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By the time we entered, Malcolm seemed to have regained some of his good nature. He greeted people as we proceeded to a table in the comer on which a card had been placed: RESERVED. “My table,” Malcolm said, holding out a chair for me. “My own little comer of the world.”
    “You seem to have little corners of your own all over town,” I said.
    “Makes me happy,” he said, calling for a waiter. “A couple of dozen oysters, and my usual. You, Jess?”
    “Mineral water with lime,” I said.
    The place was filling up, a series of old small rooms now bustling with businessmen and women, and tourists enjoyed freshly shucked oysters and beer or cocktails.
    With our drinks served, I asked Malcolm what had upset him.
    “Whitney is using her preemptive rights to dismiss four out of the five jurors you and I agree on.”
    “What a shame. Which one will she accept?”
    “The pottery maker, McEnroe.”
    “I noticed Jill Farkas write a note about him,” I said. “She thinks he might harbor resentment for the rich.”
    “Malcolm shook his large, leonine head. “I like him. You like him. That’s enough for me.”

Chapter Eight
    If time does, indeed, go by quickly when you’re having fun, the week of jury selection should have progressed at a snail’s pace. It was hard work, attempting to look into the minds and hearts of a couple of hundred men and women in whose hands Billy Brannigan’s life would be placed.
    But the week did go by quickly. There was spirited debate between defense and prosecution over some of the individuals, but in most cases the prospective jurors came and went until, at some time Friday afternoon, a panel of twelve acceptable to both sides had been chosen, along with six alternates. The trial itself would commence at nine Monday morning.
    The strengths and weaknesses of Billy Brannigan’s defense team, headed by the flamboyant and larger-than-life Malcolm McLoon, came to the surface during that week. As brilliant an attorney as Malcolm was—and that was evident during his questioning of the prospective jurors—he would never win any awards for organization. He shot from the hip at every turn, which brought a series of objections from Whitney James, as well as from Judge Wilson. None of this fazed Malcolm. Instead, it seemed to spur him on to greater eloquence, obviously reveling in the combat, something all successful trial attorneys must enjoy if they are to face the battle day after day, year after year, case after case.
    But it made me uncomfortable as I went about my chore of evaluating responses to questions from Malcolm and Whitney James. What began to bother me was the whole process of jury selection was not, it seemed to this layperson, predicated upon finding twelve open-minded, fair, and impartial men and women. Instead, the game was to pick as many jurors who might have a predisposition to favor acquittal. Whitney James, of course, was looking for twelve men and women who would come into the court wanting to hang Billy Brannigan.
    But that was too esoteric for me to deal with. Great legal scholars. I suppose, have debated that aspect of our legal system for centuries.
    The only tangible conflict I experienced began to emerge the second day of jury selection, and it came from a not unexpected source, Malcolm’s highly-paid professional consultant, Jill Farkas. I certainly was willing, even anxious to defer to her expertise. But there were a few times when I genuinely and fervently disagreed with her. Because I was there at Malcolm’s behest, I felt it was my duty to present my opinions to him, which didn’t always set well with Ms. Farkas. Although she tried to present a quiet, reasoned, and professional demeanor, I could sense her growing irritation when we debated our respective views.
    I tried to leave behind the pressures and intensity of each court day, to compartmentalize it. Once I left the courtroom, I was free to do what I wished, and made it a point to avoid anything