Juror #3(22)

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I’d like to thank you in advance for your service in court. This will not be an easy task for any of you. The defendant, Darrien Summers,” he said, turning toward my client with a glare, “has been charged with the crime of murder in the first degree.”

Darrien twisted in his seat, shooting a desperate look at the jury. I reached out and placed a hand on his arm.

Lafayette swung back to face the jury. “This is what the evidence will show.”

In his opening statement, the DA began by setting up the facts: the date and location of offense, the Mardi Gras ball at the Williams County country club, where, he said pointedly, Jewel Shaw was a member and the defendant was an employee.

Then he launched into a eulogy on Jewel Shaw’s behalf, detailing her background and accomplishments. When he had been talking for ten minutes straight and had only arrived at her sophomore year in college, I stood up.

“Objection.”

The judge looked down in surprise. “On what grounds?”

“Your Honor, this extended biography of the deceased is irrelevant. The purpose of opening statement is to tell the jury what the evidence will show…” I paused and added, “the evidence against my client, Mr. Summers.”

The judge glanced at Lafayette. “Sir?”

“I’ll tie it up, Judge.”

“All right, then. Overruled.”

He banged his gavel. I sat down.

Lafayette walked up to the jury box. “Funny thing, the defense trying to prevent me from talking to y’all about Jewel Shaw, the beautiful young woman who was brutally murdered that night. Jewel was found dead in a cabana at the country club, with thirteen stab wounds in her. A man was discovered, crouching over her in that cabana with Jewel Shaw’s blood on his hands and all over his clothes. Who was that man? Ladies and gentlemen, he’s sitting in this courtroom today: it’s the defendant.”

Then he pointed the finger of accusation at my client. I wanted to glance at Darrien, see how he was holding up, but I didn’t dare to look his way. It might look like we had something to hide.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you’ll be wondering—because I know what you’re thinking—what was a waiter doing with Miss Shaw in her daddy’s cabana at the club? The evidence will show that, too. The defendant had been sexually abusing her over and over again.”

“That’s a lie!”

Darrien was halfway out of his chair as he spoke the words. It took all my strength to grasp his arm with both hands and jerk him down into his seat. Then I jumped up.

“Objection! Your Honor, the prosecution is misstating the evidence. And the DA is making argumentative allegations in opening statement.…” I paused, hoping to frame a brilliant follow-up. Nothing came to mind.

“Overruled,” Judge Baylor said, his voice stern. “The defense will have the opportunity to speak in defendant’s opening.” Judge Baylor pointed his gavel at me. “And Miss Bozarth, inform your client that I will not tolerate any further outbursts.”

Returning to my seat, I leaned in to Darrien. “Darrien, you can’t do that. Don’t jump out of your chair, don’t say anything. Just talk through me.”

His eyes were frantic. “They’re lying about me.”

“We’ll fix it, when they see the pictures. Calm down, act cool. Shouting out like that doesn’t help. Think about what you learned in your criminology classes.”

After a long pause, he nodded and settled back into his chair. I turned my attention to the jury. As Lafayette continued his description of the evidence—the slashes in the dress, Darrien’s bloodstained jacket, the text sent from Jewel to Darrien, and the pictures of their sexual exploits—my spirits sank. The jurors were eyeing the defense table with increasing suspicion. When he described the coroner’s report, and said the medical examiner would show the location of all thirteen wounds, the suspicion turned to anger. The jurors only broke eye contact with the DA to glare at Darrien. Or to glare at me.

The oldsters on the panel, half a dozen men and women with gray hair, had already convicted Darrien in their minds. I scanned the faces of the younger jurors, searching for some holdouts upon whom I might focus my advocacy. A woman in her thirties looked distressed but uncertain; she might listen to me. The lone black juror’s face was solemn. And then, there was juror number 3, the man with the birthmark.

Maybe I stared at him too long; maybe I sent him a vibe. His eyes cut away from Lafayette and met mine.

He blinked twice, without expression.

Leaning forward in my seat, I tried to make a silent bid for his support.

His mouth twitched and he looked away, refocusing on the prosecutor.

I clenched the arms of my chair. Was he laughing at me?

“Miss Bozarth?”

I looked up. The judge was addressing me. Had I not heard him?

“Yes, Your Honor?”

“The district attorney has finished his opening. Do you wish to give your statement now, or reserve it for later?”

I stood and gazed at the closed and suspicious faces of our jurors. If I spoke now, I might be able to win some of them back. But to do so, I’d have to tip my hand, and reveal my trial strategy to Lafayette.

I swallowed. “Your Honor, we’ll reserve it. For later.”

The judge checked his watch. “We’ll recess. Court will reconvene in twenty minutes.” He struck the gavel.