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Authors: Rose Connors
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have a relative or close friend who does? Has anyone been the victim of a violent crime? Does anyone know someone who has been?
A couple of jurors are excused on the basis of their answers and Dottie pulls two more slips from her fishbowl. Robert Eastman and Alex Doane, both in their midfifties and wearing suits, fill the vacant seats. An investment banker and a nursing home administrator, both are dressed for work, hoping their time spent here today will be short, no doubt. Yes, they heard the questions asked of the others. No, neither of them has anything significant to report.
Judge Gould moves on to the legal standards jurors are expected to honor—the presumption of innocence, the burden of proof, the unanimous verdict. He asks if any of them will have difficulty accepting those parameters. Not a single hand goes up this time. Every last one of them plans to play by the rules. At this stage in the proceedings, most jurors believe they will.
The judge keeps Geraldine and Harry on a short leash as they ask their follow-up questions. In the end, neither of them has a valid challenge for cause as far as I can see, but Geraldine gets to her feet and announces she does. She always says she does. She can’t help herself. “Number eight, Your Honor, for cause.”
Juror number eight is a twenty-seven-year-old lobsterman from Hyannis. He told us in response to Geraldine’s questions that his view of the Catholic Church in general is grim, the result of too many years spent in repressive parochial schools. He also said that view wouldn’t affect his judgment in this case one whit. Geraldine doesn’t have a leg to stand on here. Even she knows that, I think.
Judge Gould apparently thinks likewise. He smiles at her. “Not going to happen, Ms. Schilling.”
She shakes her blond head at the injustice of it all and then exercises her first peremptory. The lobsterman takes his leave and his replacement answers all the preliminary questions. It’s our turn now. “Mr. Madigan?” the judge says.
Harry leans forward on the table and arches his eyebrows at Holliston. It’s routine to solicit opinions from criminal defendants during voir dire. And this particular defendant certainly seems to have some. He takes the pen I gave him earlier, reaches over to my diagram of the jury box, and draws a big X through the Margaret Murphy square. She’s a fourth-grade teacher, an ex-nun.
“Are you sure?” Harry asks. “She’s had some difficulties of her own with the Catholic Church, remember.”
Holliston reaches in front of me again and draws another X on top of the first one. He’s sure.
Harry excuses Margaret Murphy and she looks a little bit hurt as she leaves the box. Dottie pulls another slip from the fishbowl and we repeat the litany with Ms. Murphy’s replacement. Geraldine exercises her second peremptory, dismissing a middle-aged woman from Wellfleet who confessed to a lifelong belief that Catholicism, with all its martyrs and miracles, is nothing more than myth. A tall, slender black man replaces her, a native of Haiti, according to his questionnaire.
Holliston stiffens at once. He grabs my diagram and draws an X through the newest candidate’s box even before he sits down.
“Maybe we should let him answer a question first,” I suggest.
Our client’s stony expression tells me he can’t imagine why I would propose such a thing. He pushes my diagram, with its new X, across the table toward Harry. Harry sighs and closes his eyes, but says nothing. He’s not obligated to follow Holliston’s instructions, of course. But as a practical matter, most criminal defense lawyers honor their clients’ wishes when it comes to jury selection. We’re choosing the decision-makers, after all. And it’s the client who will live with the decision they reach.
Judge Gould walks through the preliminaries with the tall Haitian and then Harry dismisses him. Just like that. Without a single follow-up question. The dismissed juror
A couple of jurors are excused on the basis of their answers and Dottie pulls two more slips from her fishbowl. Robert Eastman and Alex Doane, both in their midfifties and wearing suits, fill the vacant seats. An investment banker and a nursing home administrator, both are dressed for work, hoping their time spent here today will be short, no doubt. Yes, they heard the questions asked of the others. No, neither of them has anything significant to report.
Judge Gould moves on to the legal standards jurors are expected to honor—the presumption of innocence, the burden of proof, the unanimous verdict. He asks if any of them will have difficulty accepting those parameters. Not a single hand goes up this time. Every last one of them plans to play by the rules. At this stage in the proceedings, most jurors believe they will.
The judge keeps Geraldine and Harry on a short leash as they ask their follow-up questions. In the end, neither of them has a valid challenge for cause as far as I can see, but Geraldine gets to her feet and announces she does. She always says she does. She can’t help herself. “Number eight, Your Honor, for cause.”
Juror number eight is a twenty-seven-year-old lobsterman from Hyannis. He told us in response to Geraldine’s questions that his view of the Catholic Church in general is grim, the result of too many years spent in repressive parochial schools. He also said that view wouldn’t affect his judgment in this case one whit. Geraldine doesn’t have a leg to stand on here. Even she knows that, I think.
Judge Gould apparently thinks likewise. He smiles at her. “Not going to happen, Ms. Schilling.”
She shakes her blond head at the injustice of it all and then exercises her first peremptory. The lobsterman takes his leave and his replacement answers all the preliminary questions. It’s our turn now. “Mr. Madigan?” the judge says.
Harry leans forward on the table and arches his eyebrows at Holliston. It’s routine to solicit opinions from criminal defendants during voir dire. And this particular defendant certainly seems to have some. He takes the pen I gave him earlier, reaches over to my diagram of the jury box, and draws a big X through the Margaret Murphy square. She’s a fourth-grade teacher, an ex-nun.
“Are you sure?” Harry asks. “She’s had some difficulties of her own with the Catholic Church, remember.”
Holliston reaches in front of me again and draws another X on top of the first one. He’s sure.
Harry excuses Margaret Murphy and she looks a little bit hurt as she leaves the box. Dottie pulls another slip from the fishbowl and we repeat the litany with Ms. Murphy’s replacement. Geraldine exercises her second peremptory, dismissing a middle-aged woman from Wellfleet who confessed to a lifelong belief that Catholicism, with all its martyrs and miracles, is nothing more than myth. A tall, slender black man replaces her, a native of Haiti, according to his questionnaire.
Holliston stiffens at once. He grabs my diagram and draws an X through the newest candidate’s box even before he sits down.
“Maybe we should let him answer a question first,” I suggest.
Our client’s stony expression tells me he can’t imagine why I would propose such a thing. He pushes my diagram, with its new X, across the table toward Harry. Harry sighs and closes his eyes, but says nothing. He’s not obligated to follow Holliston’s instructions, of course. But as a practical matter, most criminal defense lawyers honor their clients’ wishes when it comes to jury selection. We’re choosing the decision-makers, after all. And it’s the client who will live with the decision they reach.
Judge Gould walks through the preliminaries with the tall Haitian and then Harry dismisses him. Just like that. Without a single follow-up question. The dismissed juror
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