Rose Connors - Temporary Sanity

“Mrs. Holway is not a juror, Mr. Edgarton,” the judge says. “I just excused her.”

“But Your Honor…”

“That’s all, Mr. Edgarton.”

Stanley has the good sense to sit down, and Mrs. Holway leaves the courtroom in a huff.

Judge Long’s courtroom clerk, Wanda Morgan, selects a new name from the glass bowl on her desk. The new potential juror comes from the gallery to the box to replace Mrs. Holway. His juror résumé identifies him as a fifty-six-year-old restaurant owner. More important, he is the father of three adult sons.

We will select fourteen jurors this morning, including two who will be told-only at the close of the case-that they are alternates. Judge Long addresses the panel first. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, smiling at them, “let me tell you at the outset that the lawyers handling this case have assured me that this trial will take three days, no longer.”

The judge points at Stanley, then at Harry and me, and we all nod our acquiescence.

“That means,” the judge continues, “that they’ll finish not later than Thursday afternoon, at which time the case will be turned over to you. Now, no one can predict how long your deliberations may take. But I believe it’s safe to assume we’ll all be home for Christmas on Saturday morning.”

Stanley leans over his table and stares at Buck, his expression suggesting that Buck shouldn’t include himself in the judge’s assumption. Buck doesn’t look back at him.

Next, the judge conducts a general inquiry into matters such as the presumption of innocence, the burden of proof, and reasonable doubt, then asks each potential juror a series of more specific, and more personal, questions. Only then do Stanley and I get our turns.

Each of us is allowed just two follow-up questions per juror. Judge Long is clear about the two-question limit, but Stanley doesn’t seem to believe it. No such cap exists, apparently, in any New Bedford courtroom. Stanley begins a third question with every candidate, and the judge cuts him off every time. Stanley whines like a thirsty dog each time it happens, but the judge shuts him down anyway, always with that dazzling smile.

After our questions are asked and answered, the judge calls upon Stanley and me to state our challenges for cause. I have none. Stanley has just one. Juror number nine should be excused, he says, because she has a seven-year-old son.

“Denied.” Judge Long shakes his head and rules while Stanley is still talking.

“But Your Honor,” Stanley protests, “I’m not finished.”

“But Mr. Edgarton,” the judge replies, his smile enormous, “you most certainly are.”

The jurors laugh at this exchange, and Stanley glares at Judge Long. No prosecutor wants a panel laughing at any point during a murder trial.

“But Judge,” Stanley persists.

“Mr. Edgarton, let me be perfectly clear about this. No juror will be removed from this panel-or from any panel, in my courtroom-because she is a parent.”

“But that’s not it, Judge. That’s not it at all. It’s not that juror number nine is a parent. It’s that her child happens to be a seven-year-old boy.”

“Denied, Mr. Edgarton.”

“But Judge…”

My gut tells me Stanley just uttered one “But Judge” too many. Judge Leon Long dons his half glasses, lifts Stanley’s trial brief from the bench, and pretends to examine the signature line. Judge Long has done this before, more than once. Harry and I both know what’s coming.

“Oh, pardon me,” the judge bellows, his voice thick with sarcasm. “I must be using the wrong name, sir. You don’t seem to understand that I’m talking to you. Mr. J. Stanley Edgarton the Third,” the judge roars, “your challenge for cause is dee-nied.”

If he is true to past pattern, the judge will call Stanley “Mr. Ed-gar-ton the Third” for the rest of the trial. I put my hand over my mouth and swallow a laugh. Buck Hammond watches me, his eyes saying he doesn’t know what to make of this. Harry, of course, looks like the Cheshire cat.

In the end, Stanley gets rid of juror number nine by using one of his three peremptory strikes, challenges each side may exercise without cause, without explanation. The new juror number nine is a young construction worker who does not have a seven-year-old son. But he does have a three-year-old daughter.

Stanley’s concerns about the first juror number nine tell me that Harry and I are on the right track. We agreed weeks ago to keep as many parents as we could on the panel, more men than women, if possible. We use all of our peremptory challenges to oust three of the four candidates who don’t have children of their own. The one we opt to keep is an elderly woman who never married. She did, though, teach English literature at a private girls’ school for thirty-eight years.

We impanel nine men and five women. We have twelve parents, the retired schoolteacher, and a young male pharmacist engaged to be married, planning a family. These fourteen people will be outraged by what happened to Buck’s son, by Hector Monteros’s crimes. But they are law-abiding citizens; they’ll be outraged by Buck’s crime as well. And his is the only one they will watch played out in living color.

We’re not elated with our panel, but we’re satisfied. No criminal defense lawyer can ask for more. We explain all of this to Buck Hammond before the guards lead him away for the one-o’clock lunch break, but he doesn’t seem to care.

I was gone only ten minutes-fifteen tops. I filled a paper cup at the watercooler and downed it, then stood on the courthouse steps for thirty seconds of fresh air. Between the subfreezing temperature and the wind-whipped snow, that was about all I could stand. But now that I’m back in Judge Leon Long’s courtroom, it’s clear that I’ve missed something.

Court’s in recess, of course. The room is quiet and the lights are dim. The judge, the press, and the curious onlookers are gone. But Harry, who normally mows down anything in his path to get to lunch, is seated in the front row of the gallery, not going anywhere, surrounded by Buck Hammond’s family.

Buck’s wife, his parents, two of his three brothers, even his in-laws are here. They all look up at me expectantly, then turn their eyes to Harry. He’s supposed to do the talking, it seems.

“You have to open,” he says.

“What?”

Harry arches his eyebrows. He knows I heard him.

“I can’t open,” I tell the family members. “I’m not prepared to open. Harry’s ready. He’ll open.”

Harry stands and stretches, loosening his tie. “They think you should open,” he says. “And I think they’re right.”

“But you’re wrong,” I tell them. “Harry will do a fine job. He’s ready.”

Patty Hammond steps forward and puts a hand on my arm. “We don’t doubt that,” she says. “We don’t doubt that at all. We know Harry would do a great job.”

She looks to her relatives. They nod at her, and she turns back to me. “But this judge,” she says, “he likes you.”

Murmurs of agreement come from the family members. “And the jurors like this judge,” a brother adds. “Every one of them. They hang on his every word.”

They’re right about that, of course. Jurors love Judge Leon Long. Almost all of them do. That’s one of the things about Judge Long that drives Geraldine crazy.

Harry takes over again. “Marty,” he says, pacing the front of the courtroom, “think about it. Judge Long has always liked you. Jurors have always liked Judge Long. And let’s face it, we need every point we can score in this trial.” He raises his eyebrows again.

The relatives move closer to me as Harry continues, still pacing. “Besides”-he laughs-“I come with baggage, remember? Twenty years’ worth. I’m the creep they all know from TV news, the fast-talking public defender who’s always arguing some technicality, always trying to get some no-good hood off the hook.”