“I’m an administrator, with the school district,” she says. Short and clipped, and not too creative, like the lady’s following a script.

“I know,” I say, “but what do you do?”

“Budget oversight.” It is clear that Mrs. Jackson is not paid by the word. I might say this, even get a few laughs. But I have learned that jokes at the expense of an individual juror do not play well to the rest of the panel. Among people who moments before were strangers, the threat of probing and personal questions from a lawyer forms a fast fraternal bond.

Mrs. Jackson sits glaring at me from the box.

“I see you’re married. Can you tell us a little about your family?”

“We have three children. My husband’s in security,” she says.

I raise an eyebrow. “What type of security?”

“Military police,” she says.

I turn and look up at Acosta. His eyes are rolling in his head.

“Mrs. Jackson,” says the judge, “didn’t you hear me ask whether you or any member of your family was involved in law enforcement?” This is part of Acosta’s general spiel.

She looks at the judge with a blank stare. “Yes.”

“Well, you didn’t tell us your husband was in the military police. That is rather important.”

“I thought you meant real law enforcement,” she says.

There’s a little laughter from the audience.

The judge is shaking his head. “Go on, Mr. Madriani.”

I give the Coconut a look, like “Thanks for all your help.”

“Does your husband make arrests in his line of work?”

“On the base,” she says.

“Does he testify in court?”

“Military court-martials.” She pauses for a moment, straining in the box to think. This lady’s not going to get caught twice. “One time in federal court,” she admits.

“Do you understand, Mrs. Jackson, that much of the testimony which will be provided by the state in this case will come from sworn law enforcement officers?”

She nods.

“You have to speak audibly so the reporter can hear you,” I tell her.

“Yes, I understand about the police testifying.”

“How reliable do you believe a police officer’s testimony is, Mrs. Jackson?”

“Good,” she says. Like the Bible lettered in gold, I think.

“Would you tend to think it’s more believable than testimony offered by, say, a plumber?”

“Not if they’re talking about fixing a sink,” she says.

There are a few chuckles from the panel and the audience. I laugh along with them, like some cheap MC.

“Would you believe your husband, Mrs. Jackson?”

“Depends what he told me.” More laughter from the audience. She’s loosening up now, a regular sit-down comic.

“Would you tend to think that the testimony of a police officer is more believable, say, than testimony from a secretary?”

“I’d have to hear the testimony.”

I look at Acosta. There’s a tight little grin on his face, like “No help here.”

I load up with a few leading questions.

“I suppose,” I say, “that you share a lot of work experiences with your husband, that he tells you about arrests that he makes, about appearances in court or court-martials?”

“Yes,” she says.

“I suppose, if you were to see a young, good-looking police officer, maybe in uniform, appearing here in this trial, you might tend to think about your husband?”

“I might,” she says.

Acosta’s head is rolling slowly on his shoulders, like he’s on the ropes, close to a decision.

“And if that same police officer were to testify, you might have pleasant thoughts of your husband?”

She shrugs and says, “Maybe.”

“Your Honor-”

“All right, Mr. Madriani, you don’t have to put ’em in bed together.” Acosta shuffles a few papers on his desk. “We’re at that point anyway,” he says, “to pass upon cause for this panel. Any nominees, Mr. Madriani?”

“Mrs. Jackson,” I say.

“Mrs. Jackson, you’re excused,” he says, “for cause.”

She gives me a dirty look as she pulls out of the box.

Nelson and I pass on the rest for cause. We are getting close.

Jackson’s seat is quickly filled, by another woman, a housewife from down near the delta.

Nelson burns another peremptory, a young man in the front row. He was good for our side, articulate. This guy would not have to fantasize far to see Talia in his arms.

The clerk brings up one more, an old man, moving slowly. Nelson’s now down to his last peremptory. We are getting close to our jury.

I start on the old man. His age is an obvious problem, though I would not venture a guess. Nelson is immediately scanning the jury list.

“Mr. Kauffman,” I say.

He squints at me from behind Coke-bottle lenses and tilts his head, in hopes that my words may run louder downhill into his better ear. He appears to have made out his name.

Meeks is whipping through paper for Kauffman’s questionnaire at the prosecution table. When he finds it, he’s all fingers, to the block at the top, listing date of birth. There are knowing looks exchanged with Nelson, like “Maybe this guy was a drummer boy for the Confederacy.”

This presents a real problem for the prosecution, the single hung juror, a venireman who may not be up to the rigors and mental gymnastics of jury service for reasons of age. The fear here is not bias but indecision, the risk of having to try the case again, months of lost work, a small fortune in squandered tax dollars.

Nelson may look to Acosta for a little understanding on cause, but the Coconut knows older people vote. More to the point, they have time to organize for all forms of political vendetta. They come to court to watch in droves. In this county criminal sessions have replaced the soaps in terms of audience share. The little shuttle bus that stops in front of the courthouse hourly deposits an army of gray-haired citizens, all marching toward the latest drama in superior court. They are waiting outside in the hall for jury selection to end. The politic judge knows this.

“Mr. Kauffman, can you hear me?” I say.

“Oh yes, I can hear.”

“Do you know anything about this case, sir?”

“No.”

“Do you see the defendant sitting here?”

He cranes his neck a little to look, to take in all of Talia, not particularly impressed by what he sees.

“Have you ever heard of the defendant, read anything about her?”

“No.”

Sees lightning and hears thunder, I think.

“That’s all, Your Honor.” I take my seat and leave this problem to Nelson.

“Mr. Kauffman, I know that you heard the judge talk earlier about the likely duration of this trial. Do you really think you are up to the day-to-day demands of being here, listening to long hours of testimony?”

“Emm?”

“I say …” Nelson’s turning toward the table to look at Meeks. “Never mind.”

Nelson returns to the counsel table and looks at a pad where he’s jotted some notes.

“Mr. Kauffman, do you have any health problems, matters which require you to see a physician on a regular basis?”

Given his age, this is a good bet.

“Little constipation,” he says. “Gives me pills for it.”

“When’s the last time you were hospitalized, Mr. Kauffman?”

This sets the juror thinking, his eyes looking up, taking in all the perforated little panels on the ceiling. A good minute goes by while he counts on his fingers.

“Ah, ninet-e-e-e-e-n … fifty-six. No, no,” he says. “Mighta been ‘fifty-seven. Hemorrhoids.”

“You’re sure?” says Nelson.

“Oh yeah, hemorrhoids, real painful,” says Kauffman.

There’s laughter in the audience.

“No, I mean the year.”

“Oh yeah, about then.”

Nelson goes back to his little pad on the table, shaking his head.

“Do you live with anyone, sir?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Mr. Kauffman, please, just answer the question.” Acosta gives him a little chiding and a benign smile.

“Pioneer Home for Seniors,” he says. This is the bed-and-board high rise in the center of the city, one stop short of a convalescent hospital, for those who need cooking but aren’t quite ready for confinement.