head. "I think you got that wrong."
"No,
no, I didn't. Must have been another watering hole, but I'm sure you're the guy
I was talking to. You're a G-man, aren't you? Used to work out of
Langley."
The
second guy looked at his partner to see whether he blinked.
"Good
try, but you're wrong. Must have been talking to my twin brother."
"The
better-looking one, yeah. Probably so. You here to testify?"
"Nope."
"Look,"
Mike said, "I'm a cop, a detec-"
"No
kidding. And last I knew these were public courtrooms, so I hope you don't mind
that my buddy and I just sit and watch."
Mike just
shrugged. "Suit yourself. But you're in the wrong seats. The judge has a
couple of places saved for you two."
Again the
younger one, closer to me, furrowed his eyes and checked his partner while Mike
pointed and spoke. "Right over there. First two behind the dark-haired
little broad with the dandruff on her shoulders, there's a label that says
'Reserved for ass-holes.' Must be a really top level assignment to be
baby-sitting one of your former whackjobs at his trial. Next time you guys
oughta ask for a clothing allowance. That polyester is so flammable. C'mon,
Coop, get to work. I'll split."
"I
didn't invite you here to stir up a hornet's nest," I said as we walked
away. "Moffett is barely tolerating me as it is. Now you have to go and
mouth off to these characters."
"Those
two are completely useless. What's the difference if I agitate them a little
bit? You needed a pro to tell you those guys are CIA? Check your peepers with
an eye doctor." Mike turned away and let the courtroom door swing shut
behind him, and I walked back up to the well just as Harlan Moffett stepped
into the courtroom.
"All
rise. Hear ye, hear ye," the clerk droned on, announcing the entrance of
the judge and reading the case into the record.
Moffett
explained the procedure. In the old days, most of the questioning of the panel
was done by the lawyers. In high-profile cases, or matters with sensitive
issues, it could drag on for days. More recently the state courts had adopted
the federal procedures, in which the judge controlled what was asked. We would
have our jury sworn by the end of the afternoon.
He began
with general information, reading the names of all the participants and
witnesses in the case. "You know anybody, recognize any of these names?
Just raise your hand and I'll call on you." Jurors took the opportunity to
look each of us over but none responded.
"You're
going to hear from three police officers during the trial. Anybody here have
cops in the family?" Six hands went up around the room. "No reason to
make you believe them any more or any less than other witnesses, is there?
You'll evaluate their testimony the same way you would any other person, isn't
that right?"
Robelon
and I were making notes next to those names we had of people already sitting in
the jury box, how they responded to the inquiries, whether aloud or with facial
expressions and physical gestures. We would probe them on personal information
that seemed relevant to either side. In this case, Paige Vallis carried far
more weight than the few police officers, who would be subject to more intense
scrutiny as witnesses in drug sales or gun possession cases. They had nothing
to offer that would shed light on the events in Andrew Tripping's apartment.
Moffett
had reached the point at which he talked about the crimes with which the
defendant was charged. "You got any problems with any of these?" he
asked, trying to get past the word "rape" without raising any red
flags. In my dozen years at the prosecution table, I wagered this would be a
first if he succeeded.
Two hands
went up in the jury box. I looked over my shoulder and saw more scattered
through the rows.
"Your
Honor," I said, getting to my feet, "may we take these at the
bench?"
Moffett
wasn't pleased with my suggestion. It would waste precious minutes, and would
result in more people being excused than he wanted. He knew that if
"No,
no, I didn't. Must have been another watering hole, but I'm sure you're the guy
I was talking to. You're a G-man, aren't you? Used to work out of
Langley."
The
second guy looked at his partner to see whether he blinked.
"Good
try, but you're wrong. Must have been talking to my twin brother."
"The
better-looking one, yeah. Probably so. You here to testify?"
"Nope."
"Look,"
Mike said, "I'm a cop, a detec-"
"No
kidding. And last I knew these were public courtrooms, so I hope you don't mind
that my buddy and I just sit and watch."
Mike just
shrugged. "Suit yourself. But you're in the wrong seats. The judge has a
couple of places saved for you two."
Again the
younger one, closer to me, furrowed his eyes and checked his partner while Mike
pointed and spoke. "Right over there. First two behind the dark-haired
little broad with the dandruff on her shoulders, there's a label that says
'Reserved for ass-holes.' Must be a really top level assignment to be
baby-sitting one of your former whackjobs at his trial. Next time you guys
oughta ask for a clothing allowance. That polyester is so flammable. C'mon,
Coop, get to work. I'll split."
"I
didn't invite you here to stir up a hornet's nest," I said as we walked
away. "Moffett is barely tolerating me as it is. Now you have to go and
mouth off to these characters."
"Those
two are completely useless. What's the difference if I agitate them a little
bit? You needed a pro to tell you those guys are CIA? Check your peepers with
an eye doctor." Mike turned away and let the courtroom door swing shut
behind him, and I walked back up to the well just as Harlan Moffett stepped
into the courtroom.
"All
rise. Hear ye, hear ye," the clerk droned on, announcing the entrance of
the judge and reading the case into the record.
Moffett
explained the procedure. In the old days, most of the questioning of the panel
was done by the lawyers. In high-profile cases, or matters with sensitive
issues, it could drag on for days. More recently the state courts had adopted
the federal procedures, in which the judge controlled what was asked. We would
have our jury sworn by the end of the afternoon.
He began
with general information, reading the names of all the participants and
witnesses in the case. "You know anybody, recognize any of these names?
Just raise your hand and I'll call on you." Jurors took the opportunity to
look each of us over but none responded.
"You're
going to hear from three police officers during the trial. Anybody here have
cops in the family?" Six hands went up around the room. "No reason to
make you believe them any more or any less than other witnesses, is there?
You'll evaluate their testimony the same way you would any other person, isn't
that right?"
Robelon
and I were making notes next to those names we had of people already sitting in
the jury box, how they responded to the inquiries, whether aloud or with facial
expressions and physical gestures. We would probe them on personal information
that seemed relevant to either side. In this case, Paige Vallis carried far
more weight than the few police officers, who would be subject to more intense
scrutiny as witnesses in drug sales or gun possession cases. They had nothing
to offer that would shed light on the events in Andrew Tripping's apartment.
Moffett
had reached the point at which he talked about the crimes with which the
defendant was charged. "You got any problems with any of these?" he
asked, trying to get past the word "rape" without raising any red
flags. In my dozen years at the prosecution table, I wagered this would be a
first if he succeeded.
Two hands
went up in the jury box. I looked over my shoulder and saw more scattered
through the rows.
"Your
Honor," I said, getting to my feet, "may we take these at the
bench?"
Moffett
wasn't pleased with my suggestion. It would waste precious minutes, and would
result in more people being excused than he wanted. He knew that if
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