—

I MEET RUTH at the back entrance of the courthouse, just in case Wallace Mercy has decided that jury selection is worth his time and energy. She is wearing a plum suit that I went with her to buy at T.J.Maxx last week, and a crisp white shirt. Her hair is pulled back and knotted at the nape of her neck. She looks every inch the professional, and I would have assumed she is at court because she is an attorney if not for the fact that her knees are shaking so uncontrollably they are knocking together.

I take her arm. “Relax. Honestly, this isn’t worth getting nervous over.”

She looks at me. “It’s just suddenly…very real.”

I introduce her to Howard, and as they shake hands I see something almost imperceptible pass between them—an acknowledgment that it is surprising for both of them to be in this courthouse, for different reasons. Howard and I flank Ruth as we walk into the courtroom and take our seats at the defense table.

For all that Judge Thunder is an asshole to us attorneys, juries eat him up. He looks the part, with wavy silver hair and grave lines of experience bracketing his mouth, forming parentheses around whatever wisdom he has yet to speak. When our hundred potential jurors are jammed into the courtroom, he gives preliminary instructions.

“Remember,” I whisper to Howard, leaning behind Ruth’s back. “Your job is to take notes. So many notes that your hand cramps. If one of those jurors flinches at a certain word, I need to know the word. If they fall asleep, I want to know when.”

He nods as I scan the faces of the potential jurors. I recognize some, from their Facebook photos. But even those I don’t recall have expressions I am used to seeing: there are the faces of those I secretly call Boy Scouts, who are delighted to be performing this duty to their country. There are the Morgan Stanleys—businessmen who keep checking their watches because their time is clearly more important than spending the day in a jury box. There are the Repeat Offenders, who have been through this process before and wonder why the hell they’ve been called again.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m Judge Thunder, and I’d like to welcome you to my courtroom.”

Oh, good grief.

“In this case, the State is represented by our prosecutor Odette Lawton. Her job is to prove this case by reason of evidence, beyond a reasonable doubt. The defendant is represented by Kennedy McQuarrie.” As he begins to list the charges that Ruth was indicted for—murder and involuntary manslaughter—her knee starts trembling so hard I reach under the table and press it flat.

“I will explain to you later what those charges mean,” Judge Thunder says. “But at this moment, is there any member of the panel who knows the parties in this case?”

One juror raises his hand.

“Can you approach the bench?” the judge asks.

Odette and I move closer for the conference as a noise machine is turned on so that the rest of the jury cannot hear what this guy says. He points to Odette. “She locked up my brother on a drug charge, and she’s a lying bitch.”

Needless to say, he’s excused.

After a few more blanket queries, the judge smiles at the group. “All right, folks. I’m going to excuse you, and the bailiff will take you to the jury lounge. We’ll be calling you in one at a time so that the counselors can ask some individual follow-ups. Please don’t talk about your experiences with your fellow jurors. As I told you, the State has the burden of proof. We haven’t started to take evidence yet, so I urge you to keep an open mind and to be honest with your answers in front of the court. We want to make sure you are comfortable sitting as a juror in this case, just as the parties involved have the right to feel that their process can be judged by someone fair and impartial.”

If only the judge were the same, I think.

Voir dire is a cocktail party without any booze. You want to schmooze your jurors, you want them to like you. You want to act interested in their careers, even if that career is quality control at a Vaseline plant. As each individual juror is paraded before you, you rate him or her. A perfect juror is a 5. A bad juror is a 1.

Howard will list the reasons that a juror isn’t acceptable, so we can keep them straight. Ultimately we’ll wind up taking 3s and 4s and 5s, because we have only seven peremptory strikes we can use to kick a juror out of the pool without having to give a reason. And we don’t want to use those all up at once, because what if there’s a bigger problem juror yet to come?

The first man to take the stand is Derrick Welsh. He’s fifty-eight and has bad teeth and is wearing an untucked plaid shirt. Odette greets him with a smile. “Mr. Welsh, how are you doing today?”

“All right I guess. A little hungry.”

She smiles. “Me too. Tell me, have we ever worked on any cases together?”

“No,” he says.

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Welsh?”