“In the first available seat.” She shakes her head. “I know what you’re getting at, Ms. McQuarrie. But honestly, I don’t have a problem with black people.”
That’s when Howard drops his pen.
I hear it like a gunshot. I spin around, meet his eye, and start to fake an Oscar-worthy coughing fit. This was our prearranged signal. I choke as if I am hacking out a lung, and drink from the glass of water on the defense table, and then rasp at the judge, “My colleague will finish up here, Your Honor.”
When Howard stands up, he starts swallowing convulsively. I’m sure that the judge is going to think the entire defense team has the plague, when I see the reaction on Lila Fairclough’s face.
She freezes the minute Howard steps in front of her.
It’s infinitesimal, the time between that and how fast she stretches her lips into a smile. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t witnessed it. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Fairclough,” he says. “Just a couple more questions.
“What’s the percentage of black children in your classroom?”
“Well, I have a class of thirty, and eight of my children are African American this year.”
“Do you find that the African American children have to be disciplined more frequently than the white children?”
She starts twisting her ring on her finger. “I treat all my students equally.”
“Let’s step outside of your classroom for a moment. Do you think in general that African American children have to be disciplined more frequently than white kids?”
“Well, I haven’t read studies on it.” Twist, twist. “But I can tell you I’m not part of the problem.”
Which, of course, means that she thinks there is a problem.
—
WHEN WE FINISH the individual questioning, and the first set of fourteen jurors are led back to the holding room, Howard and I huddle together and sort through who, if anyone, we want to strike for cause. “Are we ready to discuss excusals?” Judge Thunder asks.
“I’d like to excuse juror number ten,” Odette says, “the one who indicated that a black person can’t get a fair job, let alone a fair trial.”
“No objection,” I answer. “I’d like to excuse juror number eight, whose daughter was raped by a black man.”
“No objection,” Odette says.
We excuse a man whose wife is dying, and a mother with a sick baby, and a man who supports his family of six and whose boss has told him he cannot miss a week of work without risking his job.
“I’d like to excuse juror number twelve,” I say.
“No way,” Odette says.
Judge Thunder frowns at me. “You haven’t developed a challenge for cause, Counselor.”
“She’s racist?” I explain, but it sounds ridiculous even to me. The woman teaches black students and swore she wasn’t prejudiced. I might know she has implicit bias based on her reaction to Howard and her nervous tic of twisting her ring, but if I explain our little experiment to Odette or the judge, I’ll be in trouble.
I know if I call her in for further questioning, it won’t do any good. Which means that I either have to accept her as a juror or must use one of my peremptory strikes.
Odette has exercised one strike against a nurse, and another against a community organizer who admitted that he can find injustice anywhere. I’ve dismissed a woman who lost an infant, a man who sued a hospital for malpractice, and one of the guys who—thanks to Howard and Facebook—I know went to a white power music festival.
Howard leans across Ruth so he can whisper in my ear. “Use it,” he says. “She’s going to be trouble, even if she doesn’t look it.”
“Counselor,” the judge demands, “are we all invited to your little gossip session?”
“I’m sorry, Your Honor—a moment to consult with my co-counsel?” I turn back to Howard. “I can’t. I mean, I have another eighty-six jurors to get through here, and only four more strikes. Satan could be part of the next pool, for all we know.” I meet his gaze. “You were right. She’s biased. But she doesn’t think she is, and she doesn’t want to be seen that way. So maybe, just maybe, it’ll swing in our favor.”
Howard looks at me for a long second. I can tell he wants to speak his mind, but he just nods. “You’re the boss,” he says.
“We accept juror number twelve,” I tell the judge.
“I’d like to strike juror number two,” Odette continues.