A Fool for a Client (9 page)

Unless you
’
re defending a client who took what the average American would see as legitimate revenge, you have to pick jurors who tend to acquit if you want to have any chance of getting your client off.
When the DA decides to go to trial and doesn
’
t offer or solicit a deal, you can bet your bottom dollar that the odds are overwhelmingly in his favour.

Justine rose slowly.

“Mr. Lawson, would you classify yourself as a conservative?”

“I
’
m a Libertarian,” replied Lawson matter-of-factly.

“Would you like to qualify that answer?” Justine followed up.

“No.”

Normally, questions about jurors politics or religion are ill-advised, as they might tend to alienate the prospective juror, and sometimes others on the panel as well.
However such questions are permitted, and the lawyer or
pro se
defendant is free to ask them at his or her peril.
In some cases they are even necessary, because of the high political or religious profile of the case.
When Rabbi Meir Kahane was murdered for example, the liberal Jewish lawyer defending the man who was caught running from the scene with the murder weapon was able to secure an acquittal by using peremptory challenged to secure an African-American jury and then repeating ad nauseum the false assertion that Rabbi Kahane hated blacks.

The present case also had political implications.
It was a trial of a girl for the pre-meditated murder of a man whom many Irish-Americans and others thought of as a freedom fighter.
But there was no easy answer to the question of what sort of juror she needed.
A
juror with little knowledge of international affairs might believe in the freedom fighter myth that the IRA had successfully propagated in much of
America
.

An intelligent juror might see through the freedom fighter myth, yet not approve of
any
vigilante action, seeing it as a threat to the stability of society.
A liberal might see her as a girl from a privileged background with no excuse for taking to crime.
A conservative might see her as a threat to law and order.
An Irish American might see her as the enemy.
A Jew might feel the need to bend over backward to show that he or she was not biased in her favour.

Justine appeared to think to herself for a moment.

“So what do you think of, say... Joe McCarthy?”

“He stank,” replied Lawson, flatly.

The delay in his reply had been too brief for him to have been weighing up his answer in his mind.

Abrams was staring at Justine with tense suspicion.

“I notice you don
’
t pull your punches Mr. Lawson,” said Justine, looking him full in the face.

“I didn
’
t get where I am today by treading softly,” he replied, meeting her eyes, unblinkingly.

“Acceptable to the defence,” said Justine, taking Abrams and the judge by surprise.

Parker
’
s heart sank under a wave of confusion and fear.
What was that stupid girl doing? Was she determined to lose the case, and her freedom along with it?
Was it some twisted lemming instinct?
Swimming out to sea to face certain death?Abrams was barely able to conceal his delight.
She had handed him a gift on a plate.
And yet, the delight began to ebb almost immediately, leaving a creeping feeling of doubt in its wake.

The next prospective juror was a housewife.
Abrams had no record of previous jury service for her, but he passed her after a few brief routine questions.
Parker knew why.
He was acting on the assumption that she would be envious of Justine
’
s youthful good looks and embryonic professional career.
Parker shared the assumption, and knew that a wise lawyer would work triple duty to get this woman off the jury, using a peremptory challenge of necessary.

But now it was Justine
’
s turn, and Parker could only hope and pray.

“You say you have four children. Are any of them especially talented?”

“All of them,”
replied the woman, slightly defensively.

“Did you always want to be a homemaker?”

There was a look of uncertainty on the woman
’
s face, as if she were trying to recapture a distant recollection.
But the look was tinged with regret.

“No.
I studied linguistics and literature.
I was going to be a professional translator.
I
’
ve also done some creative writing.
Short stories and articles.”

Justine nodded.

“The sort of thing you can do from home?”

“Yes,” the woman replied, this time with a hint of suspicion in her tone.

There was a ruffling of motion on the other side of the courtroom as Abrams turned away, smiling.

“Did you work after you got married?”

“Yes.”

“And after you had children?”

There was another moment of hesitation, as if the woman was holding something back.

“Well like I said I did freelance work... but nothing outside of the home if that
’
s what you mean.

Justine cast a side glance at Abrams and then turned back to meet the woman
’
s eyes.

“Were any of your children accidents or mistakes?” she asked.

The room had been quit to begin with.
But when Justine asked this question the room went silent.
Justine was brazenly insulting a prospective juror who was not initially against her, with virtually no possibility of challenging her for cause.
All she was doing was wasting a peremptory challenge.

Oh God, thought Parker.
Why don
’
t I just give her a knife so she can slash her wrists?

“No young lady, they weren
’
t!”

As before, the woman had hesitated in surprise at the question.
But the response, when it came, was as vigorous as could be expected.

“Do you still do creative writing?” asked Justine, continuing as if nothing had happened.

Parker was thrown by this question.
He had forgotten what the woman had said about creative writing, and in any case he couldn
’
t see the relevance of it.

“Part of the time,” the woman replied.
“But not as much as I used to.”

“Why not?” Justine asked encouragingly.

“I don
’
t have the time. I
’
m bringing up four children don
’
t forget.”

“But none of them are really young.”

The tone was argumentative, but mildly so.

“They still need attention.
They
’
ve got talent, it needs to be nurtured.”

“You mean you didn
’
t give up your career, you just exchanged one for another.”

For the first time since her voi
r
dire began, the woman smiled appreciatively,
as if learning something about herself.

“Exactly.”

“Do you think you
’
d have given up full-time gainful employment if your children hadn
’
t been so talented?

“Well they were talented because I devoted so much attention to them.
Strictly speaking I don
’
t believe in talent.
I prefer to call it ability.”

“But would you agree that being a homemaker wouldn
’
t be so rewarding if it weren
’
t for your children
’
s ability.”

“Yes,” the woman conceded.
“That
’
s certainly true.”

“Then you consider human ability to be something important.”

“I consider human ability to be the
only
thing that
’
s important,” the woman replied with mild reproof.

“So did
my
mother,” said Justine matter-of-factly.

Then Justine looked over at the judge.

“Acceptable to the defence,” she concluded.

Abrams
’
smile had given way to a scowl that he could barely hide.
In the space of a minute, Justine had turned things around, from facing an enemy to addressing an ally.

To Parker, there seemed to be a pattern in Justine
’
s selections.
It was discernible, but the underlying logic behind it remained obscure.
When a truck driver came under consideration, she accepted him without even looking up.
But when another venireman ogled her with undisguised lust she challenged him without batting an eyelid.
She gave the go-ahead to a woman who ran a used-car business, but kept questioning a woman who served as merchandise manager for a large department store until she found grounds to challenge for cause.

Once in a while she asked a strange question, the reason for which neither Parker nor Abrams nor the judge could figure.
“Have you heard of Lizzie Borden?” or “What did you think of Joe
McCarthy
?” or “Was Christopher Columbus crazy?”
But she seemed to pass them regardless of their answers.
It was as if she was planting the seeds of some thought in their minds, as the illustrious Sam Liebowitz had done when he asked jurors if they were familiar with Nietzsche, in preparation for his cel
ebrated defence of Laura Parr.

But with Liebowitz the fruit of the seeds was very clear: to suggest to the jury in advance of the prosecution
’
s case that the “victim” of the murder was in fact a bully and a thug who enjoyed inflicting physical suffering on women and who had used violence on the defendant immediately prior to the shooting, even though there were no signs of violence on her body or in the room.
In Justine
’
s case it wasn
’
t clear
what
would grow from the seeds.

Justine stood before the bathroom mirror, holding the bottle of peroxide in her right hand.
As she looked at her reflection she began to doubt that the plan made sense.
She could never look convincingly platinum blonde.
The sight of her deep red hair drove home to her with the most devastating force that the most she could hope for was a pale mousy shade.
If anything it would only draw attention to herself without improving the chances of her plan
’
s success.

Justine decided instead to concentrate on the clothes. She knew that Murphy had a preference for blondes, but he would tolerate a girl with red hair as an acceptable alternative if she looked like the kind of cheap slut that he went for.
He was the kind of man who liked to tour the singles bars and pick up a different girl every time.
She had watched him for several days now, at a discreet distance, following him through the trail of New York bars and discos.
Following him had been the hardest part.
He liked to walk through the urban combat zones where it isn
’
t safe for a decent girl to walk alone.
But she had persevered.

As the sun sank like a smouldering flame and the city dissolved into the bland lifeless tone of the evening twilight, she had followed him like a panther stalking its quarry.
She had followed him past greasy pimps and heavily painted hookers.
She had followed him past the stooges of the sidewalk con-artists as they enticed the mark into a rigged Three Card Monte.
She had watched him from the shadows of the ethnic ghettoes as he strolled and played the game of living footloose in
New York
.
She had tailed him through the singles bars and pick-up joints. She knew him inside out.
She had seen him change the colour of his personality like a grass snake, as he slithered through the slums and sewers of the concrete jungle.

Occasionally she glanced up at the penthouses above for a moment
’
s relief from the cockroaches and sewer rats below.
Just as there were two
Americas
, so there were two
New Yorks
, with one placed squarely on top of the other.
But it was divided along the lines of personal choice.
The top hadn
’
t climbed there over the corpses of those beneath.
Rather, they had aimed for the stars and leapt with all the might they could muster, while the low-life rushed in to fill the vacuum.