That is my black security guard, my perfect ten. Odette knows this, which is why she is willing to use a peremptory strike against him. But I am up like a shot before she even finishes her sentence. “Your Honor, sidebar?” We approach the bench. “Judge,” I say, “this is a blatant violation of Batson.”
James Batson was an African American man who was tried for burglary in Kentucky by an all-white jury. During the voir dire phase of the trial, when the jurors were being selected, the prosecutor used peremptory strikes against six potential jurors—four of whom were black. The defense tried to discharge the jury on the grounds that Batson was not being tried by a representative sample of the community, but the judge denied it, and Batson wound up being convicted. In 1986, the Supreme Court ruled in Batson’s favor, stating that a prosecutor’s use of peremptory strikes in a criminal case could not be based solely on race.
Since then, any time a black person gets bounced from a jury, any defense attorney worth his or her salt will cry Batson.
“Your Honor,” I continue, “the Sixth Amendment guarantees the right of a defendant to be tried by a jury of his or her peers.”
“Thank you, Ms. McQuarrie, I know very well what the Sixth Amendment says.”
“I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. New Haven is a very diverse county, and the jury needs to reflect that diversity, and right now this gentleman is the only black juror in this pool of fourteen.”
“You have got to be kidding,” Odette says. “You’re saying I’m racist?”
“No, I’m saying that it’s a lot easier for you to stack a jury in the State’s favor without being called on it because of your race.”
The judge turns to Odette. “What’s your reason for exercising your peremptory strike, Counselor?”
“I found him argumentative,” she says.
“This is the first group of jurors,” Judge Thunder warns me. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”
Maybe it’s the fact that he is so blatantly favoring the prosecution right now. Maybe it is that I want to show Ruth I am going to bat for her. Maybe it’s just because he used the word knickers and it made me remember my steroid rant against him. For whatever reason, or maybe all of them, I straighten my spine and take this opportunity to unbalance Odette before we even get started. “I want a hearing on this,” I demand. “I want Odette to produce her notes. We had other argumentative people on this panel, and I want to know if she documented that characteristic for the other jurors.”
Rolling her eyes, Odette climbs into the witness box. I have to admit, there’s enough public defender pride in me to love seeing a prosecutor in there, effectively caged. She glares at me as I approach. “You indicated that juror number two was argumentative. Did you listen to the responses of juror number seven?”
“Of course I did.”
“How did you find his demeanor?” I ask.
“I found him friendly.”
I look down at Howard’s excellent notes. “Even when you asked him about African Americans and crime and he came out of his seat and said you were implying he was a racist? Is that not argumentative?”
Odette shrugs. “His tone was different than juror number two’s.”
“Coincidentally, so was his skin color,” I say. “Tell me, did you make any notes about juror number eleven being argumentative?”
She glances down at her chart. “We were moving quickly. I didn’t write down everything I was thinking, because it wasn’t important.”
“Because it wasn’t important,” I clarify, “or because that juror was white?” I turn to the judge. “Thank you, Your Honor.”
Judge Thunder turns to the prosecutor. “I’m not going to allow the peremptory challenge. You’re not getting me into a Batson situation this early in the game, Ms. Lawton. Juror number two remains on the panel.”
I slide into my seat beside Ruth, pretty damn pumped. Howard is blinking at me like I’m a goddess. It’s not every day you get to school a prosecutor. Suddenly Ruth passes a note to me. I unfold it, read the two simple words: Thank you.
—
WHEN THE JUDGE dismisses us for the day, I tell Howard to go home and get some sleep. Ruth and I leave the courthouse together; I peek outside first to make sure that the coast is clear of media. It is—but I know that will change as soon as we start the trial.
When we reach the parking lot, however, neither one of us seems to be in a great hurry to leave. Ruth keeps her head ducked, and I know her well enough by now to know that something’s on her mind. “You want to go grab a glass of wine? Or do you have to get back to Edison?”
She shakes her head. “He’s out more than I am these days.”
“You don’t sound thrilled about that.”
“Right now I’m not exactly his role model,” Ruth says.
We walk around the corner to a bar that I’ve been to many times before, celebrating victory or drowning defeat. It’s full of lawyers I know, so I squirrel us into a booth way in the back. We both order pinot noir, and when the glasses arrive, I toast. “Here’s to an acquittal.”
I notice that Ruth doesn’t lift her glass.