"No offense," says Harry. "But if I were defending, I would swing for a panel of your people every time. The last time they voted conviction was at the Inquisition," he says.
"I don't think so," says Acosta. "It is true there is an ethnic factor, " he says. "But there is something about her I do not like." It is the thing about juries. There are as many theories as there are lawyers to produce them.
Ordinarily I would not expect the defendant to play an active role in the selection of jurors. But the facts that Acosta is trained in the law and has a vital stake here make it necessary for him to participate. It has me wondering if in doing this we are not merely spreading the accountability for a bad result.
"Could we have just one more moment, Your Honor?" Lenore says to Radovich.
"Take your time," he says. "I want you to be happy with this jury," he tells us.
If that's the case, Acosta has a few hundred relatives in the hallway outside who would be happy to join the jury.
"Come on, guys, I need a decision," says Lenore.
"Lookie here," Harry whispers, lips barely moving, "she has a history of drugs." Like a car salesman pitching the fact that his model has air conditioning.
Acosta hasn't seen this in the profile, more personal information than a juror usually discloses.
Harry points it out to him. "No convictions, but to listen to her therapist, she's a cognitive basket case, some shrink's lifetime meal ticket," Harry hisses.
"Maybe I have misjudged the woman," says Acosta. This is the only place on earth where flirting with a criminal background is a positive reference.
I read the profile more carefully. Ramirez got hooked on cocaine in her late twenties, buying from a friend at work. She nicked her employer on a disability claim on her way out the door. At thirty-seven, she has been receiving supplemental Social Security benefits for eleven years, on the social fiction that self-induced drugs are a disability on the order of Parkinson's disease. She lives in a group home, owned by a therapist who apparently tells her she will never recover, at least not until the government largesse runs out. Last year, largely on the political drag of her therapist and the drug culture's circle of benevolence, Ramirez was appointed to a county commission and now serves as the local "drug czarina" of Capital County, where she makes public policy for other addicts. For this she is given a county car and a small stipend to go along with her perennial SSI. Upward mobility on the public dole.
"She's our perfect juror," says Harry.
"On its face," I tell him. "But I am troubled as to why anyone would disclose this kind of lurid information unless they had to."
"Why don't you ask her?" says Lenore.
It's a tricky point, sensitive materials picked over in front of the other jurors. And yet we cannot just ignore it. Lenore gives me a gesture, as if to say, "Be my guest," and sits down. 3 Mrs. Ramirez sits near the center of the jury box, in the second row. The courtroom is full, mostly other prospective jurors waiting their turn in the tumbler as we bounce their predecessors.
I; There is one row for press. This is mostly empty. Jury selection wasn't rate heavy coverage. In the back row, Lili Acosta sits by herself. elderly man and woman are across the aisle from her, flanked by a younger man. I am told that this is Brittany Hall's mother, father, and younger brother, here to see that justice is done.
Like most things with this judge, Radovich does voir dire in his own way. For this trial, because of the early publicity, he has called five hundred prospective jurors. Our first meeting was in a county auditorium, where Radovich asked some preliminary questions, what people saw and thought they knew. He weeded out nearly two hundred souls, including a woman whose husband had been cited downtown in a prostitution sting. It is unknown whether she would have hanged the police for their efforts, or Acosta for being so stupid. Radovich didn't care.
"Mrs. Ramirez, how are you today?" I ask her.
"Fine." She smiles, no toothy grin, but businesslike. She may be in her late thirties, but looks older. She is slender and small, a kind of Latin pixie with wavy dark hair pulled back by a comb.
"You have been very forthcoming in your juror questionnaire," I say.
"You have volunteered a lot of details regarding your background. I want to thank you."
"I wanted to be honest," she says. "I am a recovered drug user. I have been taught that acknowledgment and acceptance is the first step in any cure. I do not deny my past," she says.
She would give me twenty more minutes of this, admission of sin being good for the soul, the Church of Reformed Zealotry, but I cut her off.
"A healthy attitude," I tell her.
There are now big red flags fluttering in my brain. To one holding such views, the Coconut could be seen as in a state of denial, the only cure being some further fall from grace.
She is immaculately dressed, in a silk print and high heels, wearing tasteful earrings, an outfit to make an impression. What makes me think that she wants to sit on this jury?
"As long as you have been so honest with us I think we have an obligation to be honest with you, and with the rest of the panel. You have no criminal record. Is that right?"
"No."
"And you have never been arrested for drug use, have you?" My merit badge for the day: Self-esteem 101.
"No." With this she sits an inch taller in her chair. She may have been a walking pharmacy, but the cops never caught her.
"And you never dealt drugs? Sold them for cash to anyone else?" On this I am on squishy ground, so I try to make the question as narrow as possible. I hold my breath until she answers.
She makes a face like perhaps she is weighing her answer--maybe given them to others, but never for money. Then she finally says: "No." The relief on Radovich's face up on the bench says, "Thank you." It seems that the cozy rigors of therapy, acknowledgment, and acceptance do not include admissions that might involve a stretch in the joint. Maybe there is hope for this woman yet.
The older woman, gray haired and Caucasian, sitting next to Ramirez moves perceptibly away, her eyes cast down at Ramirez's purse. I suspect she is wondering what is in it at this moment, thoughts of little twisted white cigarettes, the horrified visions of needles and vials of pills.
I steal a glance at Acosta. He is smiling at Ramirez, his head I am sure dancing with images of joints being passed around the table during deliberations, followed of course by a mellow verdict.
I take her through the topics of concern, the burden of proof in a criminal case, proof beyond a reasonable doubt. She understands this.
That the state must carry this burden and that the defendant has no obligation to prove anything in this case. She understands. Whether she has any difficulty presuming my client innocent in the absence of any evidence to the contrary. She says she does not.
"I see you have a position," I tell Ramirez, "of some responsibility with this county commission?"
"We sit twice a month," she says, "to act as a local clearinghouse for federal grants, and to review programs for funding."
"And I take it you have considerable authority in these regards?" I ask her.
"Vice chairperson," she says. "Next year, unless someone runs against me, I will be the chair." I give her congratulations, and then the question: "Are you expecting opposition?"
"Oh, no. But two years ago there was a contest. But that was different, " says Ramirez. "Some personality differences. I get along with everyone," she says. I? "So this is an elective post?" "Yes." This is considered quite a prize, to be chair?" "It would go on my resume," she says.
"Then you know something about the responsibilities of public office?" She gives me an expression, as if to say, "This goes with the turf." I press her to answer the question for the record, and she says, "Yes."
"What do you think of a man who is alleged to have committed the acts charged against Mr. Acosta? A former judge."
"These are serious matters," she says, "if they are true. Of course I have seen no evidence," she adds.
"Of course." I am getting a bad feeling, a woman anxious to leave behind a troubled background, who wants desperately to get along.
"How would you judge the testimony of a police officer, Mrs. Ramirez?" "What do you mean?"
"Well, would you be inclined to believe it? Or would you tend to distrust it?"
"Neither," she says. "I would listen to it. I would have to evaluate it with all of the other testimony I hear." Very good, I think.
"Have you ever had any involvement with the police department?" I ask here.
"I've never been arrested." She wants to take my merit badge. "That's not what I mean. Have you ever worked with the police?" "Oh." She puts it back.
"Not the department," she says. "With any police officers?" I say. "On the commission," she says.
"And what is your involvement with police officers on the commission?"
"They come before us from time to time, with recommendations on funding for various programs."
"That's all?" She thinks for a moment. "Oh, and two members of the commission, by law, must be a member of law enforcement," she says,
"one from the city, one from the county." This was what I was searching for.
"How many members are on this commission?"
"Five."
"So it would take three to elect you to the chair?" By the look in her eyes, suddenly I sense that she can see where I am going.
Radovich is leaning over the railing on the bench to get a better look. His country nose sniffing for the scent of bias.
She does not answer my question. I prod her, and she says, "Yes."
"Mrs. Ramirez, what if one of the other non-law enforcement members of the commission decided to run against you for the chair of the commission? If that person were to approach the two law enforcement members for their support, it would be necessary for you to be on good terms with those law enforcement members, wouldn't it?" She makes a face, some concession. "It's not likely to happen," she says.
"But if it did?" I no longer want to burn one of our limited preemptory challenges. Ramirez must go.
"I would do what is right," she says.
"Even if it meant losing your position as chairperson of the commission? Not being able to put this on your resume? That is a heavy price to pay for sitting on a jury in a criminal matter."
"It's an important case," she says. As the words leave her mouth she knows she has said the wrong thing.
"Important to whom?" I ask.
"I mean, just that it's important," she says. "A big case." The "event of the season" is what she is saying.
"Could it be important to the police officers who sit with you on the commission?"
"I don't know," she says.
"Is it fair to assume that they would not be happy with you if you were to vote for acquittal in this case?"
"They are fair men," she says.
"But they would rather you voted for conviction?" "I don't know. I haven't discussed it with them."
"You understand that either way, if there is a verdict, they will know how you voted, because in order to arrive at a verdict the vote must be unanimous?" If she didn't have a problem before, she does now. The powers of suggestion, and the burdens of higher office.
"Very nice, Mr. Madriani. You don't need to go any further," says Radovich.
"Mrs. Ramirez?" She looks up at him.
"I want to thank you for coming here today and for giving us so much of your time." She doesn't get it.
"You're excused," says the judge. "I could be fair," she says.
"I understand," he says. "You're still excused." Radovich leans over the bench a little, a broad smile on his country face, and whispers to me, out of earshot of the jurors, those in the panel, and those beyond the railing, "Remind me never to let you near my well with any of that poison." It is a good-natured but wary smile that he unleashes as I take my seat.
Looks to kill from Ramirez as she vacates the seat on the panel.
It is nearing noon and Radovich calls it quits for the morning. He takes an assessment from the lawyers, the consensus being that we should finish jury selection by tomorrow.
"I will see the attorneys in my chambers now," he says. "Mr. Kline, you have something you want to discuss?"
As we enter the judge's chambers, Kline is bumping me in the ass with a handful of papers.
"Very good," he says. "We had rated Mrs. Ramirez as high on our list." "I'll bet you had," I say. "Let me guess. She was your ace against acquittal?" He won't say, but it is my guess that they were banking on Ramirez to hang the jury if suddenly the fates favored us in deliberations.