Sycamore Row

thanked theprospective jurors for being there, as if they had a choice. He explained that the first order of business was the selection of the jury, twelve jurors plus two alternates, and he figured that might take most of the day. At times things would move slowly, as they often do in court, and he asked for their patience. A clerk had written each of their names on a small piece of paper and put them in a plastic bin. He would pull them out at random, and that’s how the jurors would initially be seated. Once the first fifty were in place, the rest would be excused for the day, and maybe called back tomorrow if needed.
    The courtroom had two sections, right and left of a center aisle, and each section had ten long benches that held about ten people each. Since the courtroom was at full capacity, Judge Atlee asked the rest of the spectators to please rise and clear out the first four rows to his left. This took a few minutes as people shuffled and stumbled and shoved about, uncertain where to go. Most stood along the walls. He reached into the plastic bin, extracted a name, and called out, “Mr. Nevin Dark.”
    Nevin’s heart skipped a beat, but he stood and said, “Yes sir.”
    “Good morning, Mr. Dark. Would you please sit over here on the first row, far to the left, and we’ll refer to you as Juror Number One for the time being.”
    “Certainly.”
    As Nevin walked down the aisle, he noticed the lawyers staring at him as if he’d just shot someone. He took his seat on the empty front row; the lawyers continued to stare. All of them.
    Nevin Dark. White male, age fifty-three, farmer, one wife, two adult children, no church affiliation, no civic clubs, no college degree, no criminal record. Jake rated him as a seven. He and Portia looked at their notes. Harry Rex, who was standing in a corner by the jury box, studied his notes. Their model juror was a black male or female of any age, but there weren’t many in the crowd. At the contestants’ table, Wade Lanier and Lester Chilcott compared their research. Their model juror was a white female, age forty-five or older, someone raised in the deeply segregated old South and not the least bit tolerant of blacks. They liked Nevin Dark, though they knew nothing more about him than Jake did.
    Number Two was Tracy McMillen, a secretary, white female, age thirty-one. Judge Atlee took his time unfolding the scraps of paper, studying the names, trying to pronounce them perfectly, allowing each to assume a new position. When the first row was filled, they movedto the second with Juror Number Eleven, one Sherry Benton, the first black to be called forth.
    It took an hour to seat the first fifty. When they were in place, Judge Atlee excused the others and said they should remain on standby until further notice. Some of them left, but most stayed where they were and became part of the audience.
    “Let’s recess for fifteen minutes,” the judge said, tapping his gavel as he lifted his cumbersome frame and waddled off the bench, black robe flowing behind. The lawyers gathered into frantic groups, all chattering at once. Jake, Portia, and Harry Rex went straight to the jury deliberation room, which was empty at the moment. As soon as Jake shut the door, Harry Rex said, “We’re screwed, you know that? A bad draw. Terrible, terrible.”
    “Hang on,” Jake said, tossing his legal pad onto the table and cracking his knuckles.
    Portia said, “We have eleven blacks out of fifty. Unfortunately, four of them are on the back row. Once again, we’re stuck on the back row.”
    “Are you trying to be funny?” Harry Rex barked at her.
    “Well, yes, I thought it was rather clever.”
    Jake said, “Knock it off, okay? I doubt if we make it past number forty.”
    “So do I,” replied Harry Rex. “And just for the record, I sued numbers seven, eighteen, thirty-one, thirty-six, and forty-seven, for divorce. They don’t know I’m working for you, Mr. Brigance, and once again I’m not sure why I am working for you because I’m damned sure not getting paid. It’s Monday morning, my office is filled with divorcing spouses, some of them carrying guns, and here I am hanging around the courtroom like Chuck Rhea and not getting paid.”
    “Would you please shut up?” Jake growled.
    “If you insist.”
    “It’s not hopeless,” Jake said. “It’s not a good draw, but not completely hopeless.”
    “I’ll bet Lanier and his boys are smiling right now.”
    Portia said, “I