Grisham's Juror

by Timothy Braatz

  -I’ve seen enough of these cases, I know the score.

  It’s the same with algebra students. After a few years in the trenches, you know how they operate, you’ve heard all their excuses, their pathetic little lies. I couldn’t do my homework, Mr. Fletcher, my math book got stolen from my car I got food poisoning and barfed three times my mother said I had to clean my room you can call her if you want. Only they’re mostly harmless goofballs at Dana Hills High, not the hardcore gangsters you find farther north. Like Ruffman had said in summary, when it comes to drug trafficking, those crews don’t mess around.

  The people robbed by Lanigan didn’t mess around either. His four law partners, two insurance companies, a federal whistleblower—together they were out ninety million, much of it already spent. They hired some nasty folks who determined Lanigan was still alive and took their pound of flesh when they found him, probably would have killed him too, except the resourceful Eva tipped off Agent Cutter at the FBI. And now Lanigan, rescued by US agents and recovering in a military hospital, faced federal and state indictments and hard time in Mississippi’s worst pen, yet he was surprisingly calm. Well, not so surprisingly. This being a Grisham, Lanigan must have a plan.

  I waited on the first floor as long as I could, then took the elevator to the fifth. Roya wasn’t in the hallway outside the courtroom. If she didn’t hurry, she was going to be late. Unless she never left the building. Or maybe there are other entrances. That was my first thought when I opened the courtroom door—there must be other entrances—because court was already in session, the jury was seated, Judge Silverson was on her throne. Halfway to the jury box, I stopped in my tracks. Silverson had grown a beard. The bailiff was eyeing me and he…was a she. What the hell? Oh. I’m in the wrong courtroom. I must be on the wrong floor. I retreated to the elevator. No, this is the fifth floor. Am I losing my friggin’ mind? It took me a few minutes to work it out: same courtroom, same hallway, wrong damn wing. East Wing, not West Wing. Now I needed to hurry. Down to the first floor, over to the West Wing elevators, up to the fifth. Let’s try this again. Court was already in session, the jury was seated, Judge Silverson was on her throne. The beard was gone. She was whispering to Bailiff Baldy. They both looked up.

  -You’re late, Mr. Fletcher.

  -I’m sorry, Your Honor. I got lost.

  -Lost?

  -I can’t figure out this building. I was in the wrong courtroom.

  Laughter from the jury box. My face flushed hot. Her Honor picked up a pen.

  -Take your seat, Mr. Fletcher. Kindly don’t climb over the rail.

  She turned her attention to writing something. My eyes went to the bailiff. He raised his eyebrows, the only hair on his head, two brown caterpillars girdling a pale pink dome. He pulled his mouth into a smirk. The expression was unmistakable: that’s right, I told her, you asshole. The Cowboy pulled back his boots as I shuffled by: make way for the asshole. The Mouse nodded: yep, you’re an asshole. I didn’t dare look at Roya. She would never agree to lunch with an asshole.

  -Which courtroom were you in?

  Silverson wasn’t through with me.

  -I’m not sure.

  She studied me over her glasses. Does she think I’m lying? Am I in contempt of court? I needed a second line, and quick.

  -The fifth floor, East Wing, I think. The judge had a beard.

  -Judge Tompkins.

  -The bailiff had hair.

  More laughter. A lot more. But it wasn’t my fault. The third line had its own momentum, it just came out. I could hear my comrades. The Elephant was snorting. The Mouse was squeaking. Was that a yee-haw from Cowboy Kev? I sat and studied my shoelaces, tightened my stomach muscles, bit down on my lower lip. I was trying to appear oblivious, no laughing, no smiles. Just being honest, Your Honor, just stating the facts, no offense intended toward the skinhead who snitched on me.

  -In the future, Mr. Fletcher, please give yourself enough time to find your way back here.

  After a moment of anarchy, the authority figure must have the last word, reestablish her dominance, any schoolteacher knows that. I nodded obediently, modestly accepting as sage advice her rather obvious admonition. She returned to writing. I risked another peek at the bailiff. He was waiting. If looks could kill. No, if looks could draw and quarter, if looks could attach electrodes to your inner thighs and hit the switch. He was furious. Why the sour face, kind bailiff, was it something I said?

  The truth is I was a little unsettled. I’d read about a tardy juror who spent a night in the slammer. Was Judge Silverson documenting my behavior? Has she just scribbled down my sentence? Attention, attention, Your Honor, the guy in seat one isn’t a liar, just another bewildered juror, lost in the halls of jurisprudence. You can’t lock him up for that, right? Come on, Your Honor, call the next witness, put this behind us. You’ll get no more trouble out of me, I promise, won’t even know I’m here. I’ll sit attentively, listen to testimony without forming an opinion, exit the jury box respectfully, obey the speed limit the whole way home, and when Marissa demands an update on the trial, mum’s the word. I’m going straight. A model citizen. Except, because he’s into science and the environment and everything, I might have to tell Pete how Mount Baldy over there almost erupted.

  Silverson was done writing. She looked toward the jury box, the suspicion gone from her face, like maybe my mental telepathy had worked. I relaxed my stomach, took a few belly breaths.

  -How’s your dog doing?

  Oh, crap.

  -Mr. Fletcher?

  Was my dog dead or alive? Was it a he or a she?

  -Sir?

  -My dog….

  Who did I tell what?

  -Yes?

  -My dog is better, Your Honor.

  -I’m happy to hear that.

  -Thank you. Me too.

  When my pulse finally returned to normal, Ruffman was back in the hot seat and Lawson was doing the grilling. He asked for a quick review of Ruffman’s credentials, congratulated him on his expertise, thanked him for the background on Juan Castro. I’m sure Ruffman realized it was a setup. He affected friendly disinterest and waited for Lawson’s sucker punch.

  -In your ten years of interviewing gang members, how many have you spoken to from the Eastside Rollin’ Twenties?

  -None.

  -None?

  -As far as I know.

  -How many from Longo 13?

  -None.

  Lawson paused, cocked his head, pretended to be puzzled.

  -Have you ever interviewed any gang members from Long Beach at all?

  -Not that I’m aware of.

  -So your expertise is only in Huntington Beach.

  -I’ve studied gang behavior in general.

  Ruffman’s acting chops were no better than Lawson’s. The amiability in his voice didn’t match his body language—arms tight to his chest, right hand to his mouth. I’m not having this, his posture said. Maybe that’s the definition of expert: someone who thinks he shouldn’t be challenged.

  -Let me restate. Your expertise—your specific knowledge of gangs and gang members—is confined to Huntington Beach, is that correct?

  -That’s a fair assessment.

  Stick a fork in Ruffman, he’s cooked, he’s done.

  -And your specific knowledge does not apply to Long Beach gangs and Long Beach gang members.

  -I receive information from the Long Beach task force.

  -But that information is not based on your expertise, correct?

  -That’s correct. It comes from their expertise.

  -And when they—the Long Beach task force—when they tell you something about a specific person in Long Beach, do you have the expertise to verify or refute that information?

  -I accept their expertise.

  -Why?

  -Sorry?

  -Why do you accept their expertise?

  -They’ve been studying gangs longer than I have.

  Round one to Ruffman. Lawson had him on the ropes, but let him escape.
Escape. I wonder what it’s like at the beach right now.

  At Crystal Cove this morning, where Pacific Coast Highway runs right next to the sand, the ocean was glass, the marine fog layer was already burning off, and, as I drove past, dolphins surfaced a few yards offshore. Another perfect morning for paddling. Or, if you’re really lucky, for driving inland to spend the day in a windowless courtroom learning street gang demographics.

  -How many Crips are there in Long Beach, Mr. Ruffman?

  -How many individuals?

  -Yes. In Long Beach.

  Sloan stood.

  -Objection, Your Honor. The witness has already acknowledged the limitations of his expertise.

  -Mr. Lawson?

  -Your Honor, I’m trying to establish the reliability of the information from the Long Beach task force, which the witness accepts uncritically.

  Poor Judge Silverson, sitting here day after day, listening to these lawyers, handing down her decisions, breathing stale air under fluorescent lights. She ought to hold court on the beach, open air. People would line up for a chance at jury duty.

  Her Honor instructed Ruffman to answer Lawson’s question.

  -Crips is a broad category. A loose alliance. In Long Beach alone, there are at least ten Crip sets. Insane Crips, Original Hood Crips, and so on. Those sets have sub-sets. Blocks, they’re called. Or lines. They’re all constantly evolving. New members come in, old members fade out. A precise count is impossible.

  A precise count—how much money would I need to escape like Patrick Lanigan? Would one million be enough? One million dollars invested at three percent. Thirty thousand a year—I could live on that if I went somewhere cheap, nothing fancy, I hear Belize is nice.

  Lawson’s next question brought me back to reality.

  -What, exactly, did the Long Beach task force say were Bud Jack’s ties to the Eastside Rollin’ Twenties?

  Finally, the heart of the matter. Unless Bud Jack was in a gang, Ruffman’s testimony was pretty much a waste of time—that’s how it seemed to me.

  -Like I said, they documented him in gang colors—black and gold for Eastside, blue for Crips. And his tattoos—

  Lawson cut him off.

  -That was eleven years ago, correct? In a gang sweep.

  -Yes.

  -What’s a gang sweep?

  -You go through a neighborhood, stop any gang-bangers you see, have a talk with them, take down their vitals.

  -You’ve done this in Huntington Beach?

  -A few times.

  -Is everyone you sweep up a gang member?

  -We figure out pretty quickly if they are or aren’t.

  -Some aren’t?

  -Correct.

  -When Bud Jack was swept up, eleven years ago, was he charged with a crime?

  -No.

  -Eleven years ago, did he give a statement regarding gang affiliation?

  -According to the information I received, he denied gang membership. But—

  -This is according to the Long Beach task force—whose expertise you accept.

  -Yes.

  -Okay. Good. Eleven years ago he denied membership. Now, since then, since that random sweep eleven years ago, has the task force documented any gang activity on Bud Jack’s part?

  -Not that I’m aware of.

  -Did you request they send you information regarding Bud Jack?

  -I did.

  -And the only information was from eleven years ago?

  -Yes.

  Round two to Lawson. The big man with the bad hip, ladies and gentlemen, is controlling the fight. His jab—eleven years ago, eleven years ago—is landing, Ruffman’s legs are getting wobbly. Why am I rooting for Lawson? Is it the limp? Is he more likable than able-bodied Sloan? I’d like to think I’m rooting for justice, and every time Lawson exposes the speculative nature of the prosecution’s case, I lean a little more his way. Forgive the pun. But let’s be honest, I might simply be hoping for a strong reason to vote for acquittal and make Marissa happy.

  What would it take to make Roya happy? A house with a pool? A cleaning lady? We could do it for five. Steal five million, head for Brazil. Would she go for it? I looked to my left and caught a whiff of stale smoke. What a deal—Cowboy Kevin is enjoying Roya’s sweet perfume, and I’m saddled with the Marlboro Mouse.

  -Mr. Ruffman, didn’t you say the likelihood of gang involvement decreases as a person gets older?

  Round three, and Lawson had come out swinging.

  -I did.

  -Mr. Ruffman, do you have any concrete evidence connecting Bud Jack to Juan Castro?

  -No, I—

  -Mr. Ruffman, is your account of Juan Castro’s murder supported by facts or entirely speculative?

  Stop the fight, Your Honor, this is getting ugly. A few hours ago, Ruffman’s version of Castro’s demise had made perfect sense. A gangland drug war execution, we’ve all seen it, in the movies, on tv, and, anyway, Ruffman was the expert. But turns out he made it all up. It was a plausible scenario, an expert’s best guess, and nothing more. Thank you, Professor Street Gang, thanks for nothing. Lawson returned to his corner, and Sloan came out to repair Ruffman’s bleeding cuts.

  -Mr. Ruffman, in your expert opinion, does Bud Jack have ties to the Eastside Rollin’ Twenties?

  -Yes. When they stopped him, he was with other Eastside homeboys and he had an E.S. tattoo.

  -Mr. Ruffman, do gang ties disappear over time?

  -Not usually, not if you stay in the community. Involvement may decline. The ties are always there.

  So let’s do the math: eleven years ago Bud Jack was seen in the company of Eastsiders, if that’s what they’re called, so he must be an Eastsider, and once an Eastsider always an Eastsider, and since the Eastsiders are at war with Longo 13, and Longo 13 is friends with Southside Huntington, and Juan Castro was a Southsider, Bud Jack must have killed him. QED. What a joke. I’ve got tenth-graders who would fall over laughing, and not just because they’re stoned.

  Sloan released the witness, who staggered out, his story in tatters. That was rough, man. Judge Silverson called a fifteen-minute recess.

  -I want to meet with counsel in my chambers. Jurors may use the restroom, but stay on this floor. Mr. Fletcher, do you hear me? Fifteen minutes.

  Loud and clear, Your Honor, not to worry, the asshole will stay right here in his chair, bury his face in his book, shamefully avoid any eye contact with his fellow jurors, and thank you, Your Honor, for the further humiliation.

  Speaking of drug dealers, Patrick Lanigan’s wife’s boyfriend Lance smuggled marijuana from Mexico in a speedboat she had purchased with the big life insurance payout after Patrick died. Turns out, she and Lance had been hot and heavy the entire time she was married to Patrick and, after his death, they lived extravagantly on the two million dollar policy. But now, with Patrick miraculously resurrected, the insurance company wanted its money back, a lawsuit had been filed, there was nothing to be done, Lance told his newly unwidowed girlfriend, except kill Patrick and this time make it stick.

  Fifteen minutes turned into thirty. What are they doing in Silverson’s office, having tea?

  Lanigan brought suit against the FBI for torturing him, a move calculated to pressure the feds into indicting the real torturers and the angry businessmen who had funded their manhunt. Would Lanigan avoid prison time? Why did I even care about the creep? I cared because my first image of him was as a kidnapping victim, which won my sympathy, had me rooting for him to survive, not give in to those evil sadists. Grisham is clever like that.

  The pages were flying by when Her Honor and company returned, teatime over at last. Sloan called the final witness of the day, an accountant from Long Beach who testified that she had hired Bud Jack to clean her car in the parking lot of her office building.

  -I know he took it for a long drive because the tank was half empty when I got it back. I have the receipt to prove I fueled up that morning on my way to work. It was a Shell station.

  So? Lawson must hav
e been thinking the same thing, or was in a hurry to get home, because he declined to cross examine. Class dismissed.

  Again, the slow shuffle out of the jury box. Peering over The Mouse and around The Elephant, I watched Roya’s black curls vanish into the hallway.

  -I don’t think she likes you.

  It was Comrade Chad, my pal from the cafeteria, whispering from right behind me in chair seven.

  -What’s that?

  He nodded toward Silverson’s empty chair.

  -She really gave you the business. I got lost too, the first day. An honest mistake, right?

  -Yeah.

  -Jeez, give a guy a break.

  An honest mistake indeed, Comrade. And when I got outside, happy to have escaped the courthouse with only minor ego damage, one more honest mistake: I couldn’t find my car. I walked back and forth. Either I really am losing my friggin’ mind or wrong damn parking lot. I should move to a small town, some place where everything doesn’t look exactly the same. Some place real. Then, suddenly, there she was, right in front of me, real as rain. Not my vehicle. Roya! She was opening her car door.

  -Oh. Hi.

  -Hi. I, uh, can’t find my car. I thought it was….

  -You’re having a rough day, aren’t you?

  -No kidding. I’m not usually like this.

  -What kind of car?

  -A Honda. I’m Fletcher. You’re Roya, right?

  Three for three. Three lines, no disasters. Batting 1.000.

  -Yes.

  A restrained smile, no handshake. She got into her car.

  -A green Honda. It’s here somewhere. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.

  -Okay, see you tomorrow.

  I gave her an awkward wave and let her go. Great. She thinks I’m stalking her, thinks I figured out her name and followed her into the parking lot. Either a stalker or just a total loser who can’t find his way back to the courtroom, can’t find his own car. Four rows over, she pulled up next to me, her window down.