7

E ven though the federal courts gave attorneys far less leeway during jury selection than the typical state court, and even though the questions were screened in advance and were asked by the judge himself, not the lawyers, jury selection was still an unbearably time-consuming process. This was a murder case, after all-potentially a capital murder case, and one involving a very well-known public figure. It was nearly impossible to find a juror who did not know the defendant or who was not familiar with the case. The best Ben and Christina could hope for was twelve people who claimed that they had not yet made up their minds as to his innocence or guilt and who would not do so until all the evidence was presented. Which was how it should be in every case, of course, but Ben wasn’t kidding himself that this was anything like every case.

The stickiest point of discussion, of course, was the video. Everyone had already seen it, but just in case they hadn’t, Prosecutor Padolino was desperate to show it to them during voir dire. Not for evidentiary purposes, of course-that would be wrong. He just wanted to be sure the jury wouldn’t be so shocked by the graphic content-especially when the network pixilated masking was removed-that they would be unable to adjudicate the case without bias. Yeah, right.

Ben did rather like the way the judge conducted the jury questioning. Judge Herndon was a tall man, lean, with a slow, studied expression reminiscent of Gary Cooper in High Noon. He knew Glancy was concerned that the judge would show partisan bias, but as he conducted his measured, careful jury questioning, Ben saw few indications of favoritism. Maybe it was because he knew the press was watching, but he appeared determined to observe each and every punctilio of federal criminal procedure.

Lawyers were forever shading and slanting their jury questions, attempting to preview their case during voir dire. None of that from the judge. He toed the line, never once giving any indication how he felt about any of the parties, the matters at issue, or even the damnable video. He asked his questions simply and for one purpose-to determine if anything in the venireperson’s background, beliefs, or personality would make him or her an unsuitable juror. Did they know any of the parties, object to the senator’s political positions, or have a past experience with romance in the workplace? He let the jurors talk back, even ask questions of their own-something an experienced trial attorney would never risk. Christina took down some of the jurors’ most noteworthy remarks:

“Any woman who wears underwear like that is asking for it. End of story.”

“Will the senator be questioned about his surgeries? Because I think he’s had some kind of surgery. And I’m not talking about circumcision.”

“I’d like to know what time of day it was. If it was during work hours, that means the taxpayer was paying for it. Maybe he was, too, I don’t know. But if it was the taxpayer, I’m angry.”

“Did the senator vote to send our boys to the Middle East? ’Cause if he voted for that one, you better get me off this jury right here and now.”

“Only thing I want to know is where the girl got that outfit. I mean, not that I would ever wear anything like that. I was just, you know. Curious.”

“Way I see it, them boys up in Washington been screwin’ us for years. What’s so special ’bout this one?”

In a few instances, the judge removed prospective jurors sui sponte. The woman who was way too interested in the deceased’s undergarments, for instance. But for the most part, he left it to the lawyers. After each round of questioning, Ben and Padolino approached the bench and quietly informed the judge who they wanted replaced. Ben took most of his cues from Christina-although he was able to deduce that the “angry taxpayer” needed to go on his own. Time and experience had proven to him that Christina had a preternatural gift for understanding people-far greater than his own. By the time he had a juror’s name down, Christina had figured out her age, socioeconomic background, political persuasion, sexual preference, and whether she was a cat person or a dog person. Christina wanted a jury composed principally of ailurophiles-cat people. He had no idea why. But he didn’t argue.

Eventually both sides used up their peremptories. After that, they had to come up with a good reason to remove a juror, persuasive arguments why an answer indicated bias. And they found that Judge Herndon was not easily persuaded. Maybe it was his usual resistance to prolonged jury selection; maybe it was because he knew the eyes of the world were on him and he was determined not to come off as a Judge Ito who let the lawyers push him around. Either way, eventually the questions and the challenges bottomed out and they had twelve jurors and four alternates.

“Opening statements at nine A.M. sharp,” the judge informed them. Then he thanked the jurors for their cooperation and gave them detailed preliminary instructions. They would be sequestered for the length of the trial.

“What do you think?” Ben asked as he returned to the defendant’s table. “Did we get a good jury?”

“I think you did the best you could with what we drew,” Christina said.

“What does that mean?” Glancy asked. “Do they like me or are they going to hang me out to dry?”

“My name’s Christina, not Sibyl,” she replied. “The outcome will depend on what happens when the witnesses take the stand.”

“I still don’t understand why we couldn’t ask if the jurors were Republicans or Democrats,” Glancy groused. “That’s the most important question-certainly the most relevant. And the judge never asked it.”

“Because it is totally impermissible, even in this case,” Ben answered. “There are about a hundred cases on point. Courts have to follow precedent-previous rulings on the same issue. Even the Supreme Court.”

“So you’re telling me the Supreme Court followed precedent when they butted into the 2000 election and made Dubya the leader of the free world?”

Ben turned his eyes toward his legal pad. “Let’s stay focused on the case at hand, shall we?”

Of all the two-bit gin joints in the world, Loving mused to himself, this was about the only one Ben hadn’t already sent him to-always in the hope of rooting out the truth by exploiting Loving’s knack for worming information out of the bottom-feeders of society. Ben didn’t like bars, had a coughing fit whenever someone lit up, and couldn’t lie to save his soul, so he needed someone else to handle these assignments. Loving got that. But someday he was going to draw the line. That day would not be today, however. He wasn’t going to pass this one up just because of the décor.

Which was actually quite nice, as it turned out, a step up from the usual haunts he ventured into in search of unfound knowledge. Martin’s Tavern, in Georgetown on Wisconsin Avenue, was a national landmark dating back to 1933. The look of the place appealed to Loving-lots of dark stained wood, very colonial, from the booths to the long oak bar that flanked the north wall. And the waiters wore distinguished green jackets-pretty swank for a tavern.

Loving scanned the clientele as he passed through the building. Looked like a sports bar, except he saw a lot of people who might actually be capable of playing a sport rather than simply watching one on the tube from behind a mountain of six-packs. He wouldn’t mind stepping up to the bar for a quick quaff himself, but not while he was on duty. He had to keep his wits about him. As he’d learned long ago-when you’re working one of Ben’s cases, you should prepare for the unexpected. Which was of course, by definition, impossible.

He found the rear door and the alleyway his mysterious informant had mentioned without any trouble. It was dark and squalid and had a penetrating stench. Loving didn’t know how often the garbage was collected back here, but it wasn’t often enough. He kept tripping over trash can lids or stepping into squishy lumps he couldn’t identify, which was probably just as well. The alley seemed to cut through the better part of a city block, but most of the back doors weren’t labeled, so he had no way of knowing which one might lead to the purported escort service, much less to the mysterious Lucille. He might still be walking back and forth in that alley if he hadn’t spotted a man exiting quickly from one of the doors, hitching and adjusting his pants as he walked, a euphoric smile on his face.