9.

After court, Partner drives me to the warehouse where Harry & Harry conduct their operations. I meet with Harry Gross and we review Judith’s latest petition. He’ll prepare a response, one similar to the other three already on file, and I’ll sign and file it tomorrow.

Partner and I go to the basement, where Cliff and his team are already at work. From the first four rows of the pool, numbers one through forty, nine people were quizzed privately during the afternoon session. I expect all nine to be excused for cause, or for good reason. Each side has four challenges, four automatic hooks that can be used for no reason whatsoever. That’s a total of eight. There is no limit on the number who can be excused for cause. The trick, the skill, the art, is reading the jurors and trying to determine which to challenge. I get only four strikes, same as the prosecution, and one mistake can be fatal. Not only do I decide whom to keep and whom to strike, but I also play chess with Mancini. Whom will he get rid of? Certainly the Hispanics.

I do not expect an acquittal, so I’m angling for a hung jury. I have to find the one or two jurors who might show some sympathy.

For hours, over bad carryout sushi and bottles of green tea, we dissect each potential juror.

10.

There are no phone calls in the middle of the night; nothing from Arch Swanger, nor Nate Spurio. Not a word from Moss Korgan. Evidently, my brilliant offer of a deal didn’t get very far. As the sun rises, I’m at my computer responding to e-mails. I decide to send one to Judith. It reads, “Why can’t you stop the war? You’ve lost so many battles and you’ll lose this one. The only thing you’ll prove is how ridiculously stubborn you are. Think about Starcher, not yourself.” The response will be predictably harsh and well crafted.

Partner drops me off in a strip mall out in the suburbs. The only store open is a bagel shop where smoking is illegally permitted. The owner is an old Greek who’s dying of lung cancer. His nephew has rank at City Hall and health inspectors don’t bother the place. It features strong coffee, real yogurt, decent bagels, and a layer of rich, blue cigarette smoke that’s a throwback to the days not long ago when it was common to eat in a restaurant while inhaling the fumes and vapors of those close by. Nowadays, it’s still hard to believe we tolerated that. Nate Spurio goes through two packs a day and loves this place. I take a deep breath out front, fill my lungs with clear air, walk inside, and see Nate at a table, coffee and newspaper in front of him, a fresh Salem screwed into the corner of his mouth. He waves at a chair and puts the paper away. “You want coffee?” he asks.

“No thanks. I’ve had enough.”

“How are things going?”

“You mean life in general or the Zapate trial?”

He grunts, tries to smile. “Since when do we talk about life in general?”

“Good point. Nothing from Mancini. If he’s in on the deal, he damned sure doesn’t act like it. Still offering fifteen years.”

“They’re working on him, but, as you know, he’s a prick who’s going places. Right now he’s onstage and that means a lot to him.”

“So Roy Kemp is hammering away?”

“You could say that. He’s tightening every screw he can find. He’s desperate—can’t say I blame him. And he hates you because he thinks you’re withholding information.”

“Gee, I’m sorry. Tell him I hate him too because he kidnapped my kid, but nothing personal. If he’ll get to the mayor, who can then get to Mancini, we might have us a deal.”

“It’s in the works, okay. Things are moving.”

“Well, things need to move faster. We’re picking a jury and based on what I’ve seen and heard so far my guy is in deep trouble.”

“That’s what I hear.”

“Thanks. We’ll probably start calling witnesses tomorrow and there aren’t many of them. This could be over by Friday. We need to cut the deal quickly. Five years, county penal farm, early parole. Got it, Nate? Does everybody up the food chain understand the terms of the deal?”

“Plain as day. It’s not that complicated.”

“Then tell them to make it happen. My guy is about to get slammed by this jury.”

He pulls on the cigarette, fills his lungs, asks, “Are you around tonight?”

“You think I’m leaving town?”

“We should probably talk.”

“Sure, but now I gotta run. I have this trial today and we’re out here beating the bushes looking for some jurors to bribe.”

“I didn’t hear a word, and I’m certainly not surprised.”

“See you, Nate.”

“A real pleasure.”

“And you really should stop smoking.”

“Just take care of yourself, okay. You got your own problems.”

11.

Go Slow is late for court, which, on the one hand, is not that unusual because she is a judge and the party doesn’t start until she arrives. On the other hand, though, this is a high-water mark for her career and you’d think she would arrive early and savor the moment. But I learned a long time ago not to waste time analyzing why judges do the things they do.

Everyone has been waiting for at least an hour, with no word on what’s causing the delay, when her courtroom deputy snaps to attention and calls us to order. Her Honor sweeps onto the bench as if she’s already terribly burdened and tells everybody to sit down. No apology, no explanation. She launches into some introductory remarks, not a single word of which is even remotely original, and when she runs out of gas she says, “Mr. Mancini, you may examine the panel for the State.”

Max is quickly on his feet, strutting along the mahogany railing that separates us from the spectators. With ninety-two jurors on one side, and at least that many reporters and spectators on the other, the courtroom is again packed. They’re even leaning against the rear wall. Max rarely has such an audience. He begins with a dreadful, sappy monologue about how honored he feels to just be in the courtroom representing the good people of our city. He feels a burden. He feels an honor. He feels an obligation. He feels a lot of things, and within a few minutes I notice some of the jurors start to frown and look at him as if to say, “Is this guy serious?”

After he’s talked about himself for too long, I slowly stand, look at Her Honor, and say, “Judge, can we please get on with this?”

She says, “Mr. Mancini, do you have some questions for the pool?”

He replies, “Of course, Your Honor. I didn’t realize we were in such a hurry.”

“Oh, there’s no hurry, but I really don’t want to waste time.” This, from a judge who was an hour late.

Max begins with textbook questions about prior jury service, and experiences with the criminal justice system, and prejudices against the police and law enforcement. By and large, it’s a waste of time because people rarely reveal their true feelings in such a setting. It does, however, give us plenty of time to study the jurors. Tadeo is taking pages of notes, at my direction. I’m scribbling too, but I’m primarily watching body language. Cliff and his associate are on the pews across the aisle, watching everything. By now, I feel as though I’ve known these people, especially the first forty, for years.