by John Grisham
“If you insist.”
“It’s not hopeless,” Jake said. “It’s not a good draw, but not completely hopeless.”
“I’ll bet Lanier and his boys are smiling right now.”
Portia said, “I don’t understand you guys. Why is it always black versus white? I looked at those people, those faces, and I didn’t see a bunch of hard-core racists who’ll burn the will and give everything to the other side. I saw some reasonable people out there.”
“And some unreasonable ones,” Harry Rex said.
“I agree with Portia, but we’re a long way from the final twelve. Let’s save the bickering for later.”
After the recess, the lawyers were allowed to move their chairs around to the other sides of their tables so they could stare at the panel while the panel stared right back. Judge Atlee assumed the bench without the ritual of “Please rise for the court” and began with a concise statement of the case. He said he expected the trial to last three or four days and that he certainly planned to be finished by Friday afternoon. He introduced the lawyers, all of them, but not the paralegals. Jake was alone, facing an army.
Judge Atlee explained that he would cover a few areas that had to be discussed, then he would allow the attorneys to question and probe. He began with health-anyone sick, facing treatment, or unable to sit and listen for long periods of time? One lady stood and said her husband was in the hospital in Tupelo and she needed to be there. “You are excused,” Judge Atlee said with great compassion, and she hustled out of the courtroom. Number twenty-nine, gone. Number forty had a herniated disk that had flared up over the weekend and he claimed to be in considerable pain. He was taking painkillers that made him quite drowsy. “You are excused,” Judge Atlee said.
He seemed perfectly willing to excuse anyone with a legitimate concern, but this proved not to be the case. When he asked about conflicts with work, a gentleman wearing a coat and a tie stood and said he simply could not be away from the office. He was a district manager for a company that made steel buildings, and was clearly an executive taken with his own importance. He even hinted he might lose his job. Judge Atlee’s lecture on civic responsibility lasted five minutes and scorched the gentleman. He ended with “If you lose your job, Mr. Crawford, let me know. I’ll subpoena your boss, put him on the stand here, and, well, he’ll have a bad day.”
Mr. Crawford sat down, thoroughly chastised and humiliated. There were no more efforts to skip jury duty on account of work. Judge Atlee then moved to the next issue on his checklist-prior jury service. Several said they had served before, three in state court and two in federal. Nothing about those experiences would alter their ability to deliberate in the case at hand.
Nine people claimed to know Jake Brigance. Four were former clients and they were excused. Two ladies attended the same church but felt as though that fact would not influence their judgment. They were not excused. A distant relative was. Carla’s schoolteacher friend said she knew Jake well and was too close for any objectivity. She was excused. The last was a high school pal from Karaway who admitted he hadn’t seen Jake in ten years. He was left on the panel, to be dealt with later.
Each lawyer was introduced again, with the same questions. No one knew Wade Lanier, Lester Chilcott, Zack Zeitler, or Joe Bradley Hunt, but then they were out-of-town lawyers.
Judge Atlee said, “Now, moving along, the last will and testament in question was written by a man named Seth Hubbard, now deceased, of course. Did any of you know him personally?” Two hands were timidly lifted. A man stood and said he had grown up in the Palmyra area of the county and had known Seth when they were quite a bit younger.
“How old are you, sir?” Judge Atlee asked.
“Sixty-nine.”
“You know you can claim an exemption from service if you’re above the age of sixty-five, right?”
“Yes sir, but I don’t have to, do I?”
“Oh no. If you want to serve, that’s admirable. Thank you.”
A woman stood and said she had once worked at a lumber yard owned by Seth Hubbard, but it would not be a problem. Judge Atlee gave the names of Seth’s two wives and asked if anyone knew them. A woman said her older sister had been friends with the first wife, but that had been a long time ago. Herschel Hubbard and Ramona Hubbard Dafoe were asked to stand. They smiled awkwardly at the judge and the jurors, then sat down. Methodically, Judge Atlee asked the panel if anyone knew them. A few hands went up, all belonging to old classmates from Clanton High. Judge Atlee asked each one a series of questions. All claimed to know little about the case and to be unaffected by what little knowledge they possessed.
Tedium set in as Judge Atlee went through page after page of questions. By noon, twelve of the fifty had been dismissed, all of them white. Of the thirty-eight remaining, eleven were black, not a single one of whom had lifted a hand.
During the lunch recess, the lawyers met in tense groups and debated who was acceptable and who had to be cut. They ignored their cold sandwiches while they argued over body language and facial expressions. In Jake’s office, the mood was lighter because the panel was darker. In the main conference room over at the Sullivan firm, the mood was heavier because the blacks were sandbagging. Of the eleven remaining, not one admitted to knowing Lettie Lang. Impossible in such a small county! There was obviously a conspiracy of some nature at work. Their expert consultant, Myron Pankey, had watched several of them closely during the questioning and had no doubt that they were trying their best to get on the jury. But Myron was from Cleveland and knew little about southern blacks.
Wade Lanier, though, was unimpressed. He’d tried more cases in Mississippi than the rest of the lawyers combined, and he was not concerned about the remaining thirty-eight members of the pool. In almost every trial, he hired consultants to dig into the backgrounds of the jurors, but once he saw them in the flesh he knew he could read them. And though he did not say so, he liked what he had seen that morning.
Lanier still had two great secrets up his sleeve-the handwritten will of Irene Pickering, and the testimony of Julina Kidd. To his knowledge, Jake had no idea what was coming. If Lanier managed to successfully detonate these two bombs in open court, he might just walk away with a unanimous verdict. After considerable negotiating, Fritz Pickering had agreed to testify for $7,500. Julina Kidd had jumped at the offer of only $5,000. Neither Fritz nor Julina had spoken to anyone on the other side, so Lanier was confident his ambushes would work.
So far, his firm had either spent or committed to spending just over $85,000 in litigation expenses, moneys the clients were ultimately responsible for. The cost of the case was rarely discussed, though it was always in their thoughts. While the clients were troubled by rising expenses, Wade Lanier understood the economic realities of big-time litigation. Two years earlier, his firm had spent $200,000 on a product liability case, and lost.
You roll the dice and sometimes you lose. Wade Lanier, though, was not contemplating a loss in the Seth Hubbard case.
Nevin Dark settled into a booth at the Coffee Shop with three of his new friends and ordered iced tea from Dell. All four wore white lapel buttons with the word “Juror” in bold blue letters, as if they were now officially off-limits and beyond approach. Dell had seen the same buttons a hundred times, and knew she should listen hard but ask no questions and offer no opinions.
The thirty-eight remaining jurors had been warned by Judge Atlee not to discuss the case. Since none of the four at Nevin’s table had ever met, they chatted about themselves for a few minutes while looking over the menus. Fran Decker was a retired schoolteacher from Lake Village, ten miles south of Clanton. Charles Ozier sold farm tractors for a company out of Tupelo and lived near the lake. Debbie Lacker lived in downtown Palmyra, population 350, but had never met Seth Hubbard. Since they couldn’t talk about the case, they talked about the judge, the courtroom, and the lawyers. Dell listened hard but gleaned nothing from their lunch conversation, at least nothing she could report to Jake in t
he event he stopped by later for the gossip.
At 1:15, they paid their separate checks and returned to the courtroom. At 1:30, when all thirty-eight were accounted for, Judge Atlee appeared from the rear and said, “Good afternoon.” He went on to explain that he would now continue with the selection of the jury, and he planned to do so in a manner that was somewhat unusual. Each juror would be asked to step into his chambers to be quizzed by the lawyers in private.
Jake had made this request because he assumed the jurors, as a group, knew more about the case than they were willing to admit. By grilling them in private, he was confident he could elicit more thorough responses. Wade Lanier did not object.
Judge Atlee said, “Mr. Nevin Dark, would you join us in my chambers, please?”
A bailiff showed him the way, and Nevin nervously walked past the bench, through a door, down a short hallway, and into a rather small room where everyone was waiting. A court reporter sat ready to transcribe every word. Judge Atlee occupied one end of the table and the lawyers crowded around the rest of it.
“Please remember that you’re under oath, Mr. Dark,” Judge Atlee said.
“Of course.”
Jake Brigance flashed him an earnest smile and said, “Some of these questions might be kind of personal, Mr. Dark, and if you don’t want to answer them, that’s fine. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“Do you currently have a last will and testament?”
“I do.”
“Who prepared it?”
“Barney Suggs, a lawyer in Karaway.”
“And your wife?”
“Yes, we signed them at the same time, in Mr. Suggs’s office, about three years ago.”
Without asking the specifics of their wills, Jake nibbled around the edges of the will-making process. What prompted them to prepare their wills? Do their children know what’s in the wills? How often have they changed their wills? Did they name each other as executor of their wills? Have they ever inherited anything from another will? Did he, Nevin Dark, believe a person should have the right to leave his property to anyone? To a non-family member? To charity? To a friend or employee? To cut out family members who may have fallen out of favor? Had either Mr. Dark or his wife ever considered changing their wills to exclude a person currently named as a beneficiary?
And so on. When Jake finished, Wade Lanier asked a series of questions about drugs and painkillers. Nevin Dark said he’d used them only sparingly, but his wife was a breast cancer survivor and at one time had relied on some strong medications for pain. He could not remember their names. Lanier showed genuine concern for this woman he’d never met, and poked and prodded enough to convey the message that strong painkillers taken by very sick people often cause a lapse in rational thinking. The seed was skillfully planted.
Judge Atlee was watching the clock, and after ten minutes he called time. Nevin returned to the courtroom, where everyone stared at him. Juror Number Two, Tracy McMillen, was waiting in a chair by the bench, and was quickly led to the back room, where she faced the same questioning.
Boredom hit hard and many of the spectators left. Some of the jurors napped while others read and reread newspapers and magazines. Bailiffs yawned and gazed from the large plate-glass windows overlooking the courthouse lawn. One prospective juror replaced the next in a steady parade to Judge Atlee’s chambers. Most disappeared for the full ten minutes, but a few were finished in less time. When Juror Number Eleven emerged from her interrogation, she passed the benches and headed for the door, excused from service for reasons those sitting in the courtroom would never know.
Lettie and Phedra left for a long break. As they walked down the aisle toward the double doors, they were careful to avoid glancing at the Hubbard clan, bunched together on the back row.
It was almost 6:30 when Juror Number Thirty-eight left chambers and returned to the courtroom. Judge Atlee, showing remarkable energy, rubbed his hands together and said, “Gentlemen, let’s finish this job now so we can start fresh with the opening statements in the morning. Agreed?”
Jake said, “Judge, I’d like to renew my motion for a change of venue. Now that we’ve interviewed the first thirty-eight jurors, it is apparent that, as a whole, this panel knows far too much about this case. Almost every juror was willing to admit he or she had heard something about it. This is quite unusual in a civil case.”
“Quite the contrary, Jake,” Judge Atlee said. “I thought they answered the questions well. Sure they’ve heard about the case, but almost all of them claimed to be able to keep an open mind.”
“I agree, Judge,” Wade Lanier said. “With a few exceptions, I’m impressed with the panel.”
“Motion is overruled, Jake.”
“No surprise,” Jake mumbled, just loud enough to be heard.
“Now, can we pick our jury?”
“I’m ready,” Jake said.
“Let’s go,” replied Wade Lanier.
“Very well. I’m dismissing jurors number three, four, seven, nine, fifteen, eighteen, and twenty-four for cause. Any discussion?”
Slowly, Lanier said, “Yes, Your Honor, why number fifteen?”
“He said he knew the Roston family and was deeply saddened by the deaths of their two sons. I suspect he holds a grudge against anyone with the last name of Lang.”
“He said he did not, Your Honor,” Lanier argued.
“Of course that’s what he said. I just don’t believe him. He’s excused for cause. Anyone else?”
Jake shook his head no. Lanier was angry but said nothing. Judge Atlee pressed on, “Each side has four peremptory challenges. Mr. Brigance, you must present the first twelve.”
Jake nervously scanned his notes, then slowly said, “Okay, we’ll take numbers one, two, five, eight, ten, twelve, fourteen, sixteen, seventeen, nineteen, twenty-one, and twenty-two.” There was a long pause as everyone in the room looked at their charts and made notes. Finally, Judge Atlee said, “So you struck six, thirteen, twenty, and twenty-three, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“Are you ready, Mr. Lanier?”
“Just a second, Judge,” Lanier said as he huddled with Lester Chilcott. They whispered for a while, obviously in disagreement. Jake listened hard but could not decipher anything. He kept his eyes on his notes, on his chosen twelve, knowing he could not keep them all.
“Gentlemen,” Judge Atlee said.
“Yes sir,” Lanier said slowly. “We’ll strike numbers five, sixteen, twenty-five, and twenty-seven.”
The air left the room again as every lawyer and the judge struck names from makeshift charts and moved the higher numbers up the ladder. Judge Atlee said, “So, it looks like our jury will consist of numbers one, two, eight, ten, twelve, fourteen, seventeen, nineteen, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-six, and twenty-eight. Does everyone concur?”
The lawyers shook their heads in agreement without taking their eyes from their legal pads. Ten whites, two blacks. Eight women, four men. Half had wills, half did not. Three had college degrees; seven finished high school; two did not. Median age of forty-nine, with two women in their twenties, a pleasant surprise for Jake. Overall he was pleased. On the other side of the table, Wade Lanier was too. The truth was that Judge Atlee did a fine job of eliminating those who might possibly begin deliberations with preconceived notions or prejudices. On paper, it appeared as if the extremists were gone, and the trial was left in the hands of twelve people who appeared to be open-minded.
“Let’s pick a couple of alternates,” His Honor said.
At 7:00 p.m., the new jurors gathered in the jury room and got themselves organized, according to Judge Atlee’s instructions. Because he had been the first one selected, the first name called, the first to be seated, and because he gave every indication of being an amicable type with an easy smile and kind word to all, Mr. Nevin Dark was elected foreman of the jury.
It had been a very long day, but an exciting one. As he drove home, he found himself eager to
chat with his wife over a late dinner and tell her everything. Judge Atlee had warned them against discussing the case with each other, but he didn’t say a word about spouses.
40
Lucien shuffled the deck and deftly dealt ten cards to Lonny and the same to himself. As usual now, Lonny slowly lifted his cards from the top of the folding table and took forever arranging them in his preferred order. His hands and words were slow, but his mind seemed to be clicking right along. He was up thirty points in this their fifth game of gin rummy; he’d won three of the first four. He was wearing a saggy hospital gown and an IV hung just over his head. A nicer nurse had given him permission to leave his bed and play cards in front of the window, but only after Lonny had raised his voice. He was sick and tired of the hospital and wanted to leave. But then, he really had no place to go. Only the city jail, where the food was even worse and the cops were waiting with questions. In fact, they were waiting just outside his door now. Thirty kilos of cocaine will always create problems. His new pal Lucien, who said he was a lawyer, had guaranteed him the evidence would be tossed on a motion to suppress. The cops had no probable cause to enter Lonny’s room at the flophouse. Just because a man gets hurt in a bar fight does not give the police the right to rummage through his locked living quarters. “It’s a slam dunk,” Lucien had promised. “Any half-assed criminal lawyer gets the coke thrown out. You’ll walk.”
They had talked about Seth Hubbard, with Lucien throwing in all the facts, gossip, fabrications, speculations, and rumors that had been roaring through Clanton during the past six months. Lonny claimed to be only mildly curious, but he seemed to enjoy listening. Lucien did not mention the handwritten will, nor the black housekeeper. Expansively, he recounted Seth’s amazing ten-year run from a man broken by his second nasty divorce to a high-flying risk taker who parlayed his own mortgaged property into a fortune. He described Seth’s zeal for secrecy, his offshore bank accounts and maze of corporations. He told the amazing historical anecdote of Seth’s father, Cleon, hiring Lucien’s grandfather Robert E. Lee Wilbanks to handle a land dispute in 1928. And they lost!