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
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
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