by Ray Flynt
Shortly after 8 a.m. Brad passed through security into the Montgomery County Courthouse with its striking Greek architecture. He reported to the jury marshalling room, where a smiling and efficient staffer compared the name and address on his summons to his driver’s license. She then handed him a plastic badge to hold the tear-off portion of his summons identifying him as a juror—even though he was only a prospective one.
He thought about how Martin Tetlow had gone through a similar process, and that exercising a civic duty had apparently cost him his life. Brad also contemplated how, if law enforcement had not found Tetlow’s killer seventeen years earlier, he could possibly solve the case.
The marshalling room, which could hold almost two hundred people on cushioned red chairs, was already one-third full when he entered. He took a seat in the back row and people-watched. Most occupied themselves with paperbacks or e-readers, while a few listened to music on iPods. Brad guessed those folks had been through the drill before and were prepared for the wait, and wished he’d brought his Kindle.
A woman sat next to him, and promptly pulled a plastic crochet hook and colorful yarn from her bag. “I’m making booties for my grandson,” she announced.
Brad smiled. As people began standing at the edge of the room, he commented, “I’m surprised how many people are here.”
“It’s because of that murder trial,” the crocheting woman said matter-of-factly.
Brad had spent the previous week in New York City with his fiancée and had gotten behind on local news.
The woman never missed a stitch as she added, “That guy from Haverford; the one who killed his wife and stuffed her in a freezer in the garage.”
Brad snapped his head in her direction, and she gave him a knowing look, complete with raised eyebrows and pursed lips.
Where had he been that he hadn’t heard of that case? It bothered him to feel out of touch. Montgomery County, with 800,000 residents, had the third largest population in Pennsylvania. While he didn’t expect to know about every homicide in the county, Haverford was just a short commuter train stop from Bryn Mawr.
Shortly after 8:30 a.m., Patty, the marshalling room supervisor, stood at a podium and welcomed everyone. She shared logistical information regarding the location of restrooms and vending machines, and noted that if called to a courtroom to be part of a jury panel, cell phones, reading material, and electronic devices would have to be checked in a nearby cloakroom. She explained—to audible snickers—that jurors were paid $9 per day for their service. Those who wished could donate their juror pay to one of three charities. Brad decided to designate his for the Women’s Center of Montgomery County, a program specializing in services for victims of domestic violence.
A woman whom Brad recognized as Judge Sarah Stennet walked into the room. She wore a lavender suit and a white blouse with a ruffled collar. He’d testified in front of her a few months earlier and had been impressed by her temperament and control of the proceedings. Patty spotted the judge, called her over to the podium, and introduced the gray-haired, sixty-something jurist as one of twenty-three judges on the county’s Court of Common Pleas.
“Good morning, everyone,” Judge Stennet said, and a few murmurs of “Good morning” rippled back at her. “On behalf of my fellow judges, thank you for your service. Being a juror isn’t just a civic responsibility, it is essential to ensure that our criminal justice system works. You may have heard that expression the wheels of justice turn slowly. I want to assure you that even now, our system is at work. Upstairs, judges are considering motions from attorneys.
“Sometimes, when faced with a trial, a defendant in a criminal case will decide to plead guilty, or the parties in a civil case will agree on a settlement. If that is true for the panel to which you are assigned, then you’ll get to go home. But your very presence is critical to our process, like those words from a Milton sonnet: ‘He also serves who only stands and waits.’ If this is your first time as a juror, we hope you find the experience interesting and educational. If anyone has questions, I’d be happy to take them.”
A man in the front row, voice booming, said, “Do I talk with you about getting excused?”
Laughter erupted.
Judge Stennet smiled, but offered a serious reply, looking directly at the man. “If you come up to my courtroom you can speak with me about it at the appropriate time. If not, you’ll need to speak with the judge in the courtroom where you are assigned.” She scanned the crowd and asked, “Other questions?”
A young blonde, with strawberry-streaked hair, directly in front of Brad, raised her hand. “Will our names be on television?” the woman asked in a soft voice. Brad thought she looked nervous, and could see that she bit her nails.
Judge Stennet repeated the question and said, “No. Your service is anonymous. Even the attorneys in each case, who’ll see your responses to the juror information questionnaire, only have your juror number for identification. And as Patty has probably already pointed out to you, it is important for you to wear your juror badge at all times.”
The young woman seemed to relax after being assured that her name would not appear in the news media, and Brad wondered what set of circumstances had prompted her concern.
“Any other questions?” Judge Stennet asked. After glancing right and left she said, “Well, once again, thank you for your service.”
A smattering of applause broke out as the judge left the marshalling room.
Staff brought a few folding chairs into the room for the benefit of those who were standing, while Patty stood at the podium and said, “We have a fifteen-minute video that describes jury service. After that, we’ll begin sending juror panels to courtrooms.”
The video was projected onto a large screen at the front of the room, while TV monitors on either side played a captioned version. Larry Kane narrated the video. A former news broadcaster, Larry was the perfect local celebrity to introduce the process, including juror dos and don’ts. It had obviously been filmed inside the courthouse, and Brad recognized several members of the jury commission’s staff playing jurors in the film.
Brad’s mind wandered, since he already knew most of what was presented in the video. He glanced at his watch, and hoped Sharon had been able to connect with Nick Argostino to discuss the Martin Tetlow murder.
The video ended and Patty returned to the podium. “We’re ready for jury panel C30. Everyone with that sub-panel number on their badge, please line up in the hallway.”
Brad checked, and his number was L60. He watched as the panel got in position and then marched off.
The din grew in the marshalling room, and people became more comfortable milling about as they awaited word on whether they were headed for a courtroom or released to go home. Brad stretched his legs, visited the men’s room, and returned in time to hear his sub-panel number called and that they’d been assigned to a criminal case.
He and his fellow juror panelists were lined up in numerical order and given laminated 8 by 10 cards with their numbers. After a reminder that no cell phones, reading material or electronic devices were allowed in the courtroom, a flurry of people broke line, Brad included, and checked those items in the cloakroom.
Tipstaff, officers of the court assigned to shepherd the jurors, led the panel to elevators where they boarded in groups of ten for the trip two levels up to Courtroom A. They filed onto wooden benches on either side of a center aisle in the county’s largest courtroom. Brad was prospective juror number 4, which landed him in the middle of the first row on the right-hand side. Next to him sat the man who’d already signaled his desire to get out of jury service. At the opposite end of the bench he saw the young woman who’d asked about anonymity.
He’d only been in that courtroom once before, at the swearing-in of a man who became the president judge and who’d been a longtime friend of his dad. Today, he viewed it through fresh eyes. Shoulder-high oak paneling lined the walls above which Corinthian pilasters stretched toward the eighteen
- foot-high ceilings, and between them were portraits of the county’s current judges. Eight, two-tiered, bronze-colored chandeliers hung from the ceiling.
The business end of the courtroom occupied a third of the space, with a sturdy wooden railing separating it from the area where prospective jurors now sat. The remaining benches, in the rear, were filled with spectators. In front of them were two tables where the prosecution and defense teams sat. Their backs were to him, so he couldn’t recognize anyone.
Eleven people were already seated in the jury box, so this wasn’t the first day of jury selection. They only needed a final juror—plus alternates—to complete the panel.
Brad heard a buzzer, and the court crier stood and said with the voice and demeanor of a retired drill sergeant, “All rise, please.” The room fell silent after everyone stood. As a black-robed judge made his way to the bench, the crier intoned, “Oyez, oyez, oyez, all manner of persons having business to come before the Honorable Judges of the Court of Common Pleas, in and for the County of Montgomery here holden this day, let them come forth and appear and they shall be heard. God save the Commonwealth and this Honorable Court. The Honorable F. Solomon Whitaker presiding. All be seated.”
Whitaker peered out at the crowd, glanced toward those already in the jury box, and appeared to savor the moment. He had a narrow face, deep set eyes, and parted his dark brown hair on the left side. Peeking from beneath his black robe was a white shirt collar and wide-knotted blue necktie.
Brad didn’t know the judge personally, but seven years earlier had supported Whitaker’s challenger, Ken Hannas, in his race for judge in the Court of Common Pleas. Election was tantamount to a lifetime appointment, since judges served an initial ten-year term, after which voters are asked if they should be retained for an additional ten-years. Loss of a retention election was rare.
Brad recalled that Whitaker had been named Francis in honor of St. Francis of Assisi by his Roman Catholic father and Solomon by his Jewish mother. Whitaker had gone by Frank most of his life, including in his law practice, but his printed campaign posters were blazoned with the slogan “The Wisdom of Solomon.” Brad’s friend had lost the election by three percent.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Whitaker said. “Today is the third day of jury selection in the case of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania versus David Nesbit. Mr. Nesbit is charged with first-degree murder in the death of his wife.”
Brad turned and looked across the aisle where he spotted Crochet Lady, who’d seemed conversant on the details of this case. She flashed him an I-told-you-so grin.
“As you can see, we’ve already seated eleven jurors in this case, and I’m confident,” Judge Whitaker threw a stern look at the attorneys’ tables, “that we’re going to seat our final juror and four alternates today, hopefully this morning.
“First, I’d like to introduce the principals in the case, and ask them to stand and face the new panel of prospective jurors. At the table to my right are Diane Cunningham and Jeffrey Holbrooke, both from the District Attorney’s office. They’ll be presenting the case on behalf of the Commonwealth.” Diane looked to be about Sharon’s age of early- to mid-30s, and with a similar short curly hair style, except that the prosecutor had brown hair versus Sharon’s auburn. Jeffrey, an African-American, barely looked old enough to be out of law school.
“To my left,” the judge aimed a finger at the defense table, “is Shane Asher, counsel for the defendant.” Asher stood along with others at his table, and nodded amiably. He had gray hair at his temples and wore a three-piece suit with a red tie and matching pocket handkerchief.
“Next to Mr. Asher,” the judge continued, “is the defendant, Mr. Nesbit, and they are joined by Wendy Largen, who is assisting with the jury selection process.”
David Nesbit towered over his counsel, with a physique like a power forward for the Philadelphia 76ers. His head was shaved with perhaps two days of dark stubble showing, and he wore a brown suit and gold tie over a cream-colored shirt. His skin looked pale. Murder defendants seldom made bail, and Brad wondered how long he’d been held in the county jail. The defendant smiled during his introduction, with a demeanor that reminded Brad of Mark Twain’s line: The supreme confidence of a Christian with four aces.
The fact that the defense had hired a jury consultant to sweeten their odds of finding jurors who’d provide an acquittal might be one of those aces; they don’t come cheap.
“Now that you’ve met the principals, I’m going to ask if any of you are related by blood to the defendant or counsel. If so, just hold your juror number above your head.”
The prosecution and defense repositioned their chairs so that they now sat on the opposite side of the table and scanned the jury pool.
After no response to his first question, Whitaker said, “Is there anyone here that personally knows any of these individuals? I don’t mean recognition from having seen them on television, but have a personal friendship, business relationship or acquaintance.” The judge scanned the courtroom and said, “I see we have affirmative responses from numbers 7 and 42. The two of you are dismissed and may return to the jury marshalling room to sign out.”
Number 7, at the end of Brad’s row, was the strawberry blonde who’d inquired about remaining anonymous. She gazed at Brad briefly as she stood. He thought she looked relieved, and watched as she scurried from the courtroom.
“We expect this trial to last approximately two weeks,” Whitaker announced, to an audible intake of breath from prospective jurors. “I’m sure that many of you are thinking about Thanksgiving being a week from Thursday. No matter what stage of the trial we are in at that point, we’ve agreed to give jurors off from 2 p.m. on the 21st through the holiday weekend.”
Jurors rustled in their seats.
The judge asked the clerk, who was seated on a raised platform directly in front of the judge’s bench, to read a list of potential witnesses. Whitaker then requested jurors to indicate by raising their number if they were related to, or had a friendship, business relationship or acquaintance with any person on the list. Brad had professional dealings with two of the people on the list, Sergeant John Cordes of the Lower Merion Police Department and Tamarai Sharma, a pathologist for the Montgomery County Coroner’s Office, and dutifully raised his number. He now had three strikes against him for jury service. It was nearly 10:30 a.m. and Brad figured he would catch up with Sharon by lunchtime. At least two others indicated they knew persons on the witness list, and Brad could see counsel making notes, but there were no moves to dismiss anyone.
“We have two more questions for the group,” Judge Whitaker said. “Please indicate by raising your number if you or a member of your family has been the victim of a violent crime.”
Brad held the number 4 over his head. Violent crime had propelled his life on a different trajectory—he liked to think, a positive one. He’d been so wrapped up in his own thoughts, he didn’t notice how many others had raised their hands.
The judge leaned forward on the bench, clasping his hands in front of him. “Next, we want to know if there are any of you for which jury service would represent a hardship. Before you answer, please understand that there is a difference between inconvenience and hardship. For example, if you own two cars, and one of them is broken, that’s an inconvenience. If neither car works, that’s a hardship. If you request to be excused based on a hardship, we’ll be asking you for the specifics. You may respond by raising your number.”
Brad chuckled at the commotion caused by multiple jurors hoisting their numbers. Three of the six people on his bench had their hands raised, and across the aisle he saw four more. Attorneys furiously copied numbers. The judge didn’t look happy.
“We’re going to take our morning break,” Whitaker announced. “We need to conduct business in chambers, and we’ll plan to resume our session at ten minutes after eleven. Jurors are reminded not to discuss the case or allow it to be discussed in their presence. Would the following prospe
ctive jurors please stay: Numbers 4, 17, 26, and 40. Court is in recess.”
The judge stood, and people bolted for the doors.
Brad looked around, seeing two women and one man who remained in the courtroom. Their faces showed a mix of curiosity and apprehension, or maybe Brad read more into it since that’s the way he felt.
3
Brad watched as the defendant, prosecutors and defense team paraded past the witness stand and followed Judge Whitaker into chambers. What’s that about?
He leaned back and stared at the thick double-moldings that ringed the courtroom’s ceiling, and wondered how many hours it took craftsmen to create the elaborate egg and dart carvings. His thoughts drifted to the progress Sharon might be making on Rachel Tetlow’s case. He wasn’t worried about her abilities. A seventeen-year-old case would require a lot of tenacity to dig up the truth, and Sharon had tenacity in spades.
“Juror number four.” Brad had zoned out. He heard the clerk say it a second time before he realized she meant him.
“Yes?”
“Judge Whitaker would like to see you in chambers,” she said. “You can follow me.”
They traced the same path the attorneys had taken earlier.
The clerk opened the door and directed Brad to a chair facing the judge. Prosecution and defense counsel sat on opposite sides of his desk, while a sheriff’s deputy stood behind the defendant.
Before the clerk left, she asked Brad to place his left hand on a Bible, raise his right hand and take an oath to tell the truth.
“We’ve asked you here,” Whitaker began, “because you responded in the affirmative on the question of whether you or a family member had ever been the victim of a violent crime. We normally conduct voir dire in the courtroom, but on this question, in deference to juror privacy we brought you into chambers.”