Blood Land by R. S. Guthrie

That is why prosecutors loved jurors who looked, talked, acted, worked, and played just like the accused. Twelve perfect peers would convict every time.
    Hanson liked to use an approach where he created a scenario, tried to put the entire prospective panel in a moment; one they could feel . Then he would ask them to imagine the answer to a particular question—many times one that contradicted the constructed scenario.
    For example, he might ask them to close their eyes, place their minds in a nursery: two walnut cribs, walls painted neutral green, identical twins—boys; strawberry blonde hair, only a few months old. Perhaps there was a mobile hanging from the ceiling, a littering of stuffed animals, a changing table with diapers, ointments, and wipes stacked on the shelves. Then Hanson would ask the jurors to imagine large swaths of blood marking the walls; the babies, not breathing, death all around and the parents accused.
    He’d watch the individual reactions. Horror, surprise, shock, anger. And almost always, there were those who appeared less jolted; not exactly unaffected, but willing to see the process through to the end. In these instances, the prosecutors often succumbed to the moment, as shocked by his “antics” as much as many in the jury pool. But in such reactions, Hanson learned what he needed to know, while his adversaries missed the crucial cues. The selection process was akin to a speed match of chess. One could not afford to miss the smallest potential disadvantage or the tiniest breach in the front line of the opponent.
    Another favorite technique involved Hanson regularly eliminating jurors without a single question or conversation from or with either attorney. He would call on a juror only to thank them for their service and excuse them. The strategy was again fairly simple—it required Hanson only to dismiss a juror outright, one who already mismatched his profile. The reaction of the other jurors, however, could be telling.
    “Juror seven. Ms. Cornwall?” Hanson asked, though he knew her name.
    “Yes, sir,” Dorothy Cornwall answered.
    Hanson noted fear in her voice. “Thank you very much for your time today, dear,” he said to her, then addressed Judge Butler: “Your Honor, the defense would like to use a preemptory challenge for juror seven.”
    The judge nodded. “Ms. Cornwall, the court thanks you. You are excused, ma’am. Will the rest of you please move forward one chair, including those of you in the alternate chairs and the gallery. Thank you.”
    When the reshuffling was complete, Hanson addressed the juror who had just been moved into the box. “Juror number thirteen,” he said. “Ms. Bineford? I hope I got that right.”
    “You got it fine,” Suzan Bineford said.
    “Could you see yourself as a vigilante? What I mean is, under a particular circumstance, might you take the law into your own hands?”
    “I don’t think so,” Bineford said. “Not to such an extreme, no.”
    Hanson expected her answer and followed with: “Ever have any cause to scrap with any of your brothers or sisters?”
    “’Course I have,” she said, agitated. “Who hasn’t?”
    Hanson liked her. He didn’t want to press further, wary of a Jorgensen challenge. He’d gotten her to decry vigilante justice, hoping that might sway the prosecution favorably.
    The juror selection continued for most of the day. By four-thirty, the attorneys were ready to agree on a jury. Five men, seven women, and two alternates. Hanson excluded as many male ranchers as he could, but of the seven men on the jury, five of them ran cattle in rural Wind River. One was a teacher—a professed conservative with what Hanson believed to be some pretty strong liberal underpinnings he probably dared not flaunt before the local school board. The five women posed a challenge, too. They’d either sympathize with Bethy McIntyre or believe Ty when he talked about how much he loved his sister. They’d mother him or hang him; it