“Now this next one, Clifford Wright. What do we know about him?” Nina said from behind her hand as a light-haired, boyish-looking man with an engaging smile made his way to the chair still warm from poor Mr.—what had been his name?
Genevieve slid over the chart she had whipped together on Wright when they had received a list of jury pool members the week before. “Thirty-nine years old,” she said. “He scored high on his questionnaire. Currently campaign manager for our congressman. Skis, plays racquetball, rides a bike. After a number of casual girlfriends he recently married. Mother divorced from father after twenty-three years, which could be excellent; she continued to receive alimony from his father until her death last year. Loves ice cream, Chinese food, vegetables. Won’t eat strawberries, apples, or peanuts because of allergies. Self-described feminist. His wife works, not with him, but they pool their money and have accumulated enough for a down payment on a house. Paul didn’t get far with him . . . he just moved to Tahoe from Southern California. He was a state assemblyman there and is active in politics here. His voting record showed a definite liberal bent. Leader type. He smokes. Good on paper. Let’s see how he fares with your questions.”
“Mr. Wright, my client, Lindy Markov,” Nina said, gesturing toward Lindy. Wright turned his smile on Lindy.
“You’ve lived in Tahoe how long?” Nina began.
“Just a year.”
“And before that?”
“In the suburbs of L.A. Yorba Linda.”
She went on, asking him some neutral questions to give him time to get accustomed to the pricking of many eyes and the reporter tapping out his every word.
“The town you grew up in. It’s in Orange County?”
“Yes.”
“Birthplace of Richard Nixon?”
“Infamous for it.”
“People in other part of the state would probably say Orange County is one of our most conservative counties. Would you agree with that?”
“Yes, it’s conservative.”
“How is it conservative?”
“It’s a place that has probably seen more change in terms of growth in the past three decades, my whole lifetime, than anywhere else in the world. People are struggling to hold on to old-fashioned values, like family and religion. They feel a little under siege, I guess, so they are pretty noisy about it.”
Articulate s. o. b., Genevieve scrawled for Nina to see.
“Would you say you share the conservative attitudes Orange County is famous for?”
“I would have to say that I couldn’t wait to leave.”
“You don’t have old-fashioned values?”
“I got tired of the paranoia, the bigots, and the rigidity. I got tired of the traffic and pollution. I got tired of not being allowed to walk on people’s lawns.”
Nina wasn’t satisfied. He sounded so candid. Too candid. Under the candor and the smile he seemed quite nervous. She veered back into neutral territory. After a few minutes, he had let up his guard only slightly. “Is this your first experience with the criminal justice system?” Nina asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“Nervous? People usually are.”
“ ’Fraid so.” He laughed.
“It’s not an easy place to spend a morning, is it, Mr. Wright? Bet you’d rather be out,” she pretended to consult her notes, “riding your bike up the path near Emerald Bay on a glorious day like this?”
“You bet I would.”
Nina smiled and let the audience have their laugh. The tension in the room lifted enough so that Clifford Wright finally lost the tightness around his mouth.
“Unfortunately, we’re all here doing our duties today,” said Nina. “We’re here to decide some very serious issues. This is a case that some have described as a palimony case. Are you familiar with that term?”
“Sure. Clint Eastwood was sued for palimony, wasn’t he? Also Bob Dylan. Even Martina Navratilova, I think.”
“What did you think about those cases?”
“Well,” he said slowly. “I didn’t follow the details, you understand. But from what I heard, Bob Dylan’s girlfriend lived with him for a long time, even had and raised his kids. She probably ought to get something. The Martina thing, that was iffier.”
“So, as a fair-minded person, you think you could try to look at these things on an individual basis.”
“That’s right,” he said. He gave her a frank open smile. “Mrs. Reilly,” he added.
“Do you understand what a contract is?” Nina asked.
“I think so.”
“How would you define it?”
“An agreement.”
“Do you know that in law, there are different kinds of contracts, both oral and written?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know that, in law, an oral contract has the same validity as a written contract?”
“Yes, I knew that.”
“Do you think they should?”
“As long as you know what the agreement was, I have no problem with that.”
“Would you agree that it’s easier to prove an agreement in writing, Mr. Wright?”
“Well, of course.”
“But not every writing is an agreement, is it?”
“No. Even if it says it’s an agreement, it might not be a—you know—legal agreement. I would guess it has to meet certain standards.”
Nina glanced back at Genevieve, who looked pleased. And at Winston, whose eyes had narrowed. The answer was too good, and he had noticed.
“Any time you have two people, you can have two interpretations of the same situation, wouldn’t you agree?”
“You can.”
“From the very little the judge has told you in introducing this case a few days ago, do you have any thoughts as to which of the parties is probably right in this case?”
Wright raised his eyebrows. He looked almost offended. “I would have to listen to the whole story to know that,” he said, shaking his head. “I just don’t know at this point, Mrs. Reilly.”
“Could you find in favor of Mrs. Markov if it is proved beyond a preponderance of the evidence that she and Mr. Markov had an oral contract, an agreement, to share all their assets, regardless of the size of those assets, regardless of the fact that they never put it in writing?”
“Yes.”
Several times during the questioning, Nina could feel Riesner behind her, wishing to object. He didn’t want to sit while she interpreted law to suit her purposes. On the other hand, lawyers tried not to interrupt during voir dire. It usually backfired. He would be taking his turn again soon enough, and she, too, would be resisting the impulse.
She continued to question Clifford Wright for another ten minutes.
You kept him up there a while, commented Genevieve’s note when she finally sat down. Longer than the others.
He’s too earnest, Nina wrote back, watching Riesner begin his round of questioning, flipping to a fresh page in her notebook so that she could take notes on anything that might need follow-up or close scrutiny. Riesner hadn’t quite finished when Judge Milne called for the lunch break, but Nina didn’t need to hear more to know what she thought.
Managing to avoid the reporters, the three of them—Nina, Genevieve, and Winston—walked outside to an area between the two long, low stone buildings where pale sunlight and a breeze awaited. Lindy had walked out to her car. “We’re missing spring again,” said Nina. “Here comes and goes another season while we rot inside.”
“Think of the money we’re saving on sunscreen,” Genevieve said. “You’re quiet today, Winston.”
“Quiet doesn’t mean asleep.”
“How do you like Mr. Wright?”
“I’m still thinking,” Winston said. He wore Vuarnet sunglasses, reminding Nina of another case that had come and gone quickly and dramatically in her life a few months before. Each case seemed to last an eternity, but once it ended, she blinked once and moved on.
“He’s perfect,” said Genev
ieve, not able to wait any longer to let them know her opinion.
“Too perfect,” said Nina.
“No, really,” said Genevieve.
“He played us like a harp. I felt managed,” said Nina.
“The perfect juror comes our way, and you suspect him because he looks too good?” Genevieve persisted.
“He’s slick.”
“Are you nuts? He comes off great. He comes off honest. And he comes off fair.”
“I don’t care how he comes off. I want him gone,” Nina said, raising her voice slightly, not looking at Genevieve.
“Need I remind you we only have one peremptory left? What about Ignacio Ybarra? He’s a Catholic, very conservative. A disaster. Or Sonny Ball? Paul thinks he’s a dope dealer. He’s totally unpredictable. Because we knew we needed to save as many peremptories as we could for the disaster waiting in the wings, they’ve both made the cut. Surely you wouldn’t keep them and waste a peremptory on Wright.” When she saw her logic did not seem potent enough to budge Nina, Genevieve turned for support to Winston, who had wandered off onto the grass. “What did you think of him?”
“I’m inclined to agree with Nina that he’s not showing all his true colors,” Winston said. “But then again, who does? That doesn’t mean he’s not on our side. What does matter is, he seems sincere.”
“You call that sincere? What about when I asked about his wife and his eyes got misty?”
“He’s sensitive,” said Genevieve.
“He’s full of it.”
“Where do you get this, Nina?” Genevieve asked. “Not from his questionnaire. Not from his answers up there. This is your own prejudice talking. I warned you, you’re goin’ to project stuff. Maybe you’re a little attracted to him, and you’re reacting against that.”
“He doesn’t like me,” said Nina, stymied by the vigor with which Genevieve and Winston defended Wright. It seemed obvious to her that he was a bad fit with their case. She felt him trying to charm her. She didn’t like the feeling that he wanted to be on the jury. He should be dragged, like everyone else, into doing his duty. He should take no pleasure in it, but should be willing. A juror should never be eager, and she felt he had somehow betrayed his eagerness, adopting an unreal, evenhanded style that somehow didn’t suit the personality on the paper, the go-getter with a new job and better ways to spend his time.
“You don’t think he likes you,” Genevieve said. “That’s irrational, and Nina, what we are about is logic. Trust me, Nina. Let me do the job you hired me to do. I won’t let you down.”
Nina turned to Winston. “Well, Winston?”
He took his time. “Let’s say you’re right and he’s a problem,” he said. They had come to the parking area and stood beside the blue Oldsmobile Winston had rented for the duration. “I’m handling a lot of the trial work. Maybe I can counterbalance that initial prejudice. I think we can work with him. You can win him over. As far as him being such an eager beaver, I don’t have a problem with that. I think he expects to learn something about the very rich. I think he’s interested in the money angle. That’s not bad in itself.”
“I told you in the beginning,” Genevieve said. “I can only give you my advice and you’re free not to take it, but we need to save that challenge. Don’t throw it away on Wright. This is what you need me for,” she argued, “to help you with those distinctions that don’t come natural. He’s gonna come around. I’m telling you.”
They were right about needing that last challenge in case of an emergency. Nina went over in her mind where in the process she could have saved another peremptory, so that she could spend one on Wright. She came up empty-handed.
“Okay. If Riesner doesn’t challenge, he’s in.” When they returned to the courtroom, Nina sat back in her chair, closing her eyes, hoping for help from her enemy when her friends deserted. Maybe Riesner would hate Wright.
No such luck. Riesner didn’t challenge.
Rather than brave the lightning storm of photographers in the public hallway, Nina slipped through the door by the jury box and into the private hall that led to the judge’s chambers, past a number of clerk’s offices. She intended to hang there for a couple of minutes until the group dispersed, then head out the locked door to the main hall a few feet away from the regular courtroom exits. She didn’t want her picture taken today.
She waited in the short part of the L-shaped area for a few minutes, until she judged the coast to be mostly clear, then headed down the longer stretch toward the door to the exit. Almost instantly, she spotted Winston, who had apparently had the same idea.
She could only see him from the back. He had stepped inside one of the clerk’s offices and was leaning over the desk, talking cheerfully with a frizzy-haired, vivacious redhead Paul always seemed to notice, too.
“He’s after her body,” a voice drawled. Genevieve had come up behind her. “Spends all his spare time down here lately. Guess it’s time to collect him. C’mon.” In spite of her cool manner, jealousy glittered in the corner of her eye.
Nina went along to help drag him away.
“This is it,” Nina said, watching wearily late Thursday afternoon as another pack of people were herded into the crowded courtroom and the clerk began to speak. “The home stretch.”
“Do you, and each of you, understand and agree that you will accurately and truthfully answer, under penalty of perjury, all questions propounded to you concerning your qualifications and competency to serve as a trial juror in the matter pending before this court; and that failure to do so may subject you to criminal prosecution?” droned the clerk for the sixth time.
“I do,” answered the new pack, while the insecure faces in the jury box looked on.
“We’re going to finish today,” Winston whispered as the people took their seats and some more paper-shuffling started the last round. “I feel it.”
“Alan Reed,” called out the clerk. Genevieve didn’t have to show her the report on him; they had been talking about him the day before and praying he wouldn’t be called to the box.
An openly conservative man of fifty-seven, he was divorced and still harboring grudges about it, according to Paul. He spent his weekends hunting and fishing with his buddies. At the top of his report, Genevieve had drawn a skull and crossbones.
After a few questions it was obvious to Nina that Reed was precisely the kind of juror they couldn’t have. Genevieve gave a thumbs-down signal under the table and Winston couldn’t help shaking his head at one or two of the answers.
“Ms. Reilly. I believe this is the last peremptory challenge,” Milne said, waiting.
Nina asked for a moment, then went over the jury chart of their selections so far and Genevieve’s thumbnail summaries one more time. Mrs. Lim, they all agreed on. The five other women: a divorcée in her fifties who was the caretaker for her disabled adult child, a student, a mountain climber, a clerk and a housewife—they would stay. The two men, a biologist and a history teacher, did not excite her, but might be open to their arguments. Clifford Wright, they disputed, but Genevieve and Winston had won the day on him. He was definitely in. She zeroed in on the candidates who troubled her most.
“Ignacio Ybarra, age twenty-three, telephone lineman, very quiet, has a little girl but is having trouble keeping contact with her because of some bad feelings between him and her grandmother. Close to his parents and a large extended family. Likes hiking, college degree. Very religious, goes to church twice a week.” Not great.
“Kevin Dowd. Retired, early sixties, plays golf, made a fortune in investments, drinks too much, likes women too much, looking for a party.” Yuck.
“Sonny Ball, late twenties, tattoos, earrings, mostly inaudible responses, looking for work for the past three years, a couple of brushes with the law. His parents live in Oregon. They’re estranged. Paul suspects he was a dope dealer.” Horrible, but others who had taken the stand had been even worse for different reasons, and they only had six peremptories in all.
Altogether, thirteen people. One had to go. But who?
She studied the four faces, searching for clues, feeling nervous. The men looked back, offering nothing definitive. Ignacio Ybarra looked resigned. Kevin Dowd smiled, sure he was in. Sonny Ball wet his lips with his tongue and gave her a slit-eyed look that hovered somewhere between a wink and a leer.
Reed stared at her, chin tipped up, arrogant. He expected to be cut, and so disguised none of the disdain he felt for her and her client.
Let him have his wish.
“The cross-complainants will thank and excuse Mr. Reed,” Nina said. Genevieve fidgeted unhappily. She had pushed to use the last peremptory on Sonny Ball. Winston bowed his head. A sigh stretched across the courtroom. Several jurors sat back in their chairs, finally relaxing.
It took only another two hours to select two alternate jurors who would listen to the testimony but deliberate and vote only if another juror became incapacitated. Patti Zobel would be fine. She was another divorcée. Couldn’t anybody stay married up here? Was it the air or something? And Damian Peck, the other alternate, a pit boss at Harvey’s whose dentist wife made more than he did, also seemed a decent bet.
“Swear the jury,” Milne said finally, and the fourteen people in whose hands Lindy would find triumph or misfortune stood up and held up their right hands.
16
On a sun-bleached Monday in May, seven months after Mike Markov’s fateful birthday party, the time for opening statements arrived.
Hoping to avoid the media, Nina had left home early but found herself pulling into a courthouse lot already jammed with television news trucks and people swinging video cameras. Up above, in the pine trees ringing the lot, a flock of small brown birds kept up a chorus of cheeping to rival the noisy excess of the mob below. In all the cacophony and confusion, she forgot her briefcase and had to return to her car to retrieve it.
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