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Authors: David Kessler
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would you agree that being a homemaker wouldn ’ t be so rewarding if it weren ’ t for your children ’ s ability.”
“Yes,” the woman conceded. “That ’ s certainly true.”
“Then you consider human ability to be something important.”
“I consider human ability to be the only thing that ’ s important,” the woman replied with mild reproof.
“So did my mother,” said Justine matter-of-factly.
Then Justine looked over at the judge.
“Acceptable to the defence,” she concluded.
Abrams ’ smile had given way to a scowl that he could barely hide. In the space of a minute, Justine had turned things around, from facing an enemy to addressing an ally.
To Parker, there seemed to be a pattern in Justine ’ s selections. It was discernible, but the underlying logic behind it remained obscure. When a truck driver came under consideration, she accepted him without even looking up. But when another venireman ogled her with undisguised lust she challenged him without batting an eyelid. She gave the go-ahead to a woman who ran a used-car business, but kept questioning a woman who served as merchandise manager for a large department store until she found grounds to challenge for cause.
Once in a while she asked a strange question, the reason for which neither Parker nor Abrams nor the judge could figure. “Have you heard of Lizzie Borden?” or “What did you think of Joe McCarthy ?” or “Was Christopher Columbus crazy?” But she seemed to pass them regardless of their answers. It was as if she was planting the seeds of some thought in their minds, as the illustrious Sam Liebowitz had done when he asked jurors if they were familiar with Nietzsche, in preparation for his cel ebrated defence of Laura Parr.
But with Liebowitz the fruit of the seeds was very clear: to suggest to the jury in advance of the prosecution ’ s case that the “victim” of the murder was in fact a bully and a thug who enjoyed inflicting physical suffering on women and who had used violence on the defendant immediately prior to the shooting, even though there were no signs of violence on her body or in the room. In Justine ’ s case it wasn ’ t clear what would grow from the seeds.
Chapter 7
Justine stood before the bathroom mirror, holding the bottle of peroxide in her right hand. As she looked at her reflection she began to doubt that the plan made sense. She could never look convincingly platinum blonde. The sight of her deep red hair drove home to her with the most devastating force that the most she could hope for was a pale mousy shade. If anything it would only draw attention to herself without improving the chances of her plan ’ s success.
Justine decided instead to concentrate on the clothes. She knew that Murphy had a preference for blondes, but he would tolerate a girl with red hair as an acceptable alternative if she looked like the kind of cheap slut that he went for. He was the kind of man who liked to tour the singles bars and pick up a different girl every time. She had watched him for several days now, at a discreet distance, following him through the trail of New York bars and discos. Following him had been the hardest part. He liked to walk through the urban combat zones where it isn ’ t safe for a decent girl to walk alone. But she had persevered.
As the sun sank like a smouldering flame and the city dissolved into the bland lifeless tone of the evening twilight, she had followed him like a panther stalking its quarry. She had followed him past greasy pimps and heavily painted hookers. She had followed him past the stooges of the sidewalk con-artists as they enticed the mark into a rigged Three Card Monte. She had watched him from the shadows of the ethnic ghettoes as he strolled and played the game of living footloose in New York . She had tailed him through the singles bars and pick-up joints. She knew him inside out. She had seen him change the colour of his personality like a grass snake, as
“Yes,” the woman conceded. “That ’ s certainly true.”
“Then you consider human ability to be something important.”
“I consider human ability to be the only thing that ’ s important,” the woman replied with mild reproof.
“So did my mother,” said Justine matter-of-factly.
Then Justine looked over at the judge.
“Acceptable to the defence,” she concluded.
Abrams ’ smile had given way to a scowl that he could barely hide. In the space of a minute, Justine had turned things around, from facing an enemy to addressing an ally.
To Parker, there seemed to be a pattern in Justine ’ s selections. It was discernible, but the underlying logic behind it remained obscure. When a truck driver came under consideration, she accepted him without even looking up. But when another venireman ogled her with undisguised lust she challenged him without batting an eyelid. She gave the go-ahead to a woman who ran a used-car business, but kept questioning a woman who served as merchandise manager for a large department store until she found grounds to challenge for cause.
Once in a while she asked a strange question, the reason for which neither Parker nor Abrams nor the judge could figure. “Have you heard of Lizzie Borden?” or “What did you think of Joe McCarthy ?” or “Was Christopher Columbus crazy?” But she seemed to pass them regardless of their answers. It was as if she was planting the seeds of some thought in their minds, as the illustrious Sam Liebowitz had done when he asked jurors if they were familiar with Nietzsche, in preparation for his cel ebrated defence of Laura Parr.
But with Liebowitz the fruit of the seeds was very clear: to suggest to the jury in advance of the prosecution ’ s case that the “victim” of the murder was in fact a bully and a thug who enjoyed inflicting physical suffering on women and who had used violence on the defendant immediately prior to the shooting, even though there were no signs of violence on her body or in the room. In Justine ’ s case it wasn ’ t clear what would grow from the seeds.
Chapter 7
Justine stood before the bathroom mirror, holding the bottle of peroxide in her right hand. As she looked at her reflection she began to doubt that the plan made sense. She could never look convincingly platinum blonde. The sight of her deep red hair drove home to her with the most devastating force that the most she could hope for was a pale mousy shade. If anything it would only draw attention to herself without improving the chances of her plan ’ s success.
Justine decided instead to concentrate on the clothes. She knew that Murphy had a preference for blondes, but he would tolerate a girl with red hair as an acceptable alternative if she looked like the kind of cheap slut that he went for. He was the kind of man who liked to tour the singles bars and pick up a different girl every time. She had watched him for several days now, at a discreet distance, following him through the trail of New York bars and discos. Following him had been the hardest part. He liked to walk through the urban combat zones where it isn ’ t safe for a decent girl to walk alone. But she had persevered.
As the sun sank like a smouldering flame and the city dissolved into the bland lifeless tone of the evening twilight, she had followed him like a panther stalking its quarry. She had followed him past greasy pimps and heavily painted hookers. She had followed him past the stooges of the sidewalk con-artists as they enticed the mark into a rigged Three Card Monte. She had watched him from the shadows of the ethnic ghettoes as he strolled and played the game of living footloose in New York . She had tailed him through the singles bars and pick-up joints. She knew him inside out. She had seen him change the colour of his personality like a grass snake, as
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