apologize for the interruption, Your Honor, but I represent Kyra Talbot, one of the jurors in your pool.” He explained that Mrs. Talbot and her ex-husband were having custody problems. “Next week, her son turns twelve. The court will decide custody and appoint a guardian. If Mrs. Talbot is on this jury, she won’t be able to make that hearing.”
The judge studied Anne with dubious eyes. “Mrs. Talbot, you should have mentioned this before you were accepted for the jury. Last week, you said jury service posed no difficulty for you. If this wasn’t a problem then, I fail to see why it’s a problem now.”
Mark’s jaw dropped. He turned to Anne, voice lowered. “Why on earth didn’t you tell me you were already impaneled?”
A chair squeaked across linoleum. A petite, wiry, dark-haired woman rose from a document-strewn table and came with brisk-clicking heels to the bench. “Your Honor, the People have reviewed this juror’s voir dire. We strongly object to having Mrs. Talbot on this jury.”
“Ms. diAngeli,” the judge reminded her, “the juror has already been impaneled.”
“We challenge for cause.” The prosecutor’s brown-eyed gaze met Anne’s straight-on, a mano-a-mano sizing up with no attempt at amiability. “Mrs. Talbot’s employer published an article in the Manhattanite magazine eighteen months ago.” DiAngeli slapped a back issue of the Manhattanite onto the bench. “The ‘Town Crier’ column. As you can see, it prejudged the case.”
The judge opened the magazine and scanned. “Mrs. Talbot, did you write any part of this article?”
“Actually, Your Honor, I’m photography editor for Savoir magazine. We share a publisher with the Manhattanite .”
The judge stared at the prosecutor. “Ms. diAngeli, let’s get real. I for one am sick of this slipshod, nitpicking voir dire. We’ve reached the point where a little accommodation is in order.” She turned. “Mrs. Talbot, please take a seat over there.”
Anne crossed to the spectator section and sat next to a bald-headed man whose pencil was flying across the New York magazine crossword puzzle. He glanced at her. “Egyptian god of the Nile, three letters?”
She shook her head. “Sorry.”
Voices eddied over from the bench, low but urgent. Mark was pleading. Prosecutor diAngeli was pleading. Finally the judge interrupted, curt and angry.
“Mr. Elihu.” She beckoned.
A gray-haired, stoop-shouldered man rose from the near table. Anne estimated his age as mid-seventies. He approached the bench. Four heads bent together.
Mark crossed the courtroom, grim-lipped. “Kyra. We have to talk. Not here. Outside.”
They went into the corridor and found a quiet alcove of nonfunctioning candy and snack machines.
“The problem’s Gina Bernheim. The judge.” Mark gave Anne a look of whimsical, charming helplessness. “She says there’s no legal basis to re-voir dire you.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means she won’t excuse you.”
It came at Anne like a tennis ball slammed across the net. “You said this was a formality—nothing to it.”
“You didn’t tell me you’d already been impaneled.”
“Isn’t there anything you can do?”
“Under other circumstances, we might have a little wiggle room to work it out. But Bernheim’s aiming for a Supreme Court nomination, and till she gets it, she’s observing every rule in the book—no exceptions.” Mark hauled a cellular phone from his attaché case. “There’s not much reason for Catch to come in next week to discuss custody. Not if you’re going to be stuck in court.”
She watched him tap a number into the keypad. She couldn’t believe his nonchalance.
“Catch Talbot, please—Mark Wells calling from New York.” He strolled to the window, braced a foot on a bench, stared down into the street. “Catch, that you? … Just fine, thanks. Look, I’m sorry for the late notice. But Kyra is on jury duty. The Corey Lyle trial, can you believe it? Looks
The judge studied Anne with dubious eyes. “Mrs. Talbot, you should have mentioned this before you were accepted for the jury. Last week, you said jury service posed no difficulty for you. If this wasn’t a problem then, I fail to see why it’s a problem now.”
Mark’s jaw dropped. He turned to Anne, voice lowered. “Why on earth didn’t you tell me you were already impaneled?”
A chair squeaked across linoleum. A petite, wiry, dark-haired woman rose from a document-strewn table and came with brisk-clicking heels to the bench. “Your Honor, the People have reviewed this juror’s voir dire. We strongly object to having Mrs. Talbot on this jury.”
“Ms. diAngeli,” the judge reminded her, “the juror has already been impaneled.”
“We challenge for cause.” The prosecutor’s brown-eyed gaze met Anne’s straight-on, a mano-a-mano sizing up with no attempt at amiability. “Mrs. Talbot’s employer published an article in the Manhattanite magazine eighteen months ago.” DiAngeli slapped a back issue of the Manhattanite onto the bench. “The ‘Town Crier’ column. As you can see, it prejudged the case.”
The judge opened the magazine and scanned. “Mrs. Talbot, did you write any part of this article?”
“Actually, Your Honor, I’m photography editor for Savoir magazine. We share a publisher with the Manhattanite .”
The judge stared at the prosecutor. “Ms. diAngeli, let’s get real. I for one am sick of this slipshod, nitpicking voir dire. We’ve reached the point where a little accommodation is in order.” She turned. “Mrs. Talbot, please take a seat over there.”
Anne crossed to the spectator section and sat next to a bald-headed man whose pencil was flying across the New York magazine crossword puzzle. He glanced at her. “Egyptian god of the Nile, three letters?”
She shook her head. “Sorry.”
Voices eddied over from the bench, low but urgent. Mark was pleading. Prosecutor diAngeli was pleading. Finally the judge interrupted, curt and angry.
“Mr. Elihu.” She beckoned.
A gray-haired, stoop-shouldered man rose from the near table. Anne estimated his age as mid-seventies. He approached the bench. Four heads bent together.
Mark crossed the courtroom, grim-lipped. “Kyra. We have to talk. Not here. Outside.”
They went into the corridor and found a quiet alcove of nonfunctioning candy and snack machines.
“The problem’s Gina Bernheim. The judge.” Mark gave Anne a look of whimsical, charming helplessness. “She says there’s no legal basis to re-voir dire you.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means she won’t excuse you.”
It came at Anne like a tennis ball slammed across the net. “You said this was a formality—nothing to it.”
“You didn’t tell me you’d already been impaneled.”
“Isn’t there anything you can do?”
“Under other circumstances, we might have a little wiggle room to work it out. But Bernheim’s aiming for a Supreme Court nomination, and till she gets it, she’s observing every rule in the book—no exceptions.” Mark hauled a cellular phone from his attaché case. “There’s not much reason for Catch to come in next week to discuss custody. Not if you’re going to be stuck in court.”
She watched him tap a number into the keypad. She couldn’t believe his nonchalance.
“Catch Talbot, please—Mark Wells calling from New York.” He strolled to the window, braced a foot on a bench, stared down into the street. “Catch, that you? … Just fine, thanks. Look, I’m sorry for the late notice. But Kyra is on jury duty. The Corey Lyle trial, can you believe it? Looks
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