awkwardly from the jury box and disappeared forever from the case.

Mrs. Lim remained. She wore her gleaming black hair short, tucked behind her ears, neat and businesslike. She would remain a sitting duck until-

“How many more peremptories do we have?” Nina whispered to Genevieve.

“Last one,” Genevieve scribbled. Nina bit her lip and searched the faces in the jury box. None of them looked back.

Lindy also scrutinized each person. Now and then during the selection process she had written a vehement NO! orYES! as various jurors were called to the jury seats and questioned. Most of the time Nina had agreed with Lindy’s assessments. And she had to admit that so far she also agreed more or less with Genevieve. The primary difference seemed to be that Nina never felt sure of anybody, while Genevieve watched, consulted her notes and profiles, and judged without doubt.

So far, their disagreements had been minor and resolvable. Of the eleven people seated in the box this morning, besides Mrs. Lim Nina liked four, had doubts about four, and feared two. Riesner’s team had unseated her strongest choices over the past few days, and she in turn had thanked and excused the ones he had to love, the ones who fit Genevieve’s other profile, the negative one. Avoid: her report read, Conservatives. No higher education. Divorced men. Hunters, fishers. Young married women. Republicans- since political and religious affiliations had been nosed out by Paul -follower types, wealthy types. There were many more such guidelines, graded by degree of hazard.

“Now this next one, Clifford Wright. What do we know about him?” Nina said from behind her hand as a light-haired, boyish-looking man with an engaging smile made his way to the chair still warm from poor Mr.-what had been his name?

Genevieve slid over the chart she had whipped together on Wright when they had received a list of jury pool members the week before. “Thirty-nine years old,” she said. “He scored high on his questionnaire. Currently campaign manager for our congressman. Skis, plays racquetball, rides a bike. After a number of casual girlfriends he recently married. Mother divorced from father after twenty-three years, which could be excellent; she continued to receive alimony from his father until her death last year. Loves ice cream, Chinese food, vegetables. Won’t eat strawberries, apples, or peanuts because of allergies. Self-described feminist. His wife works, not with him, but they pool their money and have accumulated enough for a down payment on a house. Paul didn’t get far with him… he just moved to Tahoe from Southern California. He was a state assemblyman there and is active in politics here. His voting record showed a definite liberal bent. Leader type. He smokes. Good on paper. Let’s see how he fares with your questions.”

“Mr. Wright, my client, Lindy Markov,” Nina said, gesturing toward Lindy. Wright turned his smile on Lindy.

“You’ve lived in Tahoe how long?” Nina began.

“Just a year.”

“And before that?”

“In the suburbs of L.A. Yorba Linda.”

She went on, asking him some neutral questions to give him time to get accustomed to the pricking of many eyes and the reporter tapping out his every word.

“The town you grew up in. It’s in Orange County?”

“Yes.”

“Birthplace of Richard Nixon?”

“Infamous for it.”

“People in other part of the state would probably say Orange County is one of our most conservative counties. Would you agree with that?”

“Yes, it’s conservative.”

“How is it conservative?”

“It’s a place that has probably seen more change in terms of growth in the past three decades, my whole lifetime, than anywhere else in the world. People are struggling to hold on to old-fashioned values, like family and religion. They feel a little under siege, I guess, so they are pretty noisy about it.”

Articulate s. o. b., Genevieve scrawled for Nina to see.