faces, especially the blank one belonging to Nicholas Easter, now seated on row three, eighth from the aisle. Because of the dismissals, Easter was no longer juror number fifty-six. He was now number thirty-two, and advancing with each session. His face revealed nothing but rapt attention.
“This is a very important question,” Cable said slowly, his words echoing in the stillness. With a pointed finger, he delicately jabbed at them andsaid, “Is there a single person on this panel who doesn’t believe that a person who chooses to smoke should know the dangers?”
He waited, watching and tugging at the line a bit, and finally caught one. A hand was slowly raised from the fourth row. Cable smiled, took a step closer, said, “Yes, I believe you’re Mrs. Tutwiler. Please stand.” If he was truly eager to have a volunteer, his joy was short-lived. Mrs. Tutwiler was a fragile little lady of sixty, with an angry face. She stood straight, lifted her chin, and said, “I got a question for you, Mr. Cable.”
“Certainly.”
“If everybody knows cigarettes are dangerous, then why does your client keep making them?”
There were a few grins from her colleagues in the pool. All eyes were on Durwood Cable as he kept smiling, never flinching in the least. “Excellent question,” he said loudly. He was not about to answer it. “Do you think the making of all cigarettes should be banned, Mrs. Tutwiler?”
“I do.”
“Even if people want to exercise their right to choose to smoke?”
“Cigarettes are addictive, Mr. Cable, you know that.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Tutwiler.”
“The manufacturers load up the nicotine, get folks hooked, then advertise like crazy to keep selling.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Tutwiler.”
“I’m not finished,” she said loudly, clutching the pew in front of her and standing ever taller. “The manufacturers have always denied that smoking is addictive. That’s a lie, and you know it. Why don’t they say so on their labels?”
Durr’s face never changed expression. He waited patiently, then asked quite warmly, “Are you finished, Mrs. Tutwiler?” There were other things she wanted to say, but it dawned on her that perhaps this was not the place. “Yes,” she said, almost in a whisper.
“Thank you. Responses such as yours are vital to the jury selection process. Thank you very much. You may now sit down.”
She glanced around as if some of the others should stand and fight with her, but left alone, she dropped to her seat. She might as well have left the courtroom.
Cable quickly pursued less sensitive matters. He asked a lot of questions, provoked a few responses, and gave his body language experts much to chew on. He finished at noon, just in time for a quick lunch. Harkin asked the panel to return at three, but told the lawyers to eat fast and return in forty-five minutes.
At one o’clock, with the courtroom empty and locked and the lawyers crowded tightly in bunches around their tables, Jonathan Kotlack stood and informed the court that “The plaintiff will accept juror number one.” No one seemed surprised. Everyone wrote something on a printout, including His Honor, who, after a slight pause, asked, “The defense?”
“The defense will accept number one.” Not much of a surprise. Number one was Rikki Coleman, a young wife and mother of two who’d never smoked and worked as a records administrator in a hospital. Kotlack and crew rated her as a 7 out of 10 based on her written answers, her background in health care, her college degree, and her keen interest in everythingthat had been said so far. The defense rated her as a 6, and would’ve passed on her but for a string of serious undesirables forthcoming further down row one.
“That was easy,” Harkin mumbled under his breath. “Moving right along. Juror number two, Raymond C. LaMonette.” Mr. LaMonette was the first strategical skirmish of jury selection. Neither side wanted him—both rated him 4.5. He smoked
“This is a very important question,” Cable said slowly, his words echoing in the stillness. With a pointed finger, he delicately jabbed at them andsaid, “Is there a single person on this panel who doesn’t believe that a person who chooses to smoke should know the dangers?”
He waited, watching and tugging at the line a bit, and finally caught one. A hand was slowly raised from the fourth row. Cable smiled, took a step closer, said, “Yes, I believe you’re Mrs. Tutwiler. Please stand.” If he was truly eager to have a volunteer, his joy was short-lived. Mrs. Tutwiler was a fragile little lady of sixty, with an angry face. She stood straight, lifted her chin, and said, “I got a question for you, Mr. Cable.”
“Certainly.”
“If everybody knows cigarettes are dangerous, then why does your client keep making them?”
There were a few grins from her colleagues in the pool. All eyes were on Durwood Cable as he kept smiling, never flinching in the least. “Excellent question,” he said loudly. He was not about to answer it. “Do you think the making of all cigarettes should be banned, Mrs. Tutwiler?”
“I do.”
“Even if people want to exercise their right to choose to smoke?”
“Cigarettes are addictive, Mr. Cable, you know that.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Tutwiler.”
“The manufacturers load up the nicotine, get folks hooked, then advertise like crazy to keep selling.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Tutwiler.”
“I’m not finished,” she said loudly, clutching the pew in front of her and standing ever taller. “The manufacturers have always denied that smoking is addictive. That’s a lie, and you know it. Why don’t they say so on their labels?”
Durr’s face never changed expression. He waited patiently, then asked quite warmly, “Are you finished, Mrs. Tutwiler?” There were other things she wanted to say, but it dawned on her that perhaps this was not the place. “Yes,” she said, almost in a whisper.
“Thank you. Responses such as yours are vital to the jury selection process. Thank you very much. You may now sit down.”
She glanced around as if some of the others should stand and fight with her, but left alone, she dropped to her seat. She might as well have left the courtroom.
Cable quickly pursued less sensitive matters. He asked a lot of questions, provoked a few responses, and gave his body language experts much to chew on. He finished at noon, just in time for a quick lunch. Harkin asked the panel to return at three, but told the lawyers to eat fast and return in forty-five minutes.
At one o’clock, with the courtroom empty and locked and the lawyers crowded tightly in bunches around their tables, Jonathan Kotlack stood and informed the court that “The plaintiff will accept juror number one.” No one seemed surprised. Everyone wrote something on a printout, including His Honor, who, after a slight pause, asked, “The defense?”
“The defense will accept number one.” Not much of a surprise. Number one was Rikki Coleman, a young wife and mother of two who’d never smoked and worked as a records administrator in a hospital. Kotlack and crew rated her as a 7 out of 10 based on her written answers, her background in health care, her college degree, and her keen interest in everythingthat had been said so far. The defense rated her as a 6, and would’ve passed on her but for a string of serious undesirables forthcoming further down row one.
“That was easy,” Harkin mumbled under his breath. “Moving right along. Juror number two, Raymond C. LaMonette.” Mr. LaMonette was the first strategical skirmish of jury selection. Neither side wanted him—both rated him 4.5. He smoked
Similar Books
