Juror #3(21)

“I request that prospective juror number nine be struck for cause, Your Honor.”

The judge looked at me. “Miss Bozarth?”

“I object to her exclusion. She didn’t indicate that she would be biased.”

The judge picked up a pen and marked through her name on his master list. “I think it can be assumed.” He looked at the woman and raised his voice. “Ma’am, you are excused.”

I avoided my client’s eye as I walked back to the counsel table.

When it was my turn to address the panel, I seized the opportunity to address the elephant in the room.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my client is a black man; the evidence will show he was having an affair with a white woman, and the prosecution has accused him of causing her death. Is there anyone on the panel whose judgment would be affected because my client is black and the murder victim was white?”

I held my breath as I waited for the response. After a pause, hands came up; some were forthright, some hesitant. I made a beeline to the bench and asked Baylor to excuse them all from duty. The judge let them go.

I returned to the wooden podium and said: “Ladies and gentlemen, Jewel Shaw was a native of Williams County. How many of you were friends or acquaintances of the deceased? Or know her family?”

A score of hands were raised. I followed up and asked whether it might affect their ability to serve on the jury; all of them said it would. At my request, they were struck for cause.

I took to the podium again. “I need to know: Is anyone on this panel a member of the Williams County country club? Or have you eaten at the restaurant where my client was employed?”

Many more hands went up, including prospective juror number 18, a dark-haired man whom I recognized. He was the guy with the distinctive port-wine birthmark that I’d seen at Shorty’s diner. I worked hard to knock the country club members and patrons from the panel; but while other jurors were relieved to be released from jury service, he seemed resigned to remaining on the panel.

I zeroed in on him. “Sir, you realize that all jurors in this case must be fair and impartial.”

His face was impassive. “I do.”

“And there are many people today who feel that, because they are members of that club, and have been at that venue, they can’t be fair. You have said you’ve eaten at the club many times.”

He parroted my words. “Many times.”

“And you’re aware, sir—you are under oath.”

He gave a slow blink. “I know that.”

“But you’re telling us that the fact that you’ve been at the club many times won’t affect your impartiality?”

“No. It won’t.”

“And you will base your verdict on the evidence alone?”

“I will. Yes, ma’am.”

He said everything right. But there was something about number 18 that bothered me. He seemed so bloodless about the process; it was unnatural. And he had given me the creeps back when I’d first encountered him at Shorty’s diner. I walked to the counsel table, thinking: Who in his right mind would want to sit on a sequestered jury in a murder case? I bent down and whispered to Darrien.

“Do you know him?”

He turned his head to take a good look. “Don’t think so.”

Even so, I drew a circle around number 18’s name on my legal pad. When the time came, I would use a peremptory strike to get rid of him. Because he bugged me.

But Lafayette threw me a curve.

“Your Honor, may we approach the bench?”

When I caught up to him at the bench, the DA was rattling off another list of jurors. “Your Honor, I request that the following panelists be struck for cause: numbers 32, 41, 6, 18, and 14.”

I thought I’d misunderstood. “Did you say number 18?”

Lafayette checked over his notes. “Yes. He responded to Ms. Bozarth’s question about the country club. Despite his testimony, maybe he ought to go, due to his connection to the scene of the crime.”

Judge Baylor said, “Your strikes for cause are granted—except for number 18. He stated under oath that he will base his verdict on the evidence. And Mr. Lafayette, if we eliminate everyone in Williams County who’s ever had a bite of food at the club, there won’t be enough people left in the county to seat a jury of twelve.”

The DA conceded, “Reckon you’re right about that, Judge.”

Back at the counsel table, I was torn. My impulse was to strike number 18 from the panel, but I’d learned in my trial practice class that if a juror is bad for one side, it’s good for the other. If Lafayette wanted number 18 gone, then I shouldn’t waste one of my strikes on him. Lafayette would get rid of him.

After we made our final peremptory strikes, the judge called the names of the jurors selected to decide the case. I watched them with an eagle eye. The port-wine-marked man did have a spot on the jury—as juror number 3. Some jurors looked miserable when their names were called; some received the news with resignation. But I watched number 3 as he took his seat, and he made no overt reaction. Nothing at all.

I tried to reassure myself that there was nothing really wrong with number 3. We could do worse. But he gave me a bad feeling.





Chapter 17



THOMAS LAFAYETTE’S CHAIR scraped against the tile floor with a screech as he rose to make his opening statement. A woman in the front row of the jury box grimaced and covered one ear.