"The better-looking one, yeah. Probably so. You here to testify?"

"Nope."

"Look," Mike said, "I'm a cop, a detec-"

"No kidding. And last I knew these were public courtrooms, so I hope you don't mind that my buddy and I just sit and watch."

Mike just shrugged. "Suit yourself. But you're in the wrong seats. The judge has a couple of places saved for you two."

Again the younger one, closer to me, furrowed his eyes and checked his partner while Mike pointed and spoke. "Right over there. First two behind the dark-haired little broad with the dandruff on her shoulders, there's a label that says 'Reserved for ass-holes.' Must be a really top level assignment to be baby-sitting one of your former whackjobs at his trial. Next time you guys oughta ask for a clothing allowance. That polyester is so flammable. C'mon, Coop, get to work. I'll split."

"I didn't invite you here to stir up a hornet's nest," I said as we walked away. "Moffett is barely tolerating me as it is. Now you have to go and mouth off to these characters."

"Those two are completely useless. What's the difference if I agitate them a little bit? You needed a pro to tell you those guys are CIA? Check your peepers with an eye doctor." Mike turned away and let the courtroom door swing shut behind him, and I walked back up to the well just as Harlan Moffett stepped into the courtroom.

"All rise. Hear ye, hear ye," the clerk droned on, announcing the entrance of the judge and reading the case into the record.

Moffett explained the procedure. In the old days, most of the questioning of the panel was done by the lawyers. In high-profile cases, or matters with sensitive issues, it could drag on for days. More recently the state courts had adopted the federal procedures, in which the judge controlled what was asked. We would have our jury sworn by the end of the afternoon.

He began with general information, reading the names of all the participants and witnesses in the case. "You know anybody, recognize any of these names? Just raise your hand and I'll call on you." Jurors took the opportunity to look each of us over but none responded.

"You're going to hear from three police officers during the trial. Anybody here have cops in the family?" Six hands went up around the room. "No reason to make you believe them any more or any less than other witnesses, is there? You'll evaluate their testimony the same way you would any other person, isn't that right?"

Robelon and I were making notes next to those names we had of people already sitting in the jury box, how they responded to the inquiries, whether aloud or with facial expressions and physical gestures. We would probe them on personal information that seemed relevant to either side. In this case, Paige Vallis carried far more weight than the few police officers, who would be subject to more intense scrutiny as witnesses in drug sales or gun possession cases. They had nothing to offer that would shed light on the events in Andrew Tripping's apartment.

Moffett had reached the point at which he talked about the crimes with which the defendant was charged. "You got any problems with any of these?" he asked, trying to get past the word "rape" without raising any red flags. In my dozen years at the prosecution table, I wagered this would be a first if he succeeded.

Two hands went up in the jury box. I looked over my shoulder and saw more scattered through the rows.

"Your Honor," I said, getting to my feet, "may we take these at the bench?"

Moffett wasn't pleased with my suggestion. It would waste precious minutes, and would result in more people being excused than he wanted. He knew that if he denied my request to approach him and hear the personal revelations one by one, fewer women would discuss their concerns in the open courtroom, among strangers. Both Robelon and I would have less opportunity to make challenges for cause.

He was about to deny my request when my adversary rose to agree with me. Always better for the defense to let the jurors think they were truly sensitive to the issue.

Number three stood between Robelon and me, at the front of the courtroom, telling Moffett she could not possibly serve at this trial. "I was a victim of rape myself, Judge."

"When was that?"

"Five years ago. Raped and beaten."

"Was it here, in New York? Miss Cooper or one of her colleagues handle your investigation?"

"No, sir. No one was ever caught."

"And Mr. Tripping didn't commit the crime, did he?"

She stared at her shoes and tears filled her eyes. "No, sir."

"And you know he's presumed innocent and has the right to a fair trial?"

She was choking up and couldn't talk. She nodded her head in the affirmative.

"So what's your problem?"

Robelon got the point and was eager to have the judge let her go. He had no desire to waste one of his limited number of peremptory challenges on someone who was clearly not going to be sympathetic to his client, or anyone else charged with this offense.

"All I'm asking is why you can't give this defendant a fair shake. Tell me."

"Judge, I think she's-"

"Don't tell me what you think, Ms. Cooper. I'm trying to move this along."

The juror looked at me, obviously hoping I would intervene again so that she could regain control of her emotions.

"Let me get you a cup of water," I said, stepping back to counsel table.

"I'm afraid I'm the wrong person for this kind of trial, sir. You may not think it's rational, but I can't sit here and listen to another woman describe a forcible assault. It's-it's still too raw for me. I'm sorry, I'm just not able to do it."

The judge had heard enough. "Report back to the central jury room tomorrow morning. Tell 'em to mark your ticket for civil court next time."

In all, seven women approached the bench to talk about their personal experiences. Four asked to be excused, and three felt they could not honestly know how they would react to sitting through the emotionally charged testimony of another survivor.

"Nobody says she's a victim yet," the judge growled at the last one on line. "That's what the jury's got to decide."

I checked my watch. Moffett would keep us till seven or eight in the evening to complete our selection. Nothing would move him from his schedule.

When he finished the general questioning, he passed the long green seating chart over to me so I could continue on with the more personal inquiries. I placed it on the small podium in front of the box and took a few seconds to match the jurors' faces to the names and addresses on the small printed summons representing each person before me.

By five-fifteen we had agreed on eleven jurors. I had bounced the butcher whose two teenaged sons had been arrested for a variety of crimes they didn't commit, the department store customer-complaint representative who thought it was impossible for women to be raped by men they knew and dated, and the acting student who thought O. J. Simpson was misunderstood by the media.

Peter Robelon made the classic mistake that defense attorneys often did while handling their first rape cases. He struggled for ways to get rid of all the women on the jury, figuring that men would place themselves in Andrew Tripping's shoes, find them too close a fit, and walk him out the courtroom door.

Little did he know the sad lesson I had learned over the years, that women were far more likely to criticize the conduct of others of their sex and blame them for their own victimization. I used to knock myself out trying to stack the box with a dozen intelligent women, until a small delegation of men told me, after a trial, that the ladies had been far too judgmental about the victim's conduct.

I watched my adversary knock off the avowed feminist with three unmarried sons in college and graduate school-not likely to vote with me when it came time to reach a verdict-and get rid of five or six young women whom he didn't happen to notice were making eye contact across the room with Andrew Tripping or Robelon himself, almost flirtatiously.