“But we don’t know any of these candidates. How do we become psychic overnight?”

“We don’t become psychic. We become detectives,” I say. “You’re going to take half the surveys and drive to the addresses that are listed on them. You want to find out whatever you can. Are they religious? Are they rich? Poor? Do they have political campaign signs on the lawn? Do they live above where they work? Do they have a flagpole in the front yard?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“More often than not that’s someone who’s extremely conservative,” I explain.

“Where are you going to be?” he asks.

“Doing the same thing.”

I watch Howard leave, plugging the first address into his phone GPS. Then I wander the halls of the office asking other public defenders if they’ve had any of these folks on their panels—a lot of the jurors get recycled. Ed is about to head out the door to court, but he glances at the sheaf of papers. “I remember this guy,” he says, pulling one survey free. “He was part of my jury on Monday—grand larceny case. He raised his hand during my opening statement and asked if I had a business card.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Sadly,” Ed says, “no. Good luck, kiddo.”

Ten minutes later, I’ve plugged an address into my GPS and find myself driving through Newhallville. I lock the doors for safety’s sake. Presidential Gardens, the apartment building between Shelton and Dixwell Avenues, is a lower-income pocket of the city, with a quarter of the residents living below the poverty line, and the streets that bracket the residences are rife with drug traffic. Nevaeh Jones lives in this building, somewhere. I watch a little boy run out the door of one building, not wearing a coat, and start jogging when the cold hits him. He wipes his nose on his sleeve in midstride.

Will a woman from this area see Ruth and think she’s being railroaded? Or will she see the socioeconomic difference between them and be resentful?

It’s a hard call. In Ruth’s unique case, the best juror may not be one with the same color skin.

I put a question mark at the top of the survey—this is one I’ll have to consider further. Driving slowly out of the neighborhood, I wait until I see children playing outside and then pull over to the curb and call Howard’s cell. “So?” I ask when he picks up. “How’s it going?”

“Um,” he says. “I’m sort of stuck.”

“Where?”

“East Shore.”

“What’s the problem?”

“It’s a gated community. There’s a low fence and I could look over it, but I’d have to get out of the car,” Howard says.

“Then get out of the car.”

“I can’t. See, back when I was in college, I kind of made a rule for myself—don’t get out of the car unless there’s a happy, living black person in sight.” He exhales. “I’ve been waiting for forty-five minutes, but the only people in this part of New Haven are white.”

That’s not necessarily a bad thing for Ruth. “Can’t you just go peek over the wall? Make sure she doesn’t have a Trump sign on her lawn?”

“Kennedy—there are neighborhood watch signs all over the place. What do you think is going to happen if they see a black man trying to peek over a wall?”

“Oh,” I say, embarrassed. “I get it.” I look out the window to where three kids are jumping into piles of leaves; I think of the little black boy I saw streaking away from Presidential Gardens. Ed told me last week that he defended a twelve-year-old involved in a gang shooting with two seventeen-year-olds, and that the prosecution was gunning to have all three tried as adults. “Give me an hour and then meet me at 560 Theodore Street in East End. And, Howard? When you arrive, it’s safe to get out of the car,” I say. “I live there.”

—

I LIGHTLY DROP the bag of Chinese food onto the desk of my home office. “I have goodies,” I say, taking out the lo mein and laying claim to it.

“So do I,” Howard says, and he points to a stack of papers he’s printed out.

It’s 10:00 P.M., and we’ve set up camp at my home. I left Howard there all afternoon to do online research while Odette and I swapped stacks of surveys. For hours, I’ve battled traffic, sussed out more jurors by neighborhood, and scanned the plaintiff and defendant lists at the courthouse to see if any of the potential jurors have been criminally prosecuted or have relatives that were criminally prosecuted.

“I found three guys who were charged with domestics, a woman whose mother got convicted of arson, and a lovely little old lady whose grandson’s meth lab was busted last year,” Howard announces.

The screen reflects, glowing green around Howard’s face as he scans the page. “Okay,” he says, opening a plastic container of soup and drinking from the side without a spoon. “God, I’m starving. So here’s the thing: you can get some good dirt on Facebook, but it depends on privacy settings.”

“Did you try LinkedIn?”