We, the Jury

by Robert Rotstein

  The judge regards me with concerned eyes, the Irish-green irises gleaming in the darkness. “I’m not sure I understand. Why don’t they go to the duty judge?”

  “Oh, I don’t know anything about that,” I say meekly. “They just told me to find a judge, and I saw you pulling out of the parking lot. I’ve delivered a lot of papers to your clerk, Mr. Redmond.”

  “I’m not the duty judge tonight. I think its Judge …” She puts an index finger on her cheek and tilts her head as she thinks—an endearing, childlike gesture so endearing and childlike that I feel a wave of guilt about deceiving her. Usually, I don’t feel guilty till afterward—not that guilt would stop me.

  “Why didn’t someone call ahead?” she asks.

  “The duty judge? I wouldn’t—”

  “No. Call ahead.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t know what you mean.” I actually don’t know what she means. I call her ma’am to show a lack of sophistication. Only someone inexperienced in the law would address her as anything other than Judge.

  “Come inside, and I’ll check the internal court website for you,” she says. “Tell you who the duty judge is.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that. We could use the browser on my cell phone. Just tell me the link.” I’m taking a risk, but playing hard-to-get promotes trust. I fake a shiver and wrap my hands around my chest. “Woo, it’s cold.” It is chilly, but I’m not cold. This game, the chase, keeps me warm.

  “No, my eyes and fingers won’t …” the judge says, shaking her head. “It’s easier for me to search on my computer. And you’re cold. Come inside.”

  How nice of her. How weird of her. How foolish of her. Most judges would tell me to tell my bosses to get their act together. Then they’d order me off their property.

  She opens the front door, sets down her briefcase—the old-fashioned square leather kind, all scuffed, with tarnished brass hardware—disarms the security system, and leads me into what looks like a study. Inside, the house is stylish—traditional, like what you’d expect from a judge—but also cozy. Inconsistently, there are nontraditional paintings on the wall. Abstract and surrealistic is how I’d describe them. One in particular strikes me as odd and rather disturbing: a painting of a courthouse foundering on a rough ocean, with some kind of colossal creature—a shark or whale or sea serpent—rising high out of the water and hovering over the building. The creature’s jaws are open wide, poised to swallow the courthouse whole. But it’s not the subject matter that makes the painting eerie; it’s the color, or lack of color. The entire painting is rendered in shades of gray, except for the creature’s blank-slate, dark-blue predatory eyes, which stare directly out at the observer.

  “Oh, what nice art you have!” I say.

  “My husband’s work. He’s … he was very talented.”

  “Was he a professional artist?”

  “A trial lawyer. A great one.”

  We go into the study, and she sits down in front of an antique rolltop desk. The shelves are lined with books—mostly legal treatises, I think, but also some classic literature, nonfiction, and bestselling commercial fiction of years gone by. There are framed snapshots of the judge and her husband in their younger days, plus some professionally rendered photographs of the judge with dignitaries, including the former governor. She was never a beautiful woman. Her husband was a very handsome man—a dashing man.

  “Cool desk,” I say. “Is it a real antique?”

  “From the 1880s, a lawyer’s office. Quartersawn oak, or so Jonathan would tell me.”

  “Cool. So my bosses say that you’re the judge who has that murder case everybody’s talking about. Where the husband murdered the wife in self-defense?” She’s logging on to her computer. I try to see her password without being obvious, but she types too fast. I could make out a “c” and an “o” and maybe an asterisk, but that’s about it. Damn. And yes, I’m willing to hack into her computer.

  “Sullinger. Yes. I have a jury out.”

  I glance down at my phone. The voice recorder is still going. The recording will never become public, but I’ll use it to convince my bosses that I didn’t make this interview up.

  “Yeah, that’s what one of my bosses was saying. I read about the trial on the internet. I think he killed her in self-defense. I hope they let him go free.”

  “Oh, it’s a very sad case,” she says, her back to me, eyes on the monitor. I stare at her hair: drab auburn over silver-gray roots, short and layered. It’s the classic cut of the older professional woman—dowdy, though her “stylist” undoubtedly maintains otherwise.

  Her shoulders are rounded from years of sitting, and her back is soft with postmenopausal flab.

  “Very sad,” she says. “Difficult legal issues. Even more difficult testimony to listen to. Sometimes, I wonder …” She pauses to type. “David Sullinger is such a large man, and Amanda was so petite.” Type, type, type. “I gave that battered-husband instruction because Jenna Blaylock handed me a very well-written legal brief.” Type, type, type. “It was so late, and the prosecutor didn’t do his homework, but maybe I should’ve let him file a response, but …” Type, type, type, type, type. “Okay, here you go. Tell the lawyers at your law firm that the duty judge is Judge Barnes.”

  God, I wish she’d keep on rambling, but I have enough for a great story, especially in the tabloid world: Judge Admits Error in Wife-Killer’s Trial! Judge Doubts Wife-Killer’s Story! Sure, I’ve maintained in my stories that David is innocent, but who cares? I now have something better: an exclusive with the judge, who says he’s guilty, who admits she fucked up. She’ll claim I’m overstating? Let her sue. This is awesome!

  She peeks back over her shoulder at me. “Which lawyer at your firm is handling this matter?”

  This is a small county with a small legal community, and I’m betting she knows most of the lawyers at the firm. “Sabrina Goldman,” I say, pulling the name out of a location in my ass that I didn’t know existed. “She’s a new associate. A … a lateral from Gibson’s Los Angeles office.”

  The judge gives me an odd look, and why not? I just broke character. A stupid messenger girl knowing about lateral hires? About a huge LA-based BigLaw firm?

  She swivels in her chair and faces me. “Just tell her to call the duty judge.”

  My momentary apprehension dissolves. “Absolutely, Judge. Thank you so much.” I reach out and shake her hand, then hurry toward the front entrance like a thief fleeing with the stolen loot. But I’m no thief; I’m the purveyor of truth. I open the door only to come face-to-face with Mick Redmond, that scary courtroom clerk for the Honorable Natalie Quinn-Gilbert.

  THE COURTROOM CLERK

  MICK REDMOND

  The judge and I have a tradition: if the jury deliberates more than one afternoon, she and I bake the jurors cupcakes for the next morning. Arms laden with bags of baking ingredients, I climb the steps to the judge’s front porch. The front door swings open, and I come face to face not with the judge, but with that tabloid reporter, Kelsi Cunningham.

  Have you ever seen an injured boxer smile at the opponent in a futile attempt to hide the fear and pain? That’s how Cunningham is smirking at me now, the arrogant, frightened little bitch. Yes, harsh words, but not harsh enough for the little bitch.

  When she takes a step forward to leave, I drop my grocery bags, take a step forward myself, and put my hands on the doorjambs to block her way. I can be intimidating when I choose to be. I was an army corporal during the first Iraq war. It was the era before “Don’t ask, don’t tell,” so I lied.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask.

  “That’s none of your business, but if you must know, the judge invited me in. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”

  It’s all bravado.

  “You’re not going anywhere yet,” I say. Then I notice the cell phone in her hand and grab it.<
br />
  “Hey, what the fuck, man! That hurt!” She countergrabs at the phone but not very seriously.

  “Mick, what’s this?” The judge is standing at the entrance to her study, hands on hips.

  “Judge, don’t you know who this is?” I say.

  “She’s a messenger from a law firm.”

  “She’s a reporter,” I say. “A tabloid writer. Her name’s Kelsi Cunningham. Judge, she’s been in court every day since the trial started. How could you not have recognized her? She has a ring in her nose and tattoos.” I try to hide my frustration from my beloved boss, to whom I’ve never said a harsh word. She’s one of the few people who have that distinction.

  The judge stands erect, straightens her gray woolen jacket by pulling at the hem with both hands, and walks over. “I didn’t recognize her, Mick, because I don’t pay attention to the media or the spectators or even family members of the defendant or anyone in the gallery. I pay attention to the attorneys and the witnesses, and I rule on objections, and I ask questions for clarification, and I make sure the jurors are comfortable and listening. That’s why I didn’t know who she is. She’s insignificant to me.”

  This is the cocksure, confident Judge Quinn-Gilbert I know. I glance down at Cunningham’s cell phone. It’s on the voice recording app. Shit. I hit the play button.

  “Yeah, that’s what one of my bosses was saying. I think he killed her in self-defense. I hope they let him go free …”

  “Oh, It’s a very sad case. Very sad. Difficult legal issues. Even more difficult testimony to listen to. Sometimes, I wonder … David Sullinger is such a large man, and Amanda was so petite. I gave that battered-husband instruction because Jenna Blaylock handed me a very well-written legal brief. It was so late, and the prosecutor didn’t do his homework, but maybe I should’ve let him file a response, but … Okay, here you go. Tell the lawyers at your law firm that the duty judge is Judge Barnes.”

  ou’re despicable,” I say, and make a move to erase the recording.

  “I’ll fucking have you arrested for false imprisonment and destruction of property,” Cunningham shrieks, grabbing at the phone so ferociously, she scratches my arm with her fingernail.

  I take a step forward, nudge her with my body, and shut the door behind me so she can’t make a break for it. “You’re a fucking child trying to play in the grown-ups’ league. You’re not ready.”

  “Return her cell phone, Mick,” the judge says in a quiet, almost amused tone.

  “But, judge, she’s going to put this garbage on the internet, embarrass you, maybe cause a mistrial.”

  “She won’t do any such thing,” the judge says. “Do you remember that divorce case we had three years ago? In re Marriage of Gulliver?”

  The dimmer switches in my brain are turned up, and I get it. “I do, Judge. That was the case where the husband recorded a conversation with the wife’s best friend without consent? He served three months in jail, if I’m not mistaken.” I hand the phone back to Cunningham, who takes it, her expression that of a frightened yet curious cat.

  “You’re not from this jurisdiction, I take it,” the judge says to Cunningham.

  “She’s from New York, Judge,” I say.

  “You obviously don’t know about Criminal Code section 632,” the judge says. “The statute that makes it a crime to record a conversation without the other person’s consent. Punishable by up to one year in prison and a fine of twenty-five hundred dollars. How do you think a superior court judge is going to react when you’re being sentenced for illegally recording another superior court judge?”

  Cunningham flaps her jaw, but the judge stops any words, saying, “And please don’t insult my intelligence by spouting platitudes about freedom of the press. I suspect that if your behavior becomes public, your website, or whoever employs you, will summarily fire you to avoid becoming the target of a criminal prosecution itself. You might never find media employment again.”

  Cunningham shuts her eyes and sucks in her lower lip.

  “You know, I saw my little nephew suck on his lip like that when his mother took away his pacifier,” I say. “He also pooped his pants a few times, though he’d been potty trained. Are you feeling the same way?”

  “That’s enough, Mick,” the judge says, holding up her hand and glaring at Cunningham with those eyes that have made even the most hardened criminals cower.

  Cunningham’s body droops in submission. There’s comfort in admitting defeat. “What do you want me to do?”

  “You’re going to email my clerk that recording so we have proof that you made it,” the judge says. “Then you’re going to hand your phone back to Mick, and he’s going to delete the recording.”

  “As well as the sent email with the attachment,” I add.

  “Mick is much more technologically savvy than I am,” the judge says, which wasn’t true until three or four months ago.

  Cunningham nods wearily, her lips now puckered like an old crone’s. The email is sent to my phone; the recording is obliterated from hers—I make sure of that. I hand her back the phone, open the front door, bow, and gesture for her to leave with a sweep of the arm worthy of the best fairy-tale footman.

  “I’ll see you in court, Ms. Cunningham,” the judge says.

  The little twit looks at the judge in bewilderment.

  “I mean, I’ll see you when the Sullinger jury comes back. Far be it from me to impinge on the First Amendment guarantee of freedom of the press.”

  When the door closes, the judge lets out a long sigh. “You saved me on that one, Mick. Thank you.”

  “Thank the cupcake tradition, Judge. Which reminds me, I brought ingredients for maple bacon.”

  She blanches slightly. “Mick, I don’t know. Jonathan didn’t …”

  Jonathan didn’t like her to use pork in cupcakes. He thought it disrespectful to observant Jews and Muslims who might be on the jury. Unbecoming of a judge. That’s exactly why I suggested these. She’s got to start to let go somehow.

  “Oh, he didn’t really mind,” I say. “You know him. He was always lawyering, and with the cupcakes he was just doing some pastry lawyering. Anyway, I made a batch for Eric last week. He ate so many, he’s gone to the gym every day since. My little nephew loves them, too, the little sugar junkie, and he ordinarily won’t eat bacon.”

  She thinks for a moment and nods her head as if making a momentous decision. Maybe it is momentous for her. “Let’s do it,” she says. “I’ve got to change my clothes first.”

  After she leaves the room, I pick up my bags of goodies, go into the kitchen, and set up. It’s a true cook’s kitchen with a large island, two ovens, and—best of all—plenty of counter space. An easy kitchen for two cooks to work in, which is how it was designed. The Gilberts loved to cook together, even took cooking classes at Langlois in New Orleans and at Le Cordon Bleu.

  A few minutes later, the judge comes out, smiling broadly. But her eyes are a shimmering red, a tip-off that she’s been crying.

  We start making the cupcakes, and just as we finish blending the batter, she says in a resolute tone, “I am not losing it, Mick.”

  “Of course not, Judge.” It’s the right thing to say, but we both know that if she were sure, she wouldn’t have made the statement. I do feel a whole lot better after watching how she handled Cunningham.

  THE PROSECUTOR

  JACK CRANSTON

  They didn’t come back with a verdict today, and that’s a good sign, because it’s easier for a jury to rush an acquittal than to cavalierly find a man guilty.

  Nope, it’s a bad sign, because he murdered her, and all they need to decide is whether he acted in self-defense, and he didn’t, because he could’ve just taken the knife from her and run away, just as he took the ax from her.

  No, the fact that they’re still out doesn’t mean anything at all, because they’ve only
been out a couple of hours, and the trial lasted a month.

  “Hey, Bauer!” I shout to one of the other assistant DAs, the only person who’s worked in the office nearly as long as I have. “What do you make of no verdict yet?”

  “It means nothing. They’ve been out two hours,” he says, walking by without even a “congratulations” or a “job well done.” Is he competitive, or does he believe I’m not deserving of a “job well done”?

  The cops couldn’t explain why Amanda bought that ax, which means I couldn’t explain why Amanda bought that ax. That’s the Achilles’ heel of my case, that goddamn ax. There has to be some explanation other than that she was buying a murder weapon with the intent to kill her husband. I urged the sheriff to request help from a big-city police department, but no, he wouldn’t do it—ego. So he lets Detective Beckermann botch things up. Damn the sheriff. Damn Beckermann. Damn that ax. Damn that Dillon Sullinger, who testified exactly the way I wanted him to but looked and sounded as if he’s the one who belongs in the state penitentiary. The impudent little prick didn’t even bother to wear a sport coat to court when he testified, even after I told him to. Hell, I would have settled for a T-shirt without the holes. He was honest, though, and Lacey … well, I don’t know what to make of Lacey, because she was a terrific witness. I hate to say it, but she was a terrific witness.

  Even after all this time, my wife is still pissed at me for trying to raise that incest issue during Lacey’s cross, all the more pissed because Hunter overheard us debating—oh, let’s be honest, arguing—about the issue, and he asked what incest is. I thought twelve-year-olds learned everything about everything from the internet these days. Oops.