Closer to the jury box was the prosecution table where Eggert and a beefy older man, with heavy hands and a neck like an ox, sat representing the government. The ox wore a blue blazer and his hair was swept rigidly into place, the very image of a man who liked his steak still bleeding. He was the FBI agent on the case, Special Agent Stemkowski. Once, in the middle of the proceedings, he cracked his knuckles and the rat-a-tat sounded like gunshots.
Judge Gimbel sat up high on the bench, bowing his hairless head as he worked on documents obviously unrelated to this trial. He was a busy man, Judge Gimbel, and you couldn’t expect him to concentrate on something as routine as Prescott’s jury voir dire.
“Now, as you may know,” said Prescott to the entire group of potential jurors, “one of the defendants in this case is a public official, a city councilman. The other defendant is the councilman’s aide. Do any of you believe that public officials, like the city councilman here, are usually corrupt?”
No response.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, I need you to be honest. Don’t any of you look at a public official like my client, a city councilman on the government payroll, and say to yourselves, he is dirty somehow?”
Still no response. He smiled kindly, looked down at his clipboard, ran his finger across a list of names of the jury venire, and looked up again. “Mrs. Emily Simpson.”
An older woman raised her hand, thin frame, pale powdered skin, bouffant hair, glasses that looked like they were squinting.
“Mrs. Simpson, do you work?”
“Yes. I work the register at a discount store.”
“And you pay your taxes then, of course.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Simpson’s hands grasped the pocketbook on her lap.
“Do you think the money you send over in taxes is well spent?”
“On the whole? No,” she said, looking around at the others seated nearby for encouragement.
“Why not?”
“The politicians don’t listen to us, they listen to the rich folk, the people who have the money to help them.”
“So what you’re saying, Mrs. Simpson, is that most politicians can be bought.”
“I guess I am.”
“Anyone else? How many believe that politicians as a whole are generally unscrupulous and easily bought and paid for?”
Mrs. Simpson hesitantly raised her hand and looked around for support. The woman seated next to her, with thick features and a dignified cant to her head, smiled at Mrs. Simpson and raised her hand, and then a man in the front row, crew cut, thick neck, and then another hand, and soon the great majority of potential jurors had their hands raised.
I glanced at Eggert. He was nodding his head, as if Prescott was proving his case for him.
“And why is that?” Prescott looked back at his clipboard. “Mrs. Lanford?”
The dignified woman next to Mrs. Simpson said, “Yes, that’s me.”
“Why do you think politicians are so easily bought?” asked Prescott.
“Because they’s greedy.”
“And where do you think the money goes, Mrs. Lanford, this money that buys them?”
“In they’s pockets,” said Mrs. Lanford. “Right in they’s own wallets.”
“Those of you who said that politicians are often bought, is that what all of you think?”
“No,” said a man in the back, his gray hair neat, wearing a polo shirt on his day off from the office.
Prescott scanned the names on his clipboard. “Mr. Roberts, is it? Where do you think it goes?”
“To their campaigns,” he said. “They’re always campaigning. It seems every other year there’s a new election.”
“Do you think it’s the politicians’ fault that they need to ask for money?” asked Prescott.
“I guess not,” said Roberts. “I mean, we end up voting for the guy with the most television ads, so I guess it’s our fault as much as anyone’s.”
“Does anyone here believe that politicians should not be allowed to ask for campaign contributions?”
No hands were raised.
“I’m going to hold you all to that now. What you all are telling me is that you each believe it is proper for politicians to ask for campaign contributions, that such requests are precisely what the system demands of politicians like my client.”
Before anyone could reply Eggert stood and in his reedy voice said, “Objection, Your Honor. Mr. Prescott’s voir dire has again devolved into a lecture.”
“Civics 101,” said Judge Gimbel. “We don’t need citizenship classes, Mr. Prescott. Just get on with it.”
“I’m almost through, Your Honor,” said Prescott.
“We’re grateful,” said the judge.
“Now, how many of you have your own businesses?”
A small number of the jurors raised their hands. Prescott referred again to his clipboard. “Mr. Thompkins, what kind of business do you own?”
“A printing shop,” said a thin balding black man with extremely long fingers.
“Who’s running it now?”
“My employees. I have an assistant manager.”
“Now, Mr. Thompkins, if while you’re away your assistant manager should do something wrong, would you be responsible?”
“If he messed up a job, sure I would. I stand by all the work coming out of my shop.”
“Suppose he did something illegal while you were away. Suppose, without your knowing it, he started printing up counterfeit money. Would you still be responsible?”
“No way.”
“Does anyone believe Mr. Thompkins should be criminally responsible if his assistant manager started printing up counterfeit money in his print shop?”
Prescott scanned the jurors and nodded approvingly when he saw no hands raised. “I don’t think so either,” said Prescott. “You’re off the hook, Mr. Thompkins. Thank you very much for your time, I’m sure you all will be terrific jurors.” Prescott sat down at the defense table and formed a huddle with Moore and his trial team and the bearded, snowy jury expert.
Judge Gimbel put down his pen and looked directly at me. “Mr. Carl,” he said. “Do you have any voir dire?”
“Can I have a moment, Judge?” I asked.
With the jury venire still sitting in the courtroom I calmly broke into the Talbott, Kittredge huddle. “Mr. Prescott,” I said. “May I speak to you, please?”
He pressed his lips together and said, “Let’s go outside for a moment, shall we.”
I followed him out of the courtroom, passing the rows of potential jurors, the press, the court buffs, old men who hang around the courthouse whiling away their retirements with free entertainment. Once outside in the long cream hallway, Prescott lifted his chin and peered down at me, looking very straight and very stern.
“That last bit, Mr. Prescott, sir,” I said. “The questions about the counterfeiter? I have to admit they caused me some concern.”
“They did?” he said, his voice rising in confusion.
“Yes, sir. It appeared as if you may have been indicating, maybe, that a subordinate, not a principal, is the responsible party here.”
Prescott looked down at me, his eyes wide with an injured innocence. “It was just voir dire, Victor.”
“But still, sir, it caused me some concern.”
“Walk with me to the men’s room,” he said. “Let’s take advantage of the break.”
The men’s room was just down the hall and I found myself in the awkward position of standing next to Prescott at the urinals. He was a stern, formal man, not the type, I would have thought, to chatter while grasping tightly to his prick, but I would have been wrong.