The plaintiff used a strike on number three, the wife of a corporate executive, and also on number four. The strategic strikes continued, and practically decimated row one. Only two jurors survived. The carnage lessened with row two, with five of the twelve surviving various challenges, two by the court itself. Seven jurors had been chosen when the selection moved to row three. Eight spots down sat the great unknown, Nicholas Easter, juror number thirty-two, who'd so far paid good attention and seemed to be somewhat palatable, though he gave both sides the jitters.
Wendall Rohr, now speaking for the plaintiff because Kotlack was deep in a hushed conference with an expert about two of the faces on row four, used a peremptory strike on number twenty-five. It was the plaintiff's ninth strike. The last one was reserved for a much-feared and notorious Republican on the fourth row, if they got that far. The defense struck number twenty-six, burning its eighth peremptory. Jurors number twenty-seven, twenty-eight, and twenty-nine were accepted. Juror number thirty was challenged by the defense for cause, a plea for the court to excuse the juror for mutual reasons without requiring either side to exhaust a strike. Durr Cable asked the court to go off the record because he had something he wished to discuss in private. Rohr was a bit perplexed, but did not object. The court reporter stopped recording. Cable handed a thin brief to Rohr and the same to His Honor. He lowered his voice, and said, "Your Honor, we have learned, through certain sources, that juror number thirty, Bonnie Tyus, is addicted to the prescription drug Ativan, She has never been treated, never been arrested, never admitted her problem. She certainly didn't disclose it on the questionnaires or during our little Q and A. She manages to live quietly, keep a job and a husband, though he's her third."
"How'd you learn this?" Harkin asked.
"Through our rather extensive investigation of all potential jurors. I assure you, Your Honor, that there has been no unauthorized contact with Mrs. Tyus."
Fitch had found it. Her second husband had been located in Nashville, where he washed tractor-trailer rigs at an all-night truck stop. For one hundred dollars cash, he'd happily told all he could remember about his ex.
"What about it, Mr. Rohr?" asked His Honor.
Without a second's hesitation, Rohr said, lying, "We have the same information, Your Honor." He cast a pleasant glance at Jonathan Kotlack, who in turn glared at another lawyer who'd been in charge of the group which included Bonnie Tyus. They'd spent over a million bucks so far on jury selection, and they'd missed this crucial fact!
"Fine. Juror number thirty is excused for cause. Back on the record. Juror number thirty-one?"
"Could we have a few minutes, Your Honor?" Rohr asked.
"Yes. But be brief."
After thirty names, ten had been selected; nine had been struck by the plaintiff, eight by the defense, and three had been excused by the court. It was unlikely the selection would reach the fourth row, so Rohr, with one strike remaining, looked at jurors thirty-one through thirty-six, and whispered to his huddled group, "Which one stinks the most?" The fingers pointed unanimously to number thirty-four, a large, mean white woman who had scared them from day one. Wilda Haney was her name, and for a month now they had all vowed to avoid Wide Wilda. They studied their master sheet a few minutes longer, and agreed to take numbers thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, and thirty-five, not all of whom were terribly attractive, but far more so than Wide Wilda.
In a denser huddle just a few feet away, Cable and his troops agreed to strike thirty-one, take thirty-two, challenge thirty-three because thirty-three was Mr. Herman Grimes, the blind man, then take thirty-four, Wilda Haney, and strike, if necessary, number thirty-five.
NICHOLAS EASTER thus became the eleventh juror selected to hear Wood v. Pynex. When the courtroom was opened at three and the panel was seated, Judge Harkin began calling out the names of the chosen twelve. They walked through the gate in the railing and took their assigned seats in the jury box. Nicholas had chair number two on the front row. At twenty-seven, he was the second youngest juror. There were nine whites, three blacks, seven women, five men, one blind. Three alternates were seated in padded folding chairs wedged tightly together in one corner of the jury box. At four-thirty, the fifteen stood and repeated their oaths as jurors. They then listened for half an hour as Judge Harkin issued a series of stern warnings to them, and to the lawyers and parties involved. Contact with the jurors of any type or manner would result in stiff sanctions, monetary penalties, maybe a mistrial, perhaps disbarment and death.
He forbade the jurors from discussing the case with anyone, even their spouses and mates, and with a cheery smile bid them farewell, a pleasant night, see you at nine sharp tomorrow morning.
The lawyers watched and wished they could leave too. But there was work to do. When the courtroom was cleared of everyone but lawyers and clerics, His Honor said, "Gentlemen, you filed these motions. Now we must argue them."
Chapter Five
Partially out of a mixture of eagerness and boredom, and partially on a hunch that someone would be waiting, Nicholas Easter slipped through the unlocked rear door of the courthouse at eight-thirty, up the seldom-used back stairs, and into the narrow hallway behind the courtroom. Most of the county offices opened at eight, so there was movement and noise to be heard on the first floor. But little on the second. He peeked into the courtroom, and found it empty of people. The briefcases had arrived and been parked haphazardly on the tables. The lawyers were probably in the back, near the coffee machine, telling jokes and preparing for battle.
He knew the turf well. Three weeks earlier, the day after he'd received his precious summons for jury duty, he had come poking around the courtroom. Finding it unused and vacant for the moment, he had explored the alleys and spaces around it; the Judge's cramped chambers; the coffee room where the lawyers gossiped while sitting on ancient tables strewn with old magazines and current newspapers; the makeshift witness rooms with folding chairs and no windows; the holding room where the handcuffed and dangerous waited for their punishment; and, of course, the jury room.
This morning, his hunch was correct. Her name was Lou Dell, a squatty woman of sixty in polyester pants and old sneakers and gray bangs in her eyes. She was sitting in the hallway by the door to the jury room, reading a battered romance and waiting for someone to enter her domain. She jumped to her feet, whipped out a sheet of paper from under her, and said, "Good morning. Can I help you?" Her entire face was one massive smile. Her eyes glowed with mischief.
"Nicholas Easter," he said, as he reached for her outstretched hand. She squeezed tightly, shook with a vengeance, and found his name on her paper. Another, larger smile, then, "Welcome to the jury room. This your first trial?"
"Yes."
"Come on" she said, virtually shoving him through the door and into the room. "Coffee and doughnuts are over here," she said, tugging at his arm, pointing to a corner. "I made these myself," she said proudly, lifting a basket of oily black muffins. "Sort of a tradition. I always bring these on the first day, call 'em my jury muffins. Take one."
The table was covered with several varieties of doughnuts arranged neatly on trays. Two coffeepots were filled and steaming. Plates and cups, spoons and forks, sugar, cream, sweeteners of several varieties. And in the center of the table were the jury muffins. Nicholas took one because he had no choice.
"Been making them for eighteen years," she said. "Used to put raisins in them, but had to quit." She rolled her eyes up at him as if the rest of the story was just too scandalous.