Acosta looks up. “Here or chambers?” he asks.

“Chambers would be best, Your Honor.” This means it is something Nelson doesn’t want the press to know.

There’s a noticeable groan from the pool in the front row. A lot of grousing. Pens poised, not even started and it’s downtime already.

I’m wondering what problem Nelson is hatching for me.

The judge is down off the bench, Nelson and Meeks behind him, Harry and I taking up the rear.

In chambers Acosta doesn’t bother to take off his robe. If he has his way this will be a brief gathering.

“What is it?” he says. There’s a little impatience in his voice.

“Your Honor, the people move to quash the subpoena issued by the defendant for trust records from the Potter, Skarpellos law firm. The defense is on a fishing expedition,” says Nelson. “These records are irrelevant to any issue bearing on this case.”

Acosta looks to me. “I’ve wondered about that myself,” he says. “How about it, counsel?”

“We’re fully prepared to make an offer of proof, Your Honor.” This is a little demonstration, an explanation of how these documents bear on Talia’s defense, to satisfy the court on the issue of relevance.

“Just tell me,” he says. Acosta doesn’t want to take the time to pull the court reporter into chambers or clear the courtroom for an argument on the record. I will insist if I lose.

“Your Honor, we have reason to believe, based on credible testimony of a witness we will produce during this trial, that the client trust account in question will reveal serious imbalances, trust deficiencies that are the direct result of embezzlement.”

Nelson looks at me in wonderment, like “So what?”

“We believe that these trust deficiencies are directly linked to the motive for the death of Ben Potter and bear directly on my client’s innocence,” I say.

Nelson’s looking at Meeks, who makes a palpable shrug with his shoulders-it’s a mystery to him.

I’ve carefully measured my argument. As few revelations as possible.

Acosta looks to Nelson, who stands silent.

“Motion denied,” he says. “I’ll allow the subpoena to stand.” Then he looks at me, more severe this time. “Admission will be subject to a showing of relevance at a later time, by your witness,” he says.

“Understood, Your Honor.”

“Good. Then let’s get a jury.”

I look at Nelson, who’s making a face at Meeks. The copiers at Potter, Skarpellos will be busy this night. So will Jimmy Lama, gathering excerpts of these records for Nelson’s accountants. I have already called my own and told them to get ready. I will need a rapid turnaround on an audit.

Acosta’s back on the bench, business settled in chambers.

In this county we use the jury selection process known as the “six-pack,” three rows of six, in the jury box.

“We’ll have the first eighteen,” says Acosta.

The clerk calls the first eighteen names from the jury list. Like sheep at the shearing, they file up from the audience and into the jury box. The rest, another 282 souls, sit and watch, to see what’s in store for themselves. Eleven women and seven men take their chairs. The demographics are already cutting against us.

There is a proclivity for older females, retired military types, and telephone company workers on juries in this county. I am leery of each. These people have seen too much of the inside of courtrooms for my liking. Utilities, it seems, love to do their civic thing, sending their people in droves, paying them their full salary while on jury duty. A conspiracy, I think, on the part of big business to whittle down civil judgments; these people spill over and show up too often on the criminal side now that I am doing the defense.

At best, even with the most scientific of approaches and tools, the selection of a jury under our system is a crapshoot of the most random variety. I have read and studied every method, from the high-priced tort sharks with their theories of body language and human paramessages, to the corporate gurus who do their voir dire while some shrink whispers psychic sweet nothings in their ears. In the final analysis, the passing upon any prospective juror comes down to your lawyer’s gut.

Factors that make any single juror desirable on one level, with regard to one aspect of your case, can make him the enemy on another. These are the psychodynamics of human bias multiplied by twelve. The unforeseen twists that are common to too many trials can, in one bad day, turn the best jury into a hanging mob.

A full quarter of the good citizens called for jury duty in this country show up at the courthouse already harboring the belief that criminal defendants wouldn’t be there unless they were guilty, though on penalty of death these jurors would never admit this in open court.

Harry and I know there are definite parameters to our jury in this case. Most women are likely to hang a scarlet letter about Talia’s neck. They will never condone her infidelity, or the relationship of convenience that was her marriage.

Red-blooded males, on the other hand, can empathize, not with Talia, but with her lovers. They can fantasize about themselves with this woman, and in so doing forgive her for her indiscretions. The younger the better, I think. The minds of youth are not yet warped by convention.

In my wildest dreams I have mused on the perfect jury for this case, a panel of young, single males, twelve fraternity jocks squirting prurient hormones.

As we begin, Harry is endlessly turning his pencil, sliding it through his fingers, eraser to point and back again on the table. This first part belongs to the court.

In cryptic terms Acosta summarizes the case and performs a little precursory examination, not directed to any of the veniremen in particular. This is general stuff, designed to short-circuit some of our questions.

He spends a good deal of time on hardship. “This is likely to be a long trial; if there are reasons why any of you might have difficulty serving over an extended period, this is the time to tell me.”

Three hands go up like rockets, women with small children; two of them are juggling kids and a job.

Acosta shoots them all down. “These are not hardships,” he announces. “You have a civic duty. Jury duty is a privilege.” This from a judge with a live-in maid. Acosta’s making a little show, to set the tone for others in the audience, a message that their excuses had better be good. As a practical matter, all sides flush with peremptories, it is likely that few if any of these will survive to make the final cut.

He moves on to other subjects: Do they know the defendant? Do they know any of the attorneys? Have they read extensively of the case?

One woman raises her hand.

“And what have you read, madam?”

“The papers,” she says.

“I think we’ve all read the papers. What in particular?”

“Where it said she was guilty.” The old lady is holding her hand close to her breast, pointing with her finger a little tentatively at Talia, as if she’s not sure whether this pretty woman is the defendant.

“I must have missed that story,” says Acosta. “Where did it appear?”

“I can’t say as I remember.” The lame cop-out of a juror anxious to go home.

“I see. And you believe that this would interfere with your ability to objectively judge the evidence in this case?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I can’t be sure.”

“I would encourage you to put it out of your mind,” says Acosta.

“Your Honor.” I’m on my feet, looking down at a piece of paper with little grids, a name in each, corresponding to the jurors in the box. Harry and I have made these from the jury lists, using the numbers assigned to each juror. “I move that Mrs. Douglas be dismissed for cause.”

“Mr. Madriani, if we do this for every witness who has read about the case we’ll end up funneling the entire population of the county through this courtroom and we’ll never find twelve.”