Dennis continued. "I've been giving a lot of thought to our affirmative defense. Temporary insanity."
"Why am I not surprised?"
"The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced we should argue that I entered a dissociative state."
"Why don't we wait and see what the psychiatrist has to say?"
"Why don't we plan out our defense and tell him what to say?"
"That's not the way it works."
"Oh, please. Offer him a lot of money."
"I won't buy testimony."
"Can't you prepare him to testify? Honestly, we're just talking about giving him an idea what terminology he should use. I don't see why that should bother him." Dennis paused. "Especially if he's getting paid a fortune. Make him earn his fee. Everyone else does."
Christina pushed herself out of her chair. "This is about as much of this as I can take."
Dennis appeared wounded. "What? Just when I thought we were starting to get along."
"I will not be a part of this charade! This man is not grieving. He's scheming! He's got the whole thing worked out to the finest detail. Probably had it all worked out before he came to your office that first time and before he-"
"Christina!" Ben cautioned. "This is our client."
"Well, I'm sorry, but I think it's time we had a serious come-to-Jesus meeting. Long past time, actually. This cold, calculating approach doesn't persuade me."
Dennis raised his chin. He looked at her firmly, steadily, but Ben had a hard time determining what was going on behind his eyes.
"Did it ever occur to you, Ms. McCall," Dennis began, "that it might be easier for me to focus on the details of trial preparation than to think about what happened? Than to think about my wife, trapped in that car, bleeding to death, crying out for me, for some rescue or comfort, but no one coming, not me, not anyone else, for seven days? Did it ever occur to you that I might need a distraction from her voice, the one I hear screaming for me all night long, every moment?"
Christina fell silent. Ben supposed that meant he had made his point. At least for now.
"This does raise something we have to discuss, though, Dennis." Ben laid his pad down on the table. "Listen to me and listen carefully. It doesn't matter what Christina and I think. Or the media. But if that jury thinks for one moment that you're trying to pull a fast one over them, you're blowfish. History. And nothing I can do will salvage you. That's all she wrote."
"At the end of the day," Christina said, "the most important thing is not that the jury believes you. The most important thing is that they like you. If they like you, they can forgive a lot. If they don't like you, they won't forgive anything."
Dennis nodded thoughtfully. "I appreciate the heads-up. So we have to make sure they don't get the idea that I'm shamming."
Ben leaned forward. "They have to think-no, they have to know that you're sincere. Understand me?"
Dennis beamed. "Great. I can do sincere."
Christina threw down her pencil and left the room.
10
This was the most difficult jury selection Ben had tackled in his entire career.
Of course every potential venireperson empaneled had heard of the case-how could they not? And of course most said that although they might have formed some opinions about the case they still felt they could weigh the evidence presented in a fair and impartial manner. A few had already made up their minds-guilty as charged-and they were removed. But that still left a big pool that somehow had to be whittled down to eighteen people who might lend a sympathetic ear to Dennis's story. Ben had no idea how to do that. All the traditional questions were useless.
He did learn that none of them had seen him on Nancy Grace. But 60 percent of them had read about it the next day in the Tulsa World.
Dennis was right again.
"Let's have a show of hands. How many of you have had some kind of encounter with the police at one time or another?"
Most of them had. A few of them were related to police officers, and one woman was a former police officer herself. They would probably have to be removed by a peremptory challenge. But where to go after that? Upon closer questioning, Ben learned that most of the encounters were simple traffic infractions and no one was particularly angered or frustrated by the police. Yes, the cops were self-righteous jerks, but that was to be expected, they seemed to be saying. No one carried any serious grudges, much less murderous intent.
"How many of you are married?"
Most were.
"How would you feel if your spouse or significant other were in danger-or in pain-and there was someone who could help, but they refused to do so?"
He had hoped this question might stir up some strong feelings, but he was disappointed. Of course they cared about their partners, but it all seemed very abstract. No one would admit they might be moved to extreme action. They'd go through proper channels, they said. Friends and family first. Then police. Perhaps the media. But nothing else. Certainly no recourse to violence.
"I know that for many of you, your faith, or religion, is very important. Do any of you believe that your faith might make it impossible for you to view the case fairly?"
Predictably, the initial response was, No way, dude. All but two of them said that faith was an important part of their lives, but their faith made them stronger and smarter, better able to serve on a jury. Ben continued to press. He knew Guillerman would remove anyone opposed to the death penalty, so he didn't bother asking questions down that line. He did find three who believed that "an eye for an eye" was God's law, and that most likely spelled trouble. Ben used the Good Samaritan story to suggest that the police were lousy Samaritans and didn't help when they could, but it wasn't working. He was pleased to see that many said forgiveness was important. Jesus came to forgive us and wanted us to forgive each other as well, et cetera. But when it came time for them to retire to the jury room, would the Old Testament trump the New Testament? Or the other way around? How could he possibly know?
By the end of the third day of questioning, Ben felt he had targeted the most dangerous ones, the people who absolutely had to be removed. But he had no sense of who the good ones were, which jurors might actually help his case. And he had no idea how to find them.
He was almost prepared to sit down and flip a coin when Christina passed him a scrap of paper.
He glanced down. Ask if they have a cat.
Huh? He gave her a puzzled look. And she returned a look that he recognized as meaning: Just do it.
"I was wondering," Ben said, clearing his throat, "how many of you have a pet?"
Almost all did. And even though he knew that, statistically, dog owners outnumbered cat owners, he found that was not true in this jury pool. Almost 70 percent of them had at least one cat at home.
He started with the woman in Chair #1. She was in her mid-sixties, widowed, retired from school teaching.
"How long have you had your cat, Mrs. Gregory?"
"Almost ten years now. Since my sweet Henry died."
Interesting juxtaposition of facts. "Do you spend a lot of time with…?"
"Percy."
"Yes. Do you spend a lot of time with Percy?"
"Oh, land sakes. As if I have any choice. That little rascal follows me everywhere I go. When I do my crocheting, he drapes himself across my wrists and just lies there. Doesn't seem like a comfortable place to be, what with my constant movement and such. But he never seems to mind."
"I gather you're pretty fond of your kitty."
"I suppose so."
"And I'll bet Percy is fond of you."
"Well, you know cats. I feed him. That gives me an edge." She chuckled a little at her own joke.
"How would you feel if someone tried to take Percy away from you?"
"Mercy's sakes. Why would anyone do that?"