by Randy Singer
Nikki’s explanation was followed by silence. Nikki knew that Bella was impressed but would try hard not to show it. She second-guessed herself for telling Bella and figured that Bella would say something to Brad first thing in the morning.
“I figured it was something like that,” Bella said.
“Haven’t you guys ever done this type of thing on your cases?” Nikki asked.
“Oh sure, we just don’t like to talk about it.”
Right.
“Gotta go,” Bella said with her usual diplomacy. Before Nikki could respond, Bella hung up.
Nikki found herself wondering how Brad’s firm ever won a case when he obviously invested no time in the investigation of jurors.
“He must be good on his feet,” she mumbled to herself as she gunned the engine of her Sebring. She was just a few short days from finding out.
25
THE SUN SMILED BRIGHTLY on the brisk October morning that greeted the first day of the trial. A cool northern breeze gently buffeted Norfolk and chased a few puffy white clouds quickly across the sky. A perfect day for protesting.
The demonstrators started arriving at 7:30 and arranged themselves neatly on the sidewalk in front of the massive stone federal building on Granby Street. On one side of the courthouse steps, and stretching down the sidewalk, were about one hundred fifty Christians from every walk of life led by the Reverend Jacob Bailey and a loyal band of prayer warriors.
While Reverend Bailey and his team prayed, others turned the vigil into a picnic, enjoying coffee and doughnuts and all sorts of other fast-food breakfast treats. They did have a few signs, mostly quoting Bible verses like John 3:16 or urging the court to “Stop the Torture.” And at precisely 8 a.m., when the national morning news audiences peaked, they all stopped eating and joined Reverend Bailey in spontaneous prayer for persecuted Christians everywhere.
On the other side of the steps was a group of about eighty Muslims, there to support the freedom of the Saudi people to choose their own religion, free from Western interference. These protesters stayed entertained by a barrage of rhetoric from a small group of fiery leaders. Occasionally, they would break into chants, goading the more docile protesters on the other side of the steps. The press congregated with the Muslims, who tended to give more passionate interviews that lent themselves to better sound bites.
Not fitting into either group, but determined to exercise their First Amendment rights on such an important occasion, were a handful of miscellaneous protesters representing a half-dozen other causes. By far the most colorful of the bunch was the gentleman in a well-worn, bright yellow chicken suit carrying a sign that read “Jesus was a vegetarian.” Most assumed he was with the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, and everyone gave him plenty of space as he roamed the sidewalks, goose-stepping so that he would not trip over his own large webbed feet.
As usual, the media seemed to outnumber the folks they were covering, and the reporters had the best seats in the house. Cameramen, talking heads, and a bevy of print reporters dominated the sidewalk directly in front of the courthouse. Local and national news trucks, with satellite dishes on top, jammed the streets.
At precisely 8:30, a black stretch limo arrived in front of the courthouse steps carrying Ahmed Aberijan and Frederick Barnes. Barnes parted the way for his infamous cohort, and Ahmed looked perplexed at all the English-speaking journalists who shoved microphones under his nose and shouted questions.
Mack Strobel, Winsted Mackenzie, and several of their partners arrived next, each carrying only one small briefcase. The associates from Kilgore & Strobel had already hauled neatly numbered boxes of documents and exhibits into the courtroom. Mackenzie stopped at the top of the steps for an impromptu press conference. Mack and the others stood and watched for a moment, unsmiling, then slipped into the courthouse.
“Will the defense claim that Dr. and Mrs. Reed were drug dealers?”
“We won’t just claim it, we’ll prove it.”
“Will anyone from the Saudi Arabian government testify, such as the crown prince?”
“Mr. Aberijan will testify. There will be no need for others.”
And on it went, endless questions and answers. Mackenzie willingly obliged the media with regard to any question, regardless of how trivial, as long as the cameras were rolling.
* * *
At 8:45, Win lost his audience when Sarah Reed’s team made its appearance. Unlike the chauffeured defense team, they parked two blocks from the courthouse and carted large briefcases and boxed documents up the street with them. Bella cleared the way and took no prisoners. Sarah walked between Leslie and Nikki.
As the only male in the group, Brad felt obligated to bring up the rear and pull the heavy dolly containing three large boxes of documents that would not fit into the briefcases. He struggled mightily as he yanked the dolly up the courthouse steps, feeling like a clumsy errand boy and not at all like a top-rate legal eagle prepared to handle a major case.
True to Murphy’s Law, as he reached the second to last step, the top box wiggled out from under the bungee cord holding it in place and fell hard on the steps, regurgitating pleadings, exhibits, and deposition transcripts at the feet of the startled press corps.
What a way to make an impression on the morning news!
Brad smiled sheepishly and muttered the first thing that came into his mind: “Better not quit my day job.” It sounded stupid, and he immediately wished he could take it back.
And then, to Brad’s astonishment, he watched as reporters, cameramen, and protesters all leaned down to scoop up the documents and place them back into the miscreant box. Brad thanked them with a brief press conference, then carefully, ever so carefully, wheeled his documents into the courthouse and passed them through the metal detector.
He caught up with the rest of the team in the elevator and immediately noticed that the color was gone from Leslie’s face.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, out of breath from his work as the team’s pack mule.
“We’re in Courtroom No. 1,” Leslie whispered, “the Honorable Cynthia Baker-Kline presiding.”
* * *
A hush fell over the spacious courtroom on the second floor of the court building as everyone rose to their feet. Judge Cynthia Baker-Kline entered through a large oak door several feet behind her bench, her long black robe flowing behind her. Her fury was evident in the speed of her stride, the pursing of her lips, and the slits of her eyes. She arrived at the bench, glowered at Brad, then turned her stare to those standing across the back of the crowded courtroom. The nostrils on her long nose moved quickly in and out, like a bull preparing for the charge.
Ichabod was firmly in control.
“Oyez, oyez, oyez. Silence is now commanded while this honorable court is in session. All those with pleas to enter and matters to be argued step forward, and you shall be heard. May God save the United States of America and this honorable court.”
“May God save us all,” Brad muttered quietly to himself.
“May God grant us wisdom and allow us to glorify Him,” Brad heard Sarah whisper.
“You may be seated,” Ichabod snarled.
She leaned forward and glared down at counsel.
“Gentlemen,” she barked, “I am about to bring in the jury panel so that we can begin the selection process. This is an important case, and the world is watching.” She turned directly to Brad, narrowing her eyes. “I’ll expect you both to comport yourselves like officers of the court.”
A warning shot across the bow.
Brad nodded with all the solemnity he could muster.
* * *
“I do have a few questions for Mr. Robertson, Your Honor.” Strobel rose confidently and approached the jury box to question juror number three, the first Baptist to be interviewed. Strobel straightened to his full height, buttoned the top button on his blue pin-striped suit, and began by graciously introducing himself and his client. Even Brad had to admit that Strobel c
ut an imposing figure, authority oozing from every pore.
He stood directly in front of juror number three, just a few feet from the jury box, thereby blocking Brad’s view of the nervous juror. Brad assumed the block was intentional and slouched to his left in his chair so he could watch the juror’s face.
“Are you a regular churchgoin’ man?” Strobel asked in his best common man’s vernacular. He undoubtedly knew the answer. So did Brad. According to Nikki, juror number three was a faithful member of Sandbridge Baptist Church. He had scored an eight on Brad’s scale.
“Yes, sir, I try to be,” Robertson admitted, looking sheepish.
“Where do you attend?”
“Sandbridge Baptist Church on Shore Drive.”
“That church is pretty committed to mission work, isn’t it?” Strobel said it like he’d heard of the church before.
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“And, as a Baptist church, your congregation contributes to the Cooperative Program, which in turn helps support Baptist missionaries all over the world. Isn’t that the way it works?”
Robertson appeared perplexed, his face flushed. He probably didn’t have a clue how his church did its mission work. But how could he admit that to some pagan big-city lawyer?
“I . . . s-suppose that’s pretty much the way it works,” Robertson stammered.
“So, in a very real way, you and your church help to financially support every Baptist missionary who’s sent out, correct?”
“I . . . I guess so.”
“Well, do you give money to the church?”
“Oh yes, sir. Baptists are taught to tithe.”
“And does some of that money go to the Cooperative Program?”
“That’s my understanding.”
“And missionary salaries are paid in part from the Cooperative Program?”
“I believe that’s correct.”
“And by the way, you also pray for these Baptist missionaries almost every day, don’t you?”
A pained expression jumped on Mr. Robertson’s face before he could suppress it. Brad could tell the poor guy probably didn’t know the name of a single Baptist missionary and certainly hadn’t thought to pray for them in quite some time.
“Probably not as much as I should, but I try.”
Brad decided it was time to make some friends on the jury panel.
“I object, Your Honor,” Brad said loudly. “Mr. Robertson isn’t on trial here.”
Strobel turned on his heels and gave Brad one of his steel-melting stares.
“You can’t object to a question about the juror’s background,” Ichabod said. “Overruled.”
Brad looked past Strobel and into the eyes of Robertson, sensing he had made a friend.
Strobel turned back to the juror. “Thank you, Mr. Robertson, for your honesty in answering these questions.” Strobel then turned to the judge. “May we approach the bench, Your Honor?”
Ichabod nodded.
Strobel and three lawyers from his firm huddled in front of Ichabod’s bench, as did Brad and Leslie.
“I move to strike juror three for cause,” Strobel whispered. “The man has a financial and emotional stake in missionaries all over the world. How could he possibly be unbiased?”
“I could see that coming from a mile away,” Ichabod replied. “Any objections, Mr. Carson?”
“Of course I object, Judge. Striking this juror for a religious reason violates the principles set forth by the U.S. Supreme Court in Batson.”
“I’m not asking the court to strike him because he’s Baptist,” Strobel whispered. “Sarah Reed’s not Baptist. But through his church, this juror gives his hard-earned dollars to missionaries all over the world who are similar to Sarah Reed. Asking him to ignore that would be impossible.”
“Can’t I at least ask him some questions to prove he can be fair?” Brad raised his voice so the jury could hear. He wanted the panel to know he trusted their ability to be fair and that his opponent was secretly trying to get them dismissed.
“Keep your voice down,” Ichabod insisted in a loud whisper. She gave Brad a chastising look, then lowered her own voice. “Now, we have several well-qualified jurors on this panel. Some are probably Christian, some are probably Muslim, and some probably put their faith in their morning coffee. That makes no difference to me. But I’m not going to allow someone to poison the panel when I see a potential bias, no matter how tenuous, in favor of one of the parties in this case.”
Brad opened his mouth to argue the point, but he was stopped by the judge’s outstretched hand. “I’ve ruled, Mr. Carson. If you don’t like my ruling, you can take it up with the appeals court when this case is over. Now, counsel may return to their seats.”
The other lawyers turned and walked away. Brad lingered and stared at the judge momentarily. Then he shook his head and slowly sulked back to his seat.
“Mr. Robertson, you are excused from service,” Ichabod announced. “Thank you for your time and forthright answers. You are free to go.”
* * *
At the end of the second day, Judge Baker-Kline swore in the jury charged with deciding the case of Reed v. Ahmed Aberijan and Eight John Does. Because of the procedural peculiarities of the Foreign Sovereign Immunities Act, Judge Baker-Kline herself would simultaneously render a verdict in the case of Reed v. Saudi Arabia.
Brad surveyed his jury—the jury that would decide the most important case of his career—with a growing sense of despondency. His model juror was nowhere to be found. One by one, Strobel had knocked out all the self-confessed mission supporters for cause. Then, with his preemptory challenges, Strobel eliminated three more jurors who had scored high on Brad’s rating scale, including two churchgoing ethnics who had each earned a nine.
Of the seven jurors who would actually decide the case, there were only two minorities. One was an African American male who had not seen the inside of a church in years. The other was a female Hispanic who claimed to be Catholic but had trouble remembering the name of her church.
One Muslim left on the panel would serve as the first alternate. Despite Nikki’s urgings to the contrary, Brad had refused to strike him. Any grounds for appeal based on Strobel’s religiously discriminatory strikes would be worthless if Brad engaged in the same type of conduct.
As he prepared to leave the courtroom after the second day of jury selection, Brad studied the jury and alternates one last time, then glanced sideways at his client. Sarah the single mom, Sarah the missionary, Sarah the on-fire evangelical Christian was about to have her case judged by a jury of her “peers” that contained six men and three women, and only one person who looked even remotely like her. And that juror sat at the end of the last row, where she would view the trial as the second alternate.
* * *
Strobel regarded this jury as a coup. He had eliminated almost all of the Holy Rollers and outspoken minorities. He had a bad feeling about juror number four, but Ahmed had been adamant that juror four be left on the jury. In the huddle around the counsel table, Ahmed, through a translator, said he had inside information about the juror that could not be shared with the legal team. Whatever else Strobel did, it was imperative that he leave juror number four securely in place.
* * *
The protesters were out with a passion at the end of day two. Despite the steady drizzle, the ranks of the Christians had swelled to several hundred. News that the defendants were striking evangelicals right and left had ignited the sidewalks. Now outspoken pastors matched the fiery speeches given by Muslim leaders. As the crowd noise and fervency grew, the Reverend Bailey and his band of prayer warriors moved a half block away so that they could petition God in relative solitude.
Unlike the calm that greeted the participants as they exited the courthouse after the first day, the respective crowds erupted in cheers as their favorites emerged on day two. Even Bella had to smile as the Christian demonstrators assured Sarah she was in their prayers.
The escalating
tensions delighted the man in the chicken suit, a veteran of many high-profile trials. He predicted that soon T-shirt vendors and other hawkers would start selling paraphernalia for both sides. A fight or two would likely break out, especially if the right-wing Christian militia groups could be enticed to enter the fray. It promised to be an exciting month on the sidewalks of Granby Street.
26
“SARAH, YOU’RE READY,” Leslie pronounced. “The main thing now is to get some sleep.”
They had been at it four straight hours, from 6:30 to 10:30, using a clean end of the conference table as a makeshift witness stand. Leslie popped questions; Sarah responded; then Leslie critiqued Sarah’s responses. Sarah’s willingness to accept the criticism and carefully respond with another variation of the same basic answer amazed Leslie.
“Are you sure?” Sarah still sounded unconvinced. “Can’t we go through the events on the night of Charles’s death one more time?”
“Sarah, we’ve been through it three times already. If we do it again, it will sound like you’ve memorized it.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
Leslie stifled a yawn and started packing her notes. The adrenaline from another day in court had long since seeped out of her body, taking every ounce of her energy with it.
“Leslie, I want you to level with me, okay?” Sarah looked up and waited for a promise.