A Reasonable Doubt by Susan Sloan (free novels .txt) 📕

could respond, the prosecutors hurried back to their table, and everyone rose.

Judge Pelletier entered the courtroom and took her seat on the bench.  She made note of the fact that the state, the defense, and the defendant were represented, and then nodded to the clerk who proceeded to call off twelve numbers.  In turn, twelve nervous people jumped out of the wooden pews where they had been seated, and took their places in the comfortable leather chairs of the jury box.

It was a totally random group in many ways -- race, gender, age, education, profession, economic means, and it represented, to a great extent, the kind of mix that had, over the past thirty years, become Jackson County.

John Henry began the juror questioning.  In his blunt, but folksy way, he was trying to determine which twelve of the hundred and fifty assembled would likely favor the prosecution’s position in the matter of the State of Washington versus Jason Lightfoot.

“Good morning, Ma’am,” he greeted Potential Juror Number 28, a seventy-seven-year-old retired schoolteacher, as he stood at the podium.  “Have you ever served on a jury before?”

“As a matter of fact, I have,” Julia Estabrook replied proudly.  “Three times, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You’ve done your civic duty three times,” John Henry marveled, “and now we’re calling on you again.”

“No, wait,” she amended.  “It was four times.  I forgot that arson case five years ago.”

“Four times, then,” John Henry said with a smile.  “Excellent.  In that case, I certainly don’t have to tell you how all of this works, so we can move right along.”  The woman smiled in return, and he decided he had her.  “Have you ever had any personal interaction with the police?” he asked, plunging right in.

“I most certainly have,” Julia Estabrook declared.  “Two years ago, my house was broken into while I was up in Bellingham, visiting with my sister.  I called the police as soon as I came back, and they came right out.  The officers were very nice, but they told me there wasn’t much chance of my getting any of my things back.”  She sighed.  “Sadly, they were right.  The thief was never caught.”

“Do you believe that policemen, because of the very nature of their jobs, are more vulnerable than others in our community and deserve our respect and appreciation?”

“I most certainly do,” the prospective juror replied.  “They put themselves in harm’s way every day to protect us.”

“In that case, would you have any trouble sentencing someone who killed a policeman to the maximum penalty -- to death?”

The woman blinked several times at that.  “Well, I must say I don’t generally believe in an eye for an eye,” she said, “but when you put it that way -- I suppose I could.”

“Thank you,” the prosecutor said.

When it was her turn, Lily didn’t stand at the podium.  Instead, she stood directly in front of the woman.

“Would you assume, just because the victim of a crime was a policeman, that the person who was accused of killing him was guilty?” she inquired.

“My dear,” Julia Estabrook declared, “I don’t care what people around here are saying.  I wouldn’t assume that anyone was guilty of anything unless it could be proven to me beyond a reasonable doubt.”

In Lily’s head, a question mark turned into an exclamation point.

. . .

“Tell me, sir, do you drink alcohol?” Lily asked Potential Juror Number 9, a fifty-six year old employee at the Port Hancock Paper Mill.

“Can’t rightly say that I don’t,” Hector Aquino replied.

“Well then, have you ever been drunk?”  Lily pressed.  “I mean, really, seriously drunk?”

Aquino laughed.  “Sure have,” he said.  “Probably more times than I can remember.”

“And can you remember what you did on those specific occasions?”

“What do you mean – did I get up and do a dance on the bar?  Did I punch out someone I didn’t even know?  Did I walk down the middle of Broad Street without any clothes on?  Or did I crash my car through a plate glass window -- is that what you mean?” the mill hand inquired.

“Yes,” Lily said with a smile, “did you ever do anything like that.”

“Well, if I did, I sure don’t recollect, which is probably a good thing,” he declared with a chuckle.  “When I drink like that, sometimes, I don’t even remember how I get home.”

“So, if you’d had, say, a fight with someone while you had been drinking -- would you be able to say, with any certainty, how the fight came about, or what actually happened?”

“Don’t recall if I ever got into it with anyone like you’re talkin’ about, and to be honest, don’t really know if I could recall it,” he told her.  “When I drink like that, everything tends to be a bit of a blur, which is of course pretty much why I drink in the first place.”

At that, a little giggle rippled through the prospective jurors seated in the spectator section.

“Let’s say you did do something while you were drunk, something that was criminal, even if you couldn’t remember what it was,” John Henry countered.  “If it could be proven to you that you really did do it -- do you think you should take responsibility for it?”

“I guess, if I did somethin’ that was really criminal, I should take what‘s comin’ to me,” Hector Aquino said with a shrug.  “After all, no one’s makin’ me drink  except maybe the wife.”

. . .

“Good Morning,” John Henry addressed Potential Juror Number 73, a fifty-year-old Native American who worked for the State Forest Service.

“Mornin’,” Rocker Greenwood said in return.

“This case has had pretty wide coverage in the media,” the prosecutor began.  “Have you heard much about it?”

“Sure have,” Greenwood replied.  “Can’t hardly get away from it.”

“I see, and what would you say would be your main source of information -- the newspaper, the radio, the television?”

“The local bar,” the potential juror said.

Another little ripple of laughter rolled across the courtroom.

“The local bar,” John Henry repeated.  “Do you go there often?”

“Pretty much every night,