So if someone else had commissioned the letter, how did they get Scarborough’s signature on the form?

Closeted with Quinn and Tuchio in chambers, we find this even more mystifying. The judge has been playing racquetball with the jury for more than ten days now, what with their constant requests for clarification on bits of evidence, some granted, some denied. They have returned three times to ask that Carl’s signed statement to the police following his arrest be read to them once more or, in the alternative, that they be given a copy.

Quinn has said no to a copy, from which they might end up parsing the words, but he has sent his clerk, Ruiz, in twice to read it to them.

If it’s possible to interpret their questions, with all the evidence that’s been presented to the jury, the stunning revelations of the Jefferson Letter and the matching evidence of hair samples from the envelope to those found at the scene, the jury seems hung up on a single point: how Carl could have gotten the tray with food to the table in Scarborough’s room without first seeing his body.

Guess what a jury will do with the evidence and you’ll be wrong a dozen times out of a dozen.

Quinn is now mired in another trial in a courtroom down the hall, so he has little time for us this morning.

“What the hell is going on?” says Quinn. “From the videotape and the transcript, the two of them having dinner, Teddy’s transcript, Ginnis gave Scarborough the copy of the letter. Now you bring me this,” he says.

The judge is holding the disclaimer form signed by Scarborough. “Why is Scarborough asking Ginnis for the original if he already had it?”

“It’s a good thing that video didn’t come in,” says Tuchio.

“I’m beginning to think that that video is the only thing that is real,” I tell him.

The judge has to get back to court. He is ushering us out just as Ruiz, his clerk, is coming the other way.

“You guys better stick around,” says Ruiz. “Your Honor, the jury is back,” he says.

“A verdict?”

Ruiz shrugs and shakes his head. He’s not sure, but they’ve notified the bailiff that they’re ready to come out of the jury room.

Twenty minutes later the courtroom is packed, Harry and Carl seated at the counsel table with me.

“What do you think?” says Carl.

“I don’t know. They’ve been out a long time.”

The general rule is that a quick verdict is a guilty verdict. The longer the jury is out, the greater the possibility that Carl will be acquitted. At least that’s the rule of thumb. I’ve told him this, but I haven’t dwelled on it. There’s the risk of rising expectations and the shattering shock if I’m wrong.

We wait for another eighteen minutes before the jury files in. When a jury comes in, it is always the same, the rush of emotions, the anxiety. My stomach produces enough acid to etch the concrete on my driveway. You find yourself leaping at every little sign, looking for signals. The sure and certain giveaway is when one or more of the jurors smiles at the defendant.

None of them do this today. The fact is that not a single one of them makes eye contact with Carl, or anyone else at our table. This is not good.

Quinn allows them to settle into their chairs. “The court will come to order.”

He waits for things to settle down out in the audience, until all you can hear is a couple of coughs and some throat clearing. “Mr. Foreman.”

The jury foreman rises.

“Has the jury arrived at a verdict?”

“It has not, Your Honor. We are deadlocked.”

A hung jury. There is commotion in the audience behind us, people up out of their chairs.

The judge hammers his gavel. “The court will come to order. You people out in the audience, take your seats and be quiet.”

When I turn, I see the expression of concern on Sam Arnsberg’s face, Carl’s dad, seated in the front row directly behind us. He’s not sure what this means, nor is Carl.

“What’s happening?”

“Just sit tight. Don’t talk to anybody, don’t say anything.”

Two of the deputies move up and stand just behind the bar railing at our backs. They are both facing out to the audience.

Everything now rests in Quinn’s hands, and I can tell by his expression that he is not happy.

He clears his throat. Quinn is considering his options as he sits up there on the bench. “Mr. Foreman.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Now, I don’t want you to tell me what the vote is or which way the jury is leaning, but if I were to send you all back into the jury room to deliberate a little longer, do you think it’s likely that you would be able to arrive at a verdict?”

“I doubt it, Your Honor.”

This is not what Quinn wanted to hear.

“I’m going to ask the jurors to return to the jury room and just sit tight for a few more minutes. You’re not to deliberate, just sit there and relax.”

“What’s going on?” says Carl. “Does that mean I’m free?”

“Not yet,” I tell him.

The jury files out.

“I’ll see counsel in chambers. The defendant can go back in the lockup, just for a few minutes.”

The lawyers follow Quinn back to his office, but before he gets there, he stops for a second, tells us to go into the office while he talks with his clerk, Ruiz, just outside the door.

When he finally comes in, he doesn’t take off his robe but flops into his chair.

“Any motions?” he says.

Quinn is inviting Tuchio to make a motion for the dynamite charge.

“We would move that the court issue the modified Allen instruction to the jury, Your Honor.”

This is the polite name, the formal name. Many defense lawyers call it the “dynamite instruction,” because to them that’s what it is-a means to blast recalcitrant jurors, holdouts, into knuckling under and voting for conviction. The instruction in modified forms and variations has been around since the late 1800s and derives its name from the case that coined it, Allen v. United States.

It is generally brief, no more than a page when printed out on paper. In short, what it allows the judge to do is to instruct the jury that the state and the taxpayers have spent a great deal of money and the lawyers and the court have spent a great deal of time and energy to try the case. It also reminds them that if they fail to arrive at a verdict, the case may have to be retried. In effect it’s a mistrial, and that if this happens, it will cost more money and time. After some soothing words assuring the jurors that no one is trying to jimmy them into giving up an honestly held conviction, it ends with the bold statement that it is their duty to arrive at a verdict if they can do so.

Of course, by now all they remember is the last line, the “duty to arrive at a verdict” part delivered to them by God, who has just scowled at them from the bench. Some defense lawyers will tell you of cases in which the jury didn’t even get out of the box and back to the jury room before they voted to convict.

“Your Honor, you heard the jury foreman when you asked him if they could arrive at a verdict,” I say.

“He said he doubted it,” says Tuchio. “He didn’t say they were irreconcilably deadlocked.”

“Yeah, well, that’s a mouthful for anybody,” says Harry.

Quinn reaches into his drawer and pulls out the binder with jury instruction, looking for the page with the dynamite charge.

His clerk comes into chambers behind us and closes the door.

“Your Honor, can I ask you that before you read the charge to the jury-” I begin.

“Just a minute,” says the judge.

Ruiz cups a hand and whispers into the judge’s ear. Quinn swivels around in his chair so that they are both sheltered by the high back of the chair between us.

When the judge finally wheels around ten seconds later or so, he looks at me. “You were saying something, Mr. Madriani.”