But Garcetti reminded me that Vinson’s company had provided us with a terrific set of graphics. Which was true. And now wasn’t the time to alienate him, Gil insisted. So Bill and I packed up our notebooks and trekked down to court, followed by two law clerks, Vinson, and a parade of others from our office, all of whom wanted a front-row seat on the action.
By the time we got there, the cramped, plywood-paneled courtroom of Department 103 was packed to capacity with the jurors who had made it past hardship screening. The bailiff called the court to order. Ito’s clerk, Deirdre Robertson, pulled eighteen names at a time. The candidates took their place in the jury box. First the judge would question them. Then the defense. Then we would.
In California, it’s routine to have a judge ask jurors the tough questions, which in this case meant those concerning police credibility, domestic violence, and race. Conventional wisdom holds that jurors are more likely to be candid with a judge than with the lawyers. Jurors are generally impressed with the power the judge wields and will think twice before lying. Some of the questions, like “Have you or any family member been arrested?” could arouse personal resentments. Better they resent the judge than the attorneys.
Ito, however, seemed reluctant to assume the role of the heavy. He couldn’t bring himself to ask the tough questions. If, for example, he asked a juror, “Have you or anyone in your family been the victim of domestic violence?” and the answer was yes, he should have been prepared to press:
“Who was involved?”
“My father hit my mother.”
“Were the police called?”
“Yes.”
“How did that make you feel?”
“Pretty terrible…”
And so on.
But Lance was too delicate, too fearful of offending, to probe.
He floundered politely for a while, then finally said, “Ms. Clark?” He was turning the questioning over to me.
And so I stood to face the twelve in the box. No surprises here. The first batch was largely black, largely female. I had no illusions about this group. Their questionnaires indicated that they believed overwhelmingly that Simpson was innocent. But they’d be damned if they’d say that to me. I tried to get one young black guy to admit that seeing a celebrity on camera didn’t mean that one actually knew him-the point being that someone who seemed to be a real nice guy on the tube could still be capable of drawing a knife across a woman’s throat.
You’ve seen the defendant on television, according to your questionnaire, right? I asked him.
I could see from the look on his face that he regretted admitting even that much.
A couple of times, he replied.
Do you feel that you know him?
I don’t know.
Well, has he ever invited you over to dinner?
No.
Have you ever gone out to the movies with him?
No.
Have you ever met his family? Ever talked about the weather, politics, or religion?
Of course, this elicited a litany of nos.
So, do you think you know him?
I guess not, came the reluctant reply.
Jurors begrudged me even the most obvious answers for fear they’d say something that might get them dismissed. Bill seemed to fare no better. I was so frustrated that I even turned to Vinson to see if he had any suggestions. He was slouched in his chair, twirling his glasses, wearing a detached, supercilious expression. He looked to me like some indolent white plantation owner. I was astounded to see that he’d taken no notes. On the other side of the room, perky little Jo-Ellan Dimitrius, jury consultant to the stars, was busy scribbling on Post-its and passing them to Shapiro and Cochran.
When it came the defense’s turn at the plate, I was curious to see who’d lead off. Officially, Shapiro was still at the helm, although rumors reached me daily about the internal conflicts on the Dream Team. Cochran, I heard, would call for a meeting, and Shapiro would refuse to go. Or Shapiro’d insist on meeting at his offices, and Cochran would refuse to attend. This struggle carried over into the courtroom. Every time it was the defense’s turn to do something, you’d see Cochran and Shapiro muttering to one another about who would take it.
This time Shapiro must have won the flip. It was clear that Bob had gotten some heavy coaching. His style was still phony and self-important, but he handled himself surprisingly well. He zeroed right in on the sensitive topics and hit them head-on.
Of one well-educated and fairly conservative white woman he asked, “You also saw the freeway incident?”
“Yes… “
“And your conclusion was that O. J. Simpson was fleeing?”
“Yeah. I think he was. Yeah.”
“And then, after all of this was done, your opinion that he was probably guilty was made even stronger, was it not?”
“From what? I am sorry.”
In three more questions, he had her admitting that she did indeed think it made Simpson look guilty.
She was excused for cause.
Perhaps I should take a moment to explain this business of excusing jurors. Each side gets a certain number of peremptory challenges. In this case, we got twenty. These allow you to excuse a juror without giving a reason. If you don’t like the way he parts his hair or don’t approve of the books he reads, you can exercise one of these strikes, as they are also called, to send him packing. Once your allotment is used up, however, you can’t go to the cashier and get more. That’s why we guard our peremptories like thousand-dollar chips in a poker game.
What we prefer to do is challenge for cause. But for that you need grounds-for example, the fact that a juror has already formed such a strong opinion about the case that he or she can’t promise to render an unbiased decision. It’s important to note here that the law does not require that a juror be excused simply because he’s got an opinion about some part of the case-or even because he’s got an opinion about the defendant’s guilt or innocence. The question is whether or not the juror can set that opinion aside and entertain the evidence with an open mind. If he says he can, and you can’t prove otherwise, there is no basis for cause.
The number of challenges for cause is unlimited. Naturally, it’s better to get a juror booted for cause than to use up a valuable peremptory. So even when the grounds seem shaky, attorneys for both sides will pop up with “Excuse for cause, Your Honor.” It’s then up to the judge to decide whether to allow it.
Here Ito gave the defense wide latitude. He gave us virtually none. If, for instance, a juror had written that he found Shapiro “slick,” he was gone in a heartbeat, kicked for cause. If, on the other hand, a juror found me “pushy, too aggressive, too strident,” Ito refused to dismiss him. If we wanted that juror out of there badly enough, we’d have to use a peremptory.
If a juror uttered a remark that was even remotely pro-prosecution, that was grounds for excusal. I’m thinking of one young black man who theorized that Kato would probably be loyal to Simpson because he’d given him a place to live rent-free. I thought this guy would make a great juror. The defense moved to excuse him for cause, and Ito granted the motion. I objected that his opinion was a matter of logic, not bias. But it didn’t matter; he was gone.
The defense didn’t want anyone with an IQ above room temperature. They were kicking jurors simply for being too smart. This happened to one of the alternates, a chemistry student from UCLA. This guy was absolutely brilliant. I knew that he sure as hell was going to understand our scientific evidence, and you could see that he gave the Dream Team agita. Sure enough, they struck him with a peremptory.