We, the Jury

by Robert Rotstein

  “Don’t patronize me,” says the Housewife. “You’re trying to use your expertise to poison this jury, and you’re getting away with it.”

  “No one’s being poisoned,” says the Grandmother. “Most of us followed the judge’s admonition, which she gave on the very first day of trial and repeated every time we took a recess, not to discuss the case among ourselves or draw conclusions before all the evidence was in. There’s a reason for that: so you don’t prejudge the case without hearing from your fellow jurors. It seems to me that you prejudged the case. You’re the one trying to control us, Missy.”

  The Housewife’s lower lip quivers. She looks like a teacher’s pet who’s just received her first-ever scolding. “Let’s take another vote,” she says. “I’ll go first. Not guilty. Anyone want to change their vote?”

  The Express Messenger groans. The Student shakes her head continuously.

  “No one is changing their vote,” says the Grandmother. “This should be over. The correct result is obvious.”

  What do they call a tie in chess? A stalemate? This stalemate has a rotten odor.

  “You obviously love your children,” says the Jury Consultant in a soft voice. “I just want to ask you this. Who made the nine-one-one call?”

  For a moment, the Housewife looks like she’s going to retreat further into her invisible tortoise shell, but she straightens up in her chair and says, “Okay, I’ll humor you. Dillon made the nine-one-one call when he got home from school.”

  “He made the call ten to fifteen minutes after his mother was killed, right?”

  “Undisputed,” says the Housewife. “Get to the point.”

  The Jury Consultant takes a deep breath. “Dillon was scheduled to come home from school at that time. It wasn’t like he showed up unexpectedly.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Why didn’t David make the nine-one-one call?”

  “He testified that he was in shock, that he—”

  “You’re a parent. Put yourself in David’s place. If you’d just defended your life by killing your spouse, felt as if you were defending the lives of your children—that’s what David claimed: that it wasn’t only his life that was in danger—would you ever allow your child to find your husband dead, brutally killed with a pickax? No matter how traumatized you were, no matter how dazed and anguished, no parent with an iota of feeling for his child would have let Dillon find his mother like that, much less put him through the hell of making the nine-one-one call. Think like a parent, not a juror. David Sullinger wanted Dillon to find Amanda’s body.”

  The Housewife blinks several times, then shakes her head repeatedly. “The prosecutor never argued—”

  “Probably some behind-the-scenes ruling the judge made,” says the Jury Consultant. “A lot goes on behind the scenes that we don’t know about. Or just another example of Jack Cranston’s incompetence.”

  The Housewife withdraws further inside herself—the tortoise poked with a sharp stick. It’s quiet in here, cold because the heater is out again. There’s not even the sound of a machine to mask the silence of the Housewife’s agony.

  At last, she whispers, “Okay. Okay.”

  I walk over to the wall and push the red button.

  THE PROSECUTOR

  JACK CRANSTON

  Things never turn out quite right for some of us. I beat the crap out of Jenna the Great, who claimed she’d never lost a case. Well, now she can’t say that anymore.

  But what did I win? According to the media, a discombobulated jury rendered an unjust verdict in spite of the assistant district attorney’s pathetic courtroom performance. Kelsi Cunningham actually called my trial performance “pathetic.” Her headline? justice undone.

  I put a murderous psychopath behind bars, damn it. I took a dangerous killer off the streets. Yet I’m being treated as the criminal.

  “I’m just so surprised,” my wife said repeatedly on the night of the verdict. “I thought it was going to go the other way. I’m so happy for you, Jack.” But there was no happiness in her eyes, only a kind of reproachful embarrassment that her husband was the instrument of injustice.

  My son doesn’t know what to think. Thirteen-year-old boys love winning, and he knows his father won, so he’s proud of my victory. But he’s a sensitive kid, and he also knows how his mother feels, how his teachers feel. He reads the internet. I overheard him say to my wife just two days ago, “I never want to be a lawyer when I grow up.” Good. I don’t want him to be a lawyer, either. Life isn’t fun when it’s all about winning and losing—at least, not for those of us who aren’t Jenna Blaylock. But did he have to reject my profession so soon? Haven’t I done anything he finds admirable? I put a murderous psychopath behind bars, for Chrissake. I took a dangerous killer off the streets.

  When I was a kid, my grandfather would read me the Uncle Remus stories by Joel Chandler Harris, unaware that late twentieth-century critics would call the tales racist. My politically correct, pro–David Sullinger, anti–Joel Chandler Harris wife refuses to let me read the stories to our son, never mind that certain new-millennial critics have repurposed the stories, praising them as subversive and antiracist. Well, racist or not, one Harris story resonates with me now: the one about Brer Rabbit and the Tar Baby. The rabbit tried to engage the Tar Baby in conversation, but the Tar Baby wouldn’t reply. Brer Rabbit got so mad at the Tar Baby for ignoring him that he punched and kicked it, becoming entrapped in the sticky tar. The rabbit was a fool because his rage was unfocused. I get angry at life for ignoring me, sure, but my rage is focused on doing justice. I took a killer off the streets. Why have I become ever more mired in a viscid bitumen of failure?

  JUROR NO. 43

  THE CLERGYMAN

  “Do not be afraid; you will not be put to shame. Do not fear disgrace; you will not be humiliated.” Thus reads Isaiah 54:4. I am not a brave man. I do fear disgrace. If I were a brave man, I would not persist in speaking as though I were reared in Laredo, Texas, when in fact I grew up in Cotati, California. I attended school at Southern Methodist University, however, where I quickly learned it is not only the education that makes the minister, but also the accent. It has served me well, except with my siblings, who mock me about it at every family gathering. My place of upbringing is not the only thing I lie about. If I were a brave man, I would go to the media and explain the truth. I sit silent, however, for otherwise, I would be put to shame, would be humiliated.

  My chortle wakes up my boxer mix, who was sleeping under my desk. He looks up at me and whines, his censure of me justified. Biblical quotes, grandiose sentiments, bombast—all evidence that I do not believe a word of what I preach. The truth is, I am a flawed man and a coward, and I tried to do one brave thing—or at least, one right thing—and could not manage it.

  As I informed the other jurors when the Foreperson confronted me, Amanda Sullinger and I met at a fund-raiser ten years ago, at which we were photographed together. What I failed to confess was that I did know Amanda quite well. Indeed, after meeting her at the charity function, I pursued her, charmed her, and pried a substantial charitable contribution out of her. She was a well-connected woman, a philanthropist, a progressive, even a bleeding heart—and, as the Housewife recognized, a monster.

  I was riding high then, the pastor of the beautiful building on Whitesburg Street—my church before I quit in protest over the hierarchy’s apathy toward human rights. (By the way, my resignation was not an act of bravery; it was an act of ego and, as such, constitutes no amelioration of my essential cowardice.) I am a masterful fund-raiser; my facility for prying money out of people is a gift from God. Amanda so wanted to help our causes that she connected me with people she knew in LA who might lend financial support for my church’s attempt to foster tolerance of lesbians, gays, bisexuals, and transgendered individuals and to aid oppressed undocumented aliens. Ours is a small county. For that reason, Amanda demanded I ke
ep her involvement in these good works a secret. I understood. Sepulveda County is politically conservative, and the outing of Amanda Sullinger as a liberal would have harmed her real estate business.

  Approximately six months after she and I met, she appeared at my church unexpectedly. My office fronted the parking lot, and on this night, I was working late. There was the crunch of tires on gravel, and a gunfire-like bang of a car door slamming shut. Then a loud, frantic knock, and Amanda Sullinger walked in. As agitated as she was, her hair was still in place and her makeup was flawless. She was dressed in one of her designer business suits.

  “I need to talk to someone,” she said. “I didn’t know where else to …” The timbre of her voice reminded me of an overwound guitar string—slightly off-key and about to snap.

  I motioned for her to sit, but she stood behind one of my guest chairs and applied a two-handed death grip on the back. “I want to make sure our conversation will be confidential,” she said.

  “Of course it will. I have a moral obligation—”

  “No, not just morally confidential. I mean legally confidential, like the Catholic confessional.” Although she was seeking my help, her tone held an anomalous edge of hostility.

  “Confidentiality is not only a tenet of my faith, but also mandated under the laws of the State of California,” I replied pompously.

  “To be clear, does that mean what I tell you will be protected by the privilege even if, hypothetically, I admit to actions some might find criminal?” The diction was unnatural, practiced, legalistic, though I didn’t realize it back then. I was shocked and also intrigued. How perverse that the problems and flaws of others should bring excitement to our own drab lives.

  “As long as you don’t reveal you’re planning to commit a crime in the future, whatever you tell me is privileged,” I said.

  “Now, that’s rich. I can tell you about past acts, which you can’t do anything about, but I can’t tell you about future acts that you might be able to talk me out of. No wonder everyone hates lawyers.” Then a question that turned out to be prescient: “Does the privilege survive the death of the penitent?”

  “I am not an attorney, but I am quite certain that it does,” I say. “Are you concerned about dying?”

  She let out a loud laugh, the change in her demeanor so abrupt that I recoiled.

  “Of course not,” she said. “You pass the test.” She had indeed been testing me, looking for any imperfections in my moral compass. She saw none, evidently. As things transpired, she was not an astute judge of character, about either her husband’s survival instinct or my ethics.

  Then she recounted to me what we jurors referred to as the tuna casserole incident, how thirty minutes earlier, she had burned David’s eye and face, how she was not sorry, because he deserved it, how she loved him so. She recited a litany of similar past incidents. I became at first queasy and then nauseated. I advised her to seek professional help, even gave her the name of a therapist. I encouraged her to pray. She left my office calm and collected, the result not of my ineffectual advice but of her cathartic act of confession. Thereafter, she ceased all attempts to assist me with charitable efforts and political action, would not even take my phone calls. (Yes, I am so shamelessly mercenary that I kept pursuing her for money.) Eventually, she faded into my memory’s recesses. David apparently had no clue Amanda had worked with me. Or perhaps, by the time of trial, he had forgotten.

  And then I was called for jury duty, and instead of following the law and divulging my preexisting relationship with Amanda, I did what I thought was right, namely, allowed myself to be chosen so I could safeguard David Sullinger’s freedom. It was the least I could do—an act of atonement, really, for I had failed to communicate anything useful to Amanda which would stop her from abusing David. I would remain silent for as long as I could, hopeful the other jurors would reach the correct result independently. At first, remaining taciturn was a simple task—the jury appeared certain to vote “not guilty,” and all would come out as it should. Then the tide turned. I understand why: David was an exceedingly poor witness. As the guilty votes increased, I vowed to hang the jury. Let a future jury decide the case. At least, David would get two bites at the apple. I was wrong under the law. I was right in the eyes of God.

  When the judge called me in after learning of the photograph, I used her chambers as my own confessional. As I spoke, she said nothing, simply nodded at me continually. I should have known something was not right when there was no court reporter present, when neither attorney was present. Not even her court clerk—just Judge Quinn-Gilbert and me. In hindsight, I do not think she comprehended a word I said. Or maybe I’m underestimating her. Under the law, she could not credit my extrajudicial testimony about Amanda. I assumed she would declare a mistrial, punish me, take steps to ensure that David would not be convicted of a crime he did not commit. She did none of those things. Did she believe David to be guilty? Did she spare me out of kindness because I confessed?

  I should have been David’s witness, not a juror, but I was afraid to breach the clergy-penitent privilege and lose the trust of my flock. I rationalized that as a juror, I could protect David better than I could as a witness.

  I have consulted with an attorney and imparted these facts to her. She advises that even if I share what I know with the court and the media, it will not avail David. Judge Quinn-Gilbert excused me before the verdict was rendered, disinfecting any taint which I might have caused. Besides, there was no taint. My vote was to be “not guilty,” and the jury voted “guilty.” Which means that I had no influence whatever on the other jurors. I committed perjury by virtue of my failure to be forthcoming, tried to tamper with a jury. Both are crimes punishable by fines and imprisonment.

  “Don’t run your mouth and shoot yourself in the foot for no valid reason,” my lawyer advised, her metaphors mixed but her point pellucid.

  As I did in the deliberation room, I remain silent. I need an Aaron, though I am no Moses: He will be as a mouth for you. Perhaps I shall find him—or her.

  THE HONORABLE

  NATALIE QUINN-GILBERT

  My siblings have been wonderful, Jonathan. My brother is driving me to specialists’ appointments, and my sister has been staying with me. She says she’ll stay on until we figure this thing out, but I tell her no and say that you, dear Jonathan, made sure I would have plenty of care if this happened, that she’s not my caretaker. I’ve missed my siblings.

  Ed Halleck, the presiding judge, has been wonderful, handing my most pressing cases off to other judges. As he says, I’m going to figure this thing out and return to the bench. Of course I will. Mick Redmond and Bradley Kobashigawa have been wonderful. Such good friends and employees, covering for me because I don’t want anyone outside the courtroom to know why I’m taking a sabbatical. It’s temporary, and attorneys lose respect for an infirm judge just as wolves turn on the wounded member of the pack. So you always say, Jonathan. I finally know what you mean.

  It was an honest mistake, momentary confusion. I’m sure many others have made it. I mean, come on, what reputable builder would put the fourth-floor women’s restroom precisely over the third-floor men’s restroom and make the doors look exactly the same? Yet that’s what happened in this architectural monstrosity. Something to do with the configuration of the building, the haphazard topography, the plumbing necessary for effective urinals—I don’t know … The courthouse is a mess, as you more than once noted, Jonathan. Of course you did, so why am I telling you this? I became distracted with a legal issue and walked into the men’s restroom on floor three, mistaking it for the women’s restroom on floor four. As soon as I noticed the urinals, I backed out the door. It’s not true that I tried to pee in a urinal, slanderous rumors to the contrary notwithstanding. I would have escaped unseen except that Mick Redmond happened to be walking over to Judge Halleck’s courtroom carrying the transfer order I signed in another case, f
iled by a vexatious litigant Ed knows well and I don’t. In any event, Jonathan, Mick caught me inside the third-floor men’s restroom. It should have been okay—it was Mick, after all—but …

  This is a mortifying confession to make, Jonathan.

  “What were you doing on the third floor, Natalie?” Ed Halleck asked during the inquisition.

  “I must have … the transfer order?”

  “Your clerk was taking care of that.”

  “I thought I was in the fourth-floor ladies’ room. This crazily constructed building.”

  “Why were you using a public restroom instead of the bathroom in your chambers?”

  “The plumbing in this building …?”

  “Was there a clogged toilet in your private bathroom?”

  “I think perhaps there …”

  “Maintenance found no plumbing issues.”

  “Well, that’s … Goody for them.”

  “Why ever were you wearing your robe, Natalie?”

  “I was not! Where did you get the idea—”

  “Your clerk, Redmond.”

  “It was my black woolen coat, a gift from Jonathan when we traveled to Scandinavia. The courthouse heating system …”

  “You need to take a leave of absence while we sort this out.”

  “You can’t make me.”

  “But you’ll take a leave of absence, anyway.”

  We both cried, but he started to cry first, Jonathan. I’m sure of that. Mick Redmond is devastated. He believes he betrayed me by reporting me to the presiding judge.

  He did betray me. I’ll never forgive him.

  Sometimes I take myself to task over my performance in Sullinger, but Ed Halleck says I did a wonderful job. What an unfortunate case.

  I’m enveloped in fog, Jonathan. Not enveloped, but imprisoned in a thick, desiccated haze that surrounds me yet excludes me from its embrace, so that I feel utterly alone. Why won’t the haze love me? It’s the rest of the world, not me, who’s in the haze, and in my isolation, I see things with perfect clarity. I see that I prefer a brain tumor over Alzheimer’s, that I prefer insanity to a brain tumor, that I prefer death to insanity, that I prefer a life of forgetfulness to death, that my reasoning is at once circular, muddled, and rational and that I don’t get a choice. How I wish that damn fog would embrace me. Or … Have they diagnosed me yet, Jonathan? So many tests, so many neurologists and neurosurgeons and psychiatrists. It’s all a misunderstanding. So confusing. What’s wrong with me, Jonathan?