Directed Verdict (Failed Justice Book 1) (17 page)

CHAPTER 32

Billy Jo knew, as any good trial lawyer learns early on in the game, most if not all trials are won or lost during jury selection. He would have been thrilled with twelve older gentlemen, preferably former government employees. That was just not possible.

Marta would have agreed to twelve young Italian or Hispanic mothers. Again, a prosecutor’s dream. They both knew the final panel would have one or two of each.

Billy Jo spent the last forty-eight hours reviewing the prospective panel. He had red-lined a good thirty percent. Too unpredictable. Too prejudiced. Too young. He had also put a star next to the name of at least ten. It would take two or three strong personalities to get him his eventual acquittal.

All it took was one to hang the jury.

It had been Billy’s practice to always find that one, and make sure he or she was sworn in. That was his eventual ace in the hole.

The first twelve prospective jurors were brought in. It looked like a group of invitees to a free soup kitchen. The state was paying fourteen dollars a day plus lunch. It was better than sitting home and watching
Dr. Drew
and
Oprah
.

Billy Jo liked two; Marta favored three. If they each got one seated, it would be a good day’s work.

As to work and hours, neither was in any big hurry. The Black Widow was a county employee. She did not get bonuses or overtime. Last year she received a four percent cost-of-living allowance. She spent it all on a Saturday afternoon shopping spree. She certainly had to dress right for trial. After all, she was the Black Widow. Her wardrobe, like the original Model T, came in one color and one color only.

Black.

Ms. Clarke could best be described as tall, stunning, impeccably dressed, and black. Lethal should probably have been thrown in for good measure. She had brains and beauty.

Marta could have been anything she wanted, from nuclear physicist to a Victoria’s Secret model. She had that kind of body. She also had no end to stamina and determination. Had there not been race riots twenty-five years ago, she probably would have ended up a runway model. Her father, a grossly underpaid social worker, was killed in a peaceful demonstration in D.C., not thirty feet from the Washington monument. His head accidently came into contact with a billy club. The officer was never found. No one was ever charged. No big surprise. Just another overzealous dead black man who couldn’t mind his own damn business.

If someone is to make a difference, it has to start right here, at home. It has to start with me.

Marta was a junior at Seton Hall at the time. She switched to a double major. Government and pre-law. Before graduation she received a full scholarship to Princeton Law. She earned it. Every summer she went back home to intern in the Essex County DA’s office. She had the makings of a star and everyone knew it.

Especially Marta.

Every eligible man who saw her, and some who were ineligible, wanted to date her. Most were afraid. She had a well-deserved reputation for eating them up and spitting them out.

She loathed weak men.

Billy Jo was different. His retainer, that Wally had to borrow, would be applied against his hourly fee. Ordinarily his hourly fee was four-fifty an hour. Billy loved publicity, he loved the spotlight, and he knew this could turn out to be a three alarm fire if he played it right. He agreed to a nominal retainer, one third of what he normally got, an hourly fee of three-fifty, and one third of any monies earned from a movie or book deal.

FORMER JUDGE ACCUSED OF KILLING ACQUITTED DEFENDANT.

Wally had told him in confidence the deceased had very recently had an affair with his ex-wife. He could just smell a book coming out of this.

Billy was no more a cowboy than the late John Wayne. They both knew how to walk the walk and talk the talk. The Duke at least could ride a horse.

He had a speech impediment when he was a small boy and was teased unmercifully by his classmates. He took speech lessons every day after school. He read out loud to himself until his mother turned the lights off. He pretended he was a great orator and recited from memory every soliloquy written by Shakespeare. In high school he joined the debate team. It taught him how to do research and stand in front of an audience and argue.

His confidence grew almost as quickly as his frame. He now weighed a solid two thirty. Maybe not quite so solid anymore. He did love his food and beverages. He decided to let his hair grow long. Not quite to his shoulders.

He too spent a sizable amount on his wardrobe.

If I’m going to be successful, I have to look successful.

All Billy’s shirts and suits were custom made. He could well afford it. He was never shy about asking for a retainer. The larger the amount, the more they trusted him. Everyone likes to be associated with success and power.

My dad’s bigger than yours; my mom’s prettier than yours; my lawyer is smarter than yours.

My attorney is sneakier than yours. Probably not a good idea.

Billy Jo just knew one day he would be a great lawyer.

***

“Mr. Gibson, do you accept this juror?”

Billy Jo’s mind had slipped back to his very first trial. It had been a total disaster.

He quickly refocused and glanced down at his jury selection board. Bingo. He got his first juror.

“Yes, Your Honor. I’m sure Miss Wallace will be a fine juror and serve with honor and distinction.”

Miss Madeline Wallace, a retired school teacher, at least sixty years old, obviously widowed or divorced, dropped her head and smiled at Billy Jo. She had already been accepted by the Black Widow.

Judge Sugarman glanced down at his watch. It was a quarter to five.

“I think we have accomplished enough for one day. We will convene at nine thirty sharp. Adjourned.”

The judge was out of his seat before the court attendant could holler, “All rise.”

CHAPTER 33

The next morning Madeline Wallace was wearing her Sunday best, though no one obviously knew it. She sat proudly in Seat #1 and watched as the lawyers continued to fence with each other. From time to time she snuck a peek at Lawyer Gibson. It took close to forty minutes of struggling before he reluctantly agreed on Juror Two.

José Morales was Hispanic. He was short and wiry. He looked independent, defiant, and someone Billy Jo could relate to. Besides, he was afraid to use a challenge unless it was absolutely necessary.

Better to have an extra preempt in your pocket at the end of selection than one short.

In the Sovereign State of New Jersey each side was entitled six preemptory challenges. That meant Billy had a half dozen “I don’t want him or her because they don’t comb their hair in the way I like” freebies. Methods of getting rid of a prospective juror for no cause at all…

Marta liked José. Her kind of person. Billy Jo felt José did not hurt him. Billy figured he was still one ahead.

***

As to Juror Three, neither had any good reason not to accept him. He was more like Hamburger Helper
.
He was filling and did not add or subtract from the whole enchilada. He would melt in and go along with the majority. Tom Simmons was a retired electrical engineer. He had worked for a defense contractor his entire career. He dealt with facts, and as far as Billy Jo could see, there were no facts to lead to a conviction. Wally was suckered into the home, he was clobbered over the head, and when he woke up a cop was standing over him. No hard evidence Wally had done anything wrong.

“We accept Juror Three, Your Honor.”

Three down, nine to go.

It was close to the noon break. The judge made it clear; he did not want selection to drag on all week. He was anxious to have the trial begin.

“Be in your seats by one o’clock sharp.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” they recited in unison.

They both had time for a quick sandwich in the “Lawyers Only” room. Wally joined Billy Jo. They both had chicken salad sandwiches with a Coke. Billy Jo knew his client had twenty years watching lawyers pick a jury. He may not have been a paid, professional consultant, but he was sure the next best thing.

Wally found no problems with the first three seated. He mentioned two names he had spotted from the jury selection pool. On paper, and that could only be an educated guess, they fit the profile Billy Jo was looking for.

By 12:55 they were back in their seats. So was Marta. She looked like the cat that ate the canary. Billy was worried.

Wally covered his mouth with his hand and whispered to his counsel.

“The bitch is up to her old tricks. She has forgotten I was the judge in a dozen of her cases. I know her M.O. She loves to come back from a break and make like a big deal has just happened. Like she just found the one key eye witness. My suggestion is you look worried. It will give her some false confidence and hopefully, she’ll relax and make a big mistake.”

Billy Jo was impressed. It was like having a second chair without having to pay for one.

***

The clock on the wall struck one p.m.

“All rise. The Honorable Judge Robert Sugarman now presiding.”

“Counselors, please approach.”

Billy looked at Marta. What had one of them done wrong? He was sure it wasn’t him. He had not had enough time to begin his courtroom antics. Yet.

“It has been two full days and we have only seated three jurors. I suggest we move it along or I will conduct the
voir dire
myself. You may both submit a list of questions but I will do the questioning. You both have your full complement of challenges. I will make my decision tomorrow morning. Step back.”

The son-of-a-bitch is serious. Who died and left him king?

Marta clearly was not pleased.

Billy was thinking ahead. A possible reversible error by the court. Not very likely, he concluded.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Billy scanned his jury selection board again. He had spent hours and hours narrowing it down. Now he had to make some quick choices. There were two Polish ladies on the panel. They were both over fifty-five. He knew damn well Marta would never go for either one of them. Still, he had nothing to lose. The clock was running for both of them.

I need only one juror for a hung jury. She needs all twelve for a conviction. She is in more of a hurry than me. Maybe she will make a mistake—or two.

At times, a hung jury is as good as an acquittal. The DA sees the flaws in their case and wonders if they can be corrected. Is it worth the time and effort and expense to retry? There are so many ADAs and their caseload does not go down.

Better to try a winner than retry a big if.

The defense can always change its strategy. Add a new witness, go over certain testimony, have a witness suffer a sudden loss of memory, that sort of thing. Sort of like Bill Belichick, coach of the Patriots. He was known for always coming out with a new game plan for the second half.

And it usually works. That’s why he won three Super Bowls. That, and having Tom Brady as his once in a lifetime quarterback.

A hung jury is a moral victory, Billy Jo reasoned. He was sure he had Juror One in his back pocket. Suddenly his demeanor changed. He sat back and relaxed. Let the Black Widow sweat it out. He had his one, now let’s see her find her twelve.

Marta could not help but notice. Billy’s whole attitude had changed. He was no longer checking his precious chart every five minutes. His body took on a look of confidence. He was sending her a new message, ‘I’m gonna win; and you’re not.’ Now it was her turn to worry.

She kept one eye on the prospective juror and the other trying to gauge Billy’s reaction. It was disconcerting, to say the very least. It was one-upmanship at its very best.

By five after five, the judge had granted some slack, two more jurors had been seated. Now there were a total of five.

Juror Four was a retired commercial fisherman. He sat there just waiting for someone to ask him questions. He had already rehearsed his answers.

“I know nothing about this case. I rarely read the newspaper and seldom turn on the TV. I have no prejudices one way nor another. I’m retired and have all the time in the world to serve.”

Phil Marlow just wanted to do his civic duty. He felt it was his time to give back. If asked, he would swear he believed in God, motherhood, and apple pie.

Phil failed to mention he was a frustrated and unpublished author. All he needed was one good story to get his name known. He was already dreaming of
appearances on
Good
Morning America
and
The Tonight Show
.

He would be a star. At last.

It was close to four p.m. and both sides wanted one more crack at another juror.

Philip T. Marlow was seated as Juror Four.

The last prospective juror to be questioned was a Mrs. Theresa Adamski, one of the two Billy Jo was hoping for. He tried to remain calm and undecided if Mrs. Adamski would help or hurt him. Her late husband had been a Newark City Auditor. That was not good as far as Billy was concerned. At least that was what he was trying to portray. The fact she was Polish, at least her husband had been, and by her looks, so was she, was a major advantage. All nationalities tend to stick together. Especially Italians, Poles, and Jews. He would have given his eye teeth to have her seated. He knew better than to overplay his hand.

“Mrs. Adamski, will the fact the same government that is prosecuting this case is also your late husband’s employer in any way affect your ability to render a true and just verdict?”

“Of course not. Why would you even ask such a question?”

“I’m sorry, but at times we all have hidden agendas. At times we are completely unaware of them.”

“One thing has nothing to do with the other. I am here because I want to be, not because I have to be.”

“Right. One last question. Are you receiving a pension?”

“Why yes. My late husband proudly served the City of Newark for more than thirty-three years. He earned it. Now that he’s passed on, it’s mine.”

Wally loved her answer but refused to show it. He glanced at the judge, who was eyeing his watch. Time to fish or cut bait. Marta was watching his every move.

Billy had stalled for as long as he could. The judge was just about to reach for his gavel.

“No objections to Mrs. Adamski, Your Honor.

Judge Sugarman looked at Miss Clarke, just daring her to ask one single question. She had no time to weigh if Billy really wanted her or not.

“Mrs. Clarke, its five after five. I have a dinner engagement, even if you don’t. Yes or no? Do you accept Mrs. Adamski?”

Marta was about to lash out.

It’s none of your damn business whether I have plans for the evening or not. Judge or no judge, you have one hell of a nerve referring to my social life.

The fact she didn’t pissed her off even more.

She glared at the judge. If looks could kill…

“No objections, Your Honor.”

“Thank you. Clerk, please swear in Juror Five so we can all go home.”

“Court adjourned.”

***

A juror was seated in a criminal trial, in a capital case, for no other reason than the trial judge had an important dinner engagement. No better example of American style justice could possibly be found.