The Brass Verdict

jury and kept my client from a conviction.
    It was a lot to bank on, considering juror number three had answered questions from the judge and the lawyers for less than thirty minutes. But that was what jury selection came down to. Quick, instinctual decisions based on experience and observation.
    The bottom line was that I was going to let the two lemmings ride on the panel. I had one preemptory left and I was going to use it on juror seven or juror ten. The engineer or the retiree.
    I asked the judge for a few moments to confer with my client. I then turned to Elliot and slid my chart over in front of him.
    “This is it, Walter. We’re down to our last bullet. What do you think? I think we need to get rid of seven and ten but we can get rid of only one.”
    Elliot had been very involved. Since the first twelve were seated the morning before, he had expressed strong and intuitive opinions about each juror I wanted to strike. But he had never picked a jury before. I had. I put up with his comments but ultimately made my own choices. This last choice, however, was a toss-up. Either of the jurors could be damaging to the defense. Either could turn out to be a lemming. It was a tough call and I was tempted to let my client’s instincts be the deciding factor.
    Elliot tapped a finger on the block for juror ten on my grid. The retired technical writer for a toy manufacturer.
    “Him,” he said. “Get rid of him.”
    “You sure?”
    “Absolutely.”
    I looked at the grid. There was a lot of blue on block ten, but there was an equal amount on block seven. The engineer.
    I had a hunch that the technical writer was like the tree trimmer. He wanted badly to be on the jury but probably for a wholly different set of reasons. I thought maybe his plan was to use his experience as research for a book or maybe a movie script. He had spent his career writing instruction manuals for toys. In retirement, he had acknowledged during voir dire, he was trying to write fiction. There would be nothing like a front-row seat on a murder trial to help stimulate the imagination and creative process. That was fine for him but not for Elliot. I didn’t want anybody who relished the idea of sitting in judgment – for any reason – on my jury.
    Juror seven was blue for another reason. He was listed as an aerospace engineer. The industry he worked in had a large presence in Southern California and consequently I had questioned several engineers during voir dire over the years. In general, engineers were conservative politically and religiously, two very blue attributes, and they worked for companies that relied on huge government contracts and grants. A vote for the defense was a vote against the government, and that was a hard leap for them to make.
    Last, and perhaps most important, engineers exist in a world of logic and absolutes. These are things you often cannot apply to a crime or crime scene or even to the criminal justice system as a whole.
    “I don’t know,” I said. “I think the engineer should go.”
    “No, I like him. I’ve liked him since the beginning. He’s given me good eye contact. I want him to stay.”
    I turned from Elliot and looked over at the box. My eyes traveled from juror seven to juror ten and then back again. I was hoping for some sign, some tell that would reveal the right choice.
    “Mr. Haller,” Judge Stanton said. “Do you wish to use your last challenge or accept the jury as it is now composed? I remind you, it is getting late in the day and we still have to choose our alternate jurors.”
    My phone was buzzing while the judge addressed me.
    “Uh, one more moment, Your Honor.”
    I turned back toward Elliot and leaned into him as if to whisper something. But what I really was doing was pulling my phone.
    “Are you sure, Walter?” I whispered. “The guy’s an engineer. That could be trouble for us.”
    “Look, I make my living reading people and rolling the dice,” Elliot whispered back. “I want that man on my jury.”
    I nodded and looked down between my legs where I was holding the phone. It was a text from Favreau.
    Favreau: Kick 10. I see deception. 7 fits prosecution profile but I see good eye contact and open face. He’s interested in your story. He likes your client.
    Eye contact. That settled it. I slipped the phone back into my pocket and stood up. Elliot grabbed me by the sleeve of my jacket. I bent down to hear his urgent whisper.
    “What are you doing?”
    I shook off his