Almost from the start I had taken notes about her in red and grew happier and happier with her on my jury as the questions progressed. I knew that Golantz had made a tactical error. He had eliminated the sanitation worker with one challenge and had ended up with a juror seemingly even more detrimental to his cause. He would now have to live with the mistake or use his final challenge to remove the artist and run the same risk all over again.

When the judge finished his general inquiries, it was the lawyers’ turn. Golantz went first and asked a series of questions he hoped would draw out a bias so that the artist could be removed for cause instead of through the use of his last preemptory. But the woman held her own, appearing very honest and open-minded.

Four questions into the prosecutor’s effort, I felt a vibration in my pocket and reached in for my cell. I held it down below the defense table between my legs and at an angle where it could not be seen by the judge. Julie Favreau had been texting me all day.

Favreau: She’s a keeper.

I sent her one back immediately.

Haller: I know. What about 7, 8 and 10? Which one next?

Favreau, my secret jury consultant, had been in the fourth row of the gallery during both the morning and afternoon sessions. I had also met her for lunch while Walter Elliot had once again gone back to the studio to check on things, and I had allowed her to study my chart so that she could make up her own. She was a quick study and knew exactly where I was with my codes and challenges.

I got a response to my text message almost immediately. That was one thing I liked about Favreau. She didn’t overthink things. She made quick, instinctive decisions based solely on visual tells in relation to verbal answers.

Favreau: Don’t like 8. Haven’t heard enough from 10. Kick 7 if you have to.

Juror eight was the tree trimmer. I had him in blue because of some of the answers he gave when questioned about the police. I also thought he was too eager to be on the jury. This was always a flag in a murder case. It signaled to me that the potential juror had strong feelings about law and order and wasn’t hesitant about the idea of sitting in judgment of another person. The truth was, I was suspicious of anybody who liked to sit in judgment of another. Anybody who relished the idea of being a juror was blue ink all the way.

Judge Stanton was allowing us a lot of leeway. When it came time to question a prospective juror, the attorneys were allowed to trade their time to question anyone else on the panel. He was also allowing the liberal use of back strikes, meaning it was acceptable to use a preemptory challenge to strike out anybody on the panel, even if they had already been questioned and accepted.

When it was my turn to question the artist, I walked to the lectern and told the judge I accepted her on the jury at this time without further questioning. I asked to be allowed instead to make further inquiries of juror number eight, and the judge allowed me to proceed.

“Juror number eight, I just want to clarify a couple of your views on things. First, let me ask you, at the end of this trial, after you’ve heard all the testimony, if you think my client might be guilty, would you vote to convict him?”

The tree trimmer thought for a moment before answering.

“No, because that wouldn’t be beyond a reasonable doubt.”

I nodded, letting him know that he had given the right answer.

“So you don’t equate ‘might’ve’ with ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’?”

“No, sir. Not at all.”

“Good. Do you believe that people get arrested in church for singing too loud?”

A puzzled look spread across the tree trimmer’s face, and there was a murmur of laughter in the gallery behind me.

“I don’t understand.”

“There’s a saying that people don’t get arrested in church for singing too loud. In other words, where there’s smoke there’s fire. People don’t get arrested without good reason. The police usually have it right and arrest the right people. Do you believe that?”

“I believe that everybody makes mistakes from time to time – including the police – and you have to look at each case individually.”

“But do you believe that the police usually have it right?”

He was cornered. Any answer would raise a flag for one side or the other.

“I think they probably do – they’re the professionals – but I would look at every case individually and not think that just because the police usually get things right, they automatically got the right man in this case.”

That was a good answer. From a tree trimmer, no less. Again I gave him the nod. His answers were right but there was something almost practiced about his delivery. It was smarmy, holier-than-thou. The tree trimmer wanted very badly to be on the jury and that didn’t sit well with me.

“What kind of car do you drive, sir?”

The unexpected question was always good for a reaction. Juror number eight leaned back in his seat and gave me a look like he thought I was trying to trick him in some way.

“My car?”

“Yes, what do you drive to work?”

“I have a pickup. I keep my equipment and stuff in it. It’s a Ford one-fifty.”

“Do you have any bumper stickers on the back?”

“Yeah… a few.”

“What do they say?”

He had to think a long moment to remember his own bumper stickers.

“Uh, I got the NRA sticker on there, and then I got another that says, If you can read this, then back off. Something like that. Maybe it doesn’t say it that nice.”

There was laughter from his fellow members of the venire, and number eight smiled proudly.

“How long have you been a member of the National Rifle Association?” I asked. “On the juror information sheet you didn’t list that.”

“Well, I’m not really. Not a member, I mean. I just have the sticker on there.”

Deception. He was either lying about being a member and leaving it off his info sheet, or he wasn’t a member and was using his bumper sticker to hold himself out as something he was not, or as part of an organization he believed in but didn’t want to officially join. Either way it was deceptive and it confirmed everything I was feeling. Favreau was right. He had to go. I told the judge I was finished my questioning and sat back down.

When the judge asked if the prosecution and defense accepted the panel as composed, Golantz attempted to challenge the artist for cause. I opposed this and the judge sided with me. Golantz had no choice but to use his last preemptory to remove her. I then used my second-to-last challenge to remove the tree trimmer. The man looked angry as he made the long walk out of the courtroom.

Two more names were called from the venire and a real-estate agent and one more retiree took seats eight and eleven in the box. Their answers to the questions from the judge put them right down the middle of the road. I coded them black and heard nothing that raised a flag. Halfway through the judge’s voir dire I got another text from Favreau.

Favreau: Both of them +/- if you ask me. Both lemmings.

In general, having lemmings on the panel was good. Jurors with no indication of forceful personality and with middle-of-the-road convictions could oftentimes be manipulated during deliberations. They look for someone to follow. The more lemmings you have, the more important it is to have a juror with a strong personality and one who you believe is predisposed to be for the defense. You want somebody in the deliberations room who will pull the lemmings with him.

Golantz, in my view, had made a basic tactical error. He had exhausted his preemptory challenges before the defense and, far worse, had left an attorney on the panel. Juror three had made it through and my gut instinct was that Golantz had been saving his last preemptory for him. But the artist got that and now Golantz was stuck with a lawyer on the panel.