I left court that day with the feeling that the jury system was being gamed. That it’s all psychological manipulations and obfuscations. That it’s about winning. And losing. A game of wits and ego. That it has nothing to do with law, let alone order. Guilt, or innocence. Justice. Or truth.

That feeling was reinforced when, out of curiosity, I watched the trial for a couple of days when it was in full swing. I sat in the public gallery and listened to a befuddling array of evidence and witness testimony that I could barely follow. The jurors looked as if they were suffering from a form of death by a thousand cuts as they listened to the dry-as-dust testimony of a forensic accountant breaking down the details of one forged receipt after the next.

I left court with the impression that particular financial fraud case was so complex that even my brother, a financial accountant, would have had trouble keeping up with the complexities of the case. Let alone a jury of ordinary people without much exposure to the intricacies of the financial world.

It didn’t surprise me when I heard the jury had found the defendant guilty in record time. Anything to get out of there and go back to their lives.

The theatrics from Mitch Alkins and Dale Quinn underscored that impression today in court on the first day of the trial. They tried every trick in the book to get the jury’s sympathy. And quite a few tricks that aren’t in any books. Yet.

They were good. Among the best. They modulated their voices to the right pitch. Their pauses were perfectly timed. Their hand gestures were choreographed to perfection. The wily way they selected facts to suit their arguments while undermining any suggestion they might be wrong. They played each juror. They played their emotions, and they played their perception of the case. They vied for the sympathy of each and every juror.

To be fair, maybe, I’m underestimating the jury. Maybe the jurors in the Blair trial will ignore the theatrics and focus on piecing together the granules of truth that will come out during the trial until they have a big enough picture to reach a fair verdict. I hope that happens. That’s what they’re there for after all.

There are thirteen jurors. That includes one alternate juror who has to listen to the evidence and testimony but will almost certainly not be allowed to deliberate. Not unless one of the other jurors drops out or is kicked out for breaking one of Judge Shaw’s rules. Such as listening to my podcast or following other media coverage of the case.

There are seven men on the jury. Six women. All but three of the jurors are over the age of forty. Word is that such a composition favors the defense. Older women are said to be more judgmental of rape victims. The oldest jurors are in their late sixties. The youngest juror is in his mid-twenties. He is expected to be partial to the defense as well because he’s a guy and the same approximate age as the defendant. That makes them kindred spirits, so the theory goes. In reality, who knows?

Three of the jurors visibly resent being in the jury. Their eyes wander longingly to the courtroom doors. You’d have to be blind not to notice that they wish they were anywhere else.

That’s a point in favor of the prosecution, because research shows that reluctant jurors tend to take out their wrath on the defendant. They’re more likely to convict. One of the three is an accountant. The other is in sales. The third is a plumber who runs his own small business. He begged Judge Shaw to recuse him from jury duty. He’s gone so far as to bring his accounting ledger to court to show the judge how desperately he needs to be working full-time. Judge Shaw was unsympathetic. It wasn’t easy finding jurors who could be impartial, who didn’t know the parties in this case. Not in a town like Neapolis, where the old families go back generations.

The jury foreman is a hardware store manager. He’s the only juror who volunteered to be foreman. I guess he figured that since he runs a store, he can run a jury, too. There’s another juror who I think will be influential. He’s a construction supervisor. Burly, with dark brown hair and laughing eyes. He is charismatic. The other jurors seem to defer to him. Dale Quinn made a special effort to connect with him when he gave his opening statement.

The jurors are still getting to know each other. Still breaking the ice. We’re watching them closely. Watching their gestures and their personal tics as they listen to testimony.

I’ve covered my share of trials. I’ve seen a few juries in my time. One thing is always the same. The jurors avoid looking at the defendant when the trial begins. By the time closing arguments are delivered, they will stare him down as if trying to see into his soul. Their job is simple. It’s to convict the defendant if he is guilty. Or acquit if he is innocent. The problem is: What happens if they get it wrong?

This is Rachel Krall for Guilty or Not Guilty, the podcast that puts you in the jury box.

Before you go, in my short time in Neapolis I’ve learned about another girl who lived in this town. Her name was Jenny and she died a quarter of a century ago. I first learned about Jenny in a letter delivered to me in a, shall we say, unorthodox way. I want the writer to know: You have my attention. You know where to find me. Let’s talk. I mean, really talk. I’m game if you are.

25

Rachel

Harris Wilson was a bundle of nerves as he walked across the courtroom and took the stand. He pulled at his tie as if it were choking him and exhaled loudly after taking his oath.

Rachel watched the courtroom artist next to her draw Harris as a gangly young man with bad acne, sitting awkwardly in the witness stand. His tie was almost comical around his scrawny neck. Standing alongside him in the courtroom sketch was Mitch Alkins. His dark hair brushed across his forehead, his hands in his pockets. Even in that relaxed pose, he looked like a cobra. Ready to strike.

“Are you nervous, Harris?” Alkins asked.

“A little.”

“Must be nerve-wracking to testify at such a young age. I gather you’ve only recently turned eighteen?”

“Yeah. Three weeks ago.”

“Your Honor,” Dale Quinn interrupted. “The defense acknowledges that Harris Wilson is young and nervous. Perhaps that will allow Mr. Alkins to get to the point.”

“Let’s move it along here, Counselor,” Judge Shaw directed.

Rachel bent down to check her phone as Alkins guided Harris through the events of the night of Lexi’s party.

Rachel had been waiting all morning for Hannah to respond to the callout on the podcast by sending another letter or email to the podcast email address. So far there was nothing from Hannah, and no messages from Pete other than to say that he’d come up empty-handed after calling every hotel in Neapolis. And I mean every single hotel, motel, and bed-and-breakfast place within twenty miles of town, he’d written. There’s nobody named Hannah staying at any of them.

Rachel returned her attention to Harris, who was sitting on the edge of his seat and talking too fast as he answered Alkins’s questions about the night of Lexi’s party.

“Scott told me to go after Kelly and meet him at the playground near my house,” said Harris. “He said that when he got there, I should leave because he was going to take her somewhere and have sex with her. He told me he was in this competition with his roommate and he was trailing behind by a few girls. He said he needed an easy lay and that he needed my help to reel her in.”

“What did you say in response?” Alkins asked.

“I asked Scott, ‘What if she doesn’t want to have sex with you?’” Harris recalled. “Scott said, ‘Trust me; she knows who I am. She’ll be flattered that I’m interested in her. Anyway, I wasn’t planning on asking her. She’ll do what I want. They always do.’”

A gasp rippled through the courtroom. Alkins paused as heads turned toward Scott Blair. He sat impassively, but Rachel could tell that he was exerting every ounce of self-control to avoid reacting. His parents, behind him, were equally still, like gazelles freezing to avoid catching the attention of a predator. Gradually, despite Scott’s best efforts, a pink tinge ran up his neck.

Alkins nodded slightly as if to tell the jury that he wasn’t surprised at the red flush of guilt. He moved on, asking Harris to describe what happened once he’d brought Kelly to the playground and waited for Scott’s next move.

“Scott texted me to say he was in his car next to the playground and that I should leave so he could be alone with Kelly. He used an emoji that means sex. I hesitated. Kelly seemed nice. I was worried about Scott. He’d drunk a lot that night. Usually he didn’t drink because of his swimming. That night he was plastered. Scott can get pretty unpredictable when he’s drunk.”

“But you left her anyway?”