How could I have forgotten what a good actor Di Silva is? Jennifer wondered.

Di Silva did not exercise his peremptory challenges until Jennifer had exhausted hers, and she could not understand why. When she discovered the reason, it was too late. Di Silva had outsmarted her. Among the final prospective jurors questioned were a private detective, a bank manager and the mother of a doctor—all of them Establishment—and there was nothing now that Jennifer could do to keep them off the jury. The District Attorney had sandbagged her.

Robert Di Silva rose to his feet and began his opening statement.

“If it please the court”—he turned to the jury—“and you ladies and gentlemen of the jury, first of all I would like to thank you for giving up your valuable time to sit in this case.” He smiled sympathetically. “I know what a disruption jury service can be. You all have jobs to get back to, families needing your attention.”

It’s as though he’s one of them, Jennifer thought, the thirteenth juror.

“I promise to take up as little of your time as possible. This is really a very simple case. That’s the defendant sitting over there—Abraham Wilson. The defendant is accused by the State of New York of murdering a fellow inmate at Sing Sing Prison, Raymond Thorpe. There’s no doubt that he did. He’s admitted it. Mr. Wilson’s attorney is going to plead self-defense.”

The District Attorney turned to look at the huge figure of Abraham Wilson, and the eyes of the jurors automatically followed him. Jennifer could see the reactions on their faces. She forced herself to concentrate on what District Attorney Di Silva was saying.

“A number of years ago twelve citizens, very much like yourselves, I am sure, voted to put Abraham Wilson away in a penitentiary. Because of certain legal technicalities, I am not permitted to discuss with you the crime that Abraham Wilson committed. I can tell you that that jury sincerely believed that locking Abraham Wilson up would prevent him from committing any further crimes. Tragically, they were wrong. For even locked away, Abraham Wilson was able to strike, to kill, to satisfy the blood lust in him. We know now, finally, that there is only one way to prevent Abraham Wilson from killing again. And that is to execute him. It won’t bring back the life of Raymond Thorpe, but it can save the lives of other men who might otherwise become the defendant’s next victims.”

Di Silva walked along the jury box, looking each juror in the eye. “I told you that this case won’t take up much of your time. I’ll tell you why I said that. The defendant sitting over there—Abraham Wilson—murdered a man in cold blood. He has confessed to the killing. But even if he had not confessed, we have witnesses who saw Abraham Wilson commit that murder in cold blood. More than a hundred witnesses, in fact.

“Let us examine the phrase, ‘in cold blood.’ Murder for any reason is as distasteful to me as I know it is to you. But sometimes murders are committed for reasons we can at least understand. Let’s say that someone with a weapon is threatening your loved one—a child, or a husband or a wife. Well, if you had a gun you might pull that trigger in order to save your loved one’s life. You and I might not condone that kind of thing, but I’m sure we can at least understand it. Or, let’s take another example. If you were suddenly awakened in the middle of the night by an intruder threatening your life and you had a chance to kill him to save yourself, and you killed him—well, I think we can all understand how that might happen. And that wouldn’t make us desperate criminals or evil people, would it? It was something we did in the heat of the moment.” Di Silva’s voice hardened. “But cold-blooded murder is something else again. To take the life of another human being, without the excuse of any feelings or passions, to do it for money or drugs or the sheer pleasure of killing—”

He was deliberately prejudicing the jury, yet not overstepping the bounds, so that there could be no error calling for mistrial or reversal.

Jennifer watched the faces of the jurors, and there was no question but that Robert Di Silva had them. They were agreeing with every word he said. They shook their heads and nodded and frowned. They did everything but applaud him. He was an orchestra leader and the jury was his orchestra. Jennifer had never seen anything like it. Every time the District Attorney mentioned Abraham Wilson’s name—and he mentioned it with almost every sentence—the jury automatically looked over at the defendant. Jennifer had cautioned Wilson not to look at the jury. She had drilled it into him over and over again that he was to look anywhere in the courtroom except at the jury box, because the air of defiance he exuded was enraging. To her horror now, Jennifer found that Abraham Wilson’s eyes were fastened on the jury box, locking eyes with the jurors. Aggression seemed to be pouring out of him.

Jennifer said in a low voice, “Abraham…”

He did not turn.

The District Attorney was finishing his opening address. “The Bible says, ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’ That is vengeance. The State is not asking for vengeance. It is asking for justice. Justice for the poor man whom Abraham Wilson cold-bloodedly—cold-bloodedly—murdered. Thank you.”

The District Attorney took his seat.

As Jennifer rose to address the jury, she could feel their hostility and impatience. She had read books about how lawyers were able to read juries’ minds, and she had been skeptical. But no longer. The message from the jury was coming at her loudly and clearly. They had already decided her client was guilty, and they were impatient because Jennifer was wasting their time, keeping them in court when they could be out doing more important things, as their friend the District Attorney had pointed out. Jennifer and Abraham Wilson were the enemy.

Jennifer took a deep breath and said, “If Your Honor please,” and then she turned back to the jurors. “Ladies and gentlemen, the reason we have courtrooms, the reason we are all here today, is because the law, in its wisdom, knows that there are always two sides to every case. Listening to the District Attorney’s attack on my client, listening to him pronounce my client guilty without benefit of a jury’s verdict—your verdict—one would not think so.”

She looked into their faces for a sign of sympathy or support. There was none. She forced herself to go on. “District Attorney Di Silva used the phrase over and over, ‘Abraham Wilson is guilty.’ That is a lie. Judge Waldman will tell you that no defendant is guilty until a judge or jury declares that he is guilty. That is what we are all here to find out, isn’t it? Abraham Wilson has been charged with murdering a fellow inmate at Sing Sing. But Abraham Wilson did not kill for money or for dope. He killed to save his own life. You remember those clever examples that the District Attorney gave you when he explained the difference between killing in cold blood and in hot blood. Killing in hot blood is when you’re protecting someone you love, or when you’re defending yourself. Abraham Wilson killed in self-defense, and I tell you now that any of us in this courtroom, under identical circumstances, would have done exactly the same thing.

“The District Attorney and I agree on one point: Every man has the right to protect his own life. If Abraham Wilson had not acted exactly as he did, he would be dead.” Jennifer’s voice was ringing with sincerity. She had forgotten her nervousness in the passion of her conviction. “I ask each of you to remember one thing: Under the law of this state, the prosecution must prove beyond any reasonable doubt that the act of killing was not committed in self-defense. And before this trial is over we will present solid evidence to show you that Raymond Thorpe was killed in order to prevent his murdering my client. Thank you.”