God's Not Dead 2 (11 page)

“DO YOU KNOW
they used to hold slave auctions in this courthouse up to 1861?”

I shake my head at Grace. “No. I do know I can trust your knowledge on these sorts of things.”

We’ve just entered the historic Hope Springs Courthouse, built in . . . built a long time ago. We made it up the massive stone steps in the front that seem to go on forever, passed the pillars of authority, and got through the doors. Now we’re in a short line waiting to go through the metal detectors.

“The court would end up selling the slaves after their owners passed away without a will or declared bankruptcy. It was a very common practice.”

“Maybe I can use that piece of wisdom during the trial,” I say.

“They started building the courthouse in 1855, stopped during construction of the Catholic church, and then resumed until the start of the Civil War in 1861.”

I nod. “I didn’t know that.”

“What part?” she asks.

“All of it.”

The two security guys look like college dropouts and appear about as bored as they would be if their job were asking people whether they want to supersize their meals. I nod at one of them since we recognize each other from my visits here.

“This feels a bit like entering Martin Luther King High,” Grace tells me after we retrieve the valuables we’d put in the plastic bowl.

We walk to the center of the courthouse, and she stops and looks up. The walls of the circular rotunda soar overhead, capped off by a colorful Renaissance-style dome. “I love standing underneath this,” Grace says, staring upward.

“Get sued a lot, do you?”

“I try to bring a class here every year. I was waiting with this year’s class and wanted to try to come right before school gets out.”

As she cranes her neck, her blonde locks brush over her shoulders. I notice for the first time the style seems different.

“Did you do something new with your hair?”

She quickly turns to face me and then touches the back of it as if embarrassed. “No
 
—I just
 
—well, yes, I got a haircut. Changed it up a little.”

“It looks nice,” I tell her as I smile in a friendly, professional manner.

We continue walking to the courtroom on the second floor. Grace has questions about what we’ll be doing this morning.

“It’s called voir dire,” I say. “Means we have a chance to eliminate potential jurors we think will dislike you.”

Her forehead crinkles as her eyebrows go up.

“What?” I ask.

“Couldn’t you just say ‘jury selection’?”

“Well, yes, of course. But I want you feeling confident about the lawyer representing you.”

“You expect me to feel confident when you still have the fuzzy patch underneath your lip?”

I touch my chin. “It’s not fuzzy. It’s fashionable.”

“For boy bands, maybe. Not lawyers.”

“That hurts.”

A group of suits and skirts pass us by. Grace studies them carefully.

“I tease the more nervous I get,” she says.

“That’s funny, ’cause I do it the more at ease I happen to be.”

“Do you ever get nervous?”

She so doesn’t know me.
“Never,” I tell her. “I’m completely unflappable.”

I plan for this to be the only lie I will tell her.

When we learned earlier this week who would be representing the plaintiff in this case, I told Grace that I knew of him. He’s a senior partner in a prestigious firm and is certainly very capable at what he does.

I didn’t tell Grace what I actually think of Peter Kane. I don’t think she’d appreciate the language I’d have used.

The Harvard graduate barely looks at us when we arrive in the courtroom. Even lawyers who are complete jerks are usually professional enough to do simple things like greeting their opponents.
But Kane is one of those guys who really give bad lawyers an even worse name.

The charge Kane has led for the ACLU the past five years makes me think of Major General William Sherman’s famous march to the sea, the one that left a scorched trail of death and wreckage in its wake. Kane would of course howl at that comparison, but deep down he would also know it’s true.

Kane looks like a wax museum version of himself. Nice suit and tie and plastic face. I’m sure it was a handsome mug back when it didn’t look like leather that’s spent a little too much time in the Bahamas. He’s just a few years away from hitting sixty. He has almost as many years of trial experience as I have life.

Next to him on one side is Simon Boyle, looking barely half Kane’s size not because of actual body weight but because of his nerd-chic glasses and his beta-male demeanor. I’m not sure I’ve ever met Simon in person before; he’s the type of guy you might see a dozen times and still forget. I’ve heard he’s smart, however, and that’s the only reason he’s with Kane.

On the other side is a stunner named Elizabeth Healy. She’s all work today in her dark, conservative suit that’s quite a contrast to the not-so-conservative outfits she wears on Saturday nights on the town. But regardless of what she looks like, I know Elizabeth is another star on an all-star team. Kane’s not working with anybody who won’t keep up with him.

In the first row, right behind Kane’s team, sit Brooke Thawley’s parents, Rich and Katherine. Across from us, twelve potential jurors sit in the jury box, waiting to be interviewed. Another thirty wait in the gallery.

The table Grace and I sit at seems far too big for only two people.

“All rise for Judge Stennis.”

I breathe in and hold my breath for as long as I can. There’s something else I haven’t told Grace. It’s that I know Judge Stennis quite well.

And, oh yeah, he declared me in contempt of court.

He’s a large presence with his six-foot-four or -five height and shoulders that make his robe look like a curtain. He’s got such a generous and gentle smile that I’m sure the distinguished-looking judge makes a wonderful grandfather. It’s just when His Honor gets perturbed
 
—a word he actually used with me
 
—he gets really quite perturbed indeed.

“Come to order in the matter of
Thawley v. Wesley
. You may be seated.”

As he taps his gavel, I see his gaze dart over to me. The expression on his square face doesn’t change a bit, but I can imagine what he might be thinking.

Ahhhh. You again.

Judge Stennis gives the potential jurors a brief summary about the case and instructs them to consider the civic importance of serving on a jury. He introduces us and goes over some rules, then asks them if they’ve heard of the case. Then he asks each juror specific questions from the cards they filled out about themselves. Soon the attorneys begin interviewing each person one by one, and I quickly realize the batch they’ve invited to this courtroom is really and truly something else.

Sometimes I think there is a God above because I keep being put into these situations, and I honestly wonder if some kind of higher power is just messing with me. Seriously.

The back-and-forth is a bit like Kane and me having a fun game of Sunday afternoon bowling, except that our goal is to
knock certain pins down one at a time while keeping up the ones we want. And while looking at one another with nice glaring smiles of contempt.

We tell the potential jurors just as the judge did that they need to be honest and that we’re looking for
fair
and
impartial
jury members. Of course, we also want those people we believe will be totally biased toward our case.

The first person Kane talks to is named Crazy Cat Lady. Actually, that’s not her name, but I’ve missed her stated name because her hair looks like she was struck by lightning and her eyes appear ten times their natural size behind the thick lenses she’s wearing. All she’s missing are several cats sitting in her arms.

“So it says here you’re a psychic,” Kane says as he walks in front of where she sits in the jury box.

A mop of hair nods up and down. “Yes,” says a high-pitched voice that almost sounds like a child’s.

“So then you must know who’s going to win this case?” Kane says. “Wait
 
—don’t answer that. But do answer this, Ms. Chappest.”

I think the last name sort of rhymes with
catnip
.

“Do you know any reason you can’t be fair and impartial?” Kane asks.

“No, not at all,” that strange voice says. Then she adds, “Not unless Wynona says otherwise.”

Kane glances at me with genuine amusement and surprise. “And who might Wynona be?”

“She’s the spirit of the witch who was hung on this land years ago.”

“I see. We’d like to challenge this juror, Your Honor,” Kane says.

“Do you have any objection, Mr. Endler?”

“I do not, Your Honor.”

Judge Stennis agrees on the challenge for cause by Kane. This is a no-brainer. It’s a legitimate challenge, which both of us can make at any time if we believe and can show that a potential juror is unfit. This can happen if they know the plaintiff or defendant or if they’ve been previously involved in a similar case or perhaps if they just sound seriously crazy like Cat Lady here.

Kane and I also each have three peremptory challenges, where we don’t have to state the reason why we’re challenging. This was a comically easy beginning, but they will become tougher the longer time goes by.

Next up is Tim, a big guy with tattoos filling both of his arms. It’s easy for me to see the reason why he certainly won’t work. “Five years ago you were arrested for assaulting your son’s fifth-grade teacher; is that correct?” I ask him.

He nods his giant head.

“I’d like to challenge for cause, Your Honor.”

An older woman named Norma is questioned by Kane. He asks her what she does for a living.

“I’m a retired teacher.”

“Ever have any disciplinary run-ins with the administration?”

“Never.”

Norma says this as if the very suggestion is an insult to her character. It’s like asking a librarian if she’d like to simply watch the movie version instead of reading the book.

“Acceptable to the plaintiff, Your Honor.”

I look over at Grace before saying, “And for the defense, Your Honor.”

Hours have been spent in law school studying voir dire. But at the end of the day, it’s really all guesswork. There are no secret
killer questions to ask. The key is to get them talking to you, to reveal the colors inside of them rather than the ones they’re wearing.

The next scratch-off for Kane comes almost as easily as the Crazy Cat Lady. “Can I ask you what your favorite TV show is?” he asks the man, who might be in his midsixties.

“
Duck Dynasty
.”

“Peremptory challenge, Your Honor.”

No surprise there. I look at Grace and can tell she’s disappointed to see him go.

The young girl interviewed next has to be eighteen in order to have been summoned for jury duty but looks a couple years younger. The outfit she’s wearing isn’t appropriate for a courtroom. Actually, it’s really not appropriate anywhere in public.

“Can I ask what
your
favorite show happens to be?” Kane asks.

I look over at him and wonder if he’s just having fun today, amusing himself with questions like this.

“
Pretty Little Liars
,” Miniskirt Girl says.

This certainly works for Kane, but everything about this girl screams
rebellion
to me. I have to use one of my peremptory challenges.

The day drags on with more questions and probing and talking with these people. Kane uses one of his challenges on a young man with a square face and big muscles and a military haircut. I know instantly that Kane won’t want the guy even before he asks him what his last paid position happens to be.

“Artillery forward observer, United States Marine Corps.”

Kane certainly doesn’t want someone like that on the jury.

There are six people left and one seat to fill.

“David Baxter,” Kane calls.

“It’s just Dave,” the next man tells Kane.

“Says here you are the reverend at Church of the Redeemer.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And do you feel you could be fair and impartial for a case like this?”

Kane asks this in a tone that sounds like he’s asking Dave whether he can fly. The fortysomething-year-old nods and says he believes he can be.

“Your Honor, we’d like to challenge for cause.”

The judge gives a frown. “And what
cause
would that be?”

“Your Honor, he’s an ordained minister. Need I say more?”

I’m surprised when Judge Stennis simply nods and says that the juror can be excused. I stand and speak out before the pastor can move.

“Objection, Your Honor.”

The judge certainly has heard those words coming from my mouth before.

“Basis, Mr. Endler?”

“Absolutely discriminatory, Your Honor. Challenges for cause cannot be used to discriminate against a certain class of jurors by race, ethnic background,
religion
, or gender. That’s black-letter law. The fact that religious belief is tangential to this case doesn’t change that. . . . And Mr. Kane’s insistence that this case isn’t about faith means the juror’s personal belief should be a nonissue.”

The judge looks at me and seems to be considering something. Maybe my argument or maybe how much patience he’s going to have with me.

But you know I’m right.

“Upon further reflection, I find respondent’s assertion is correct. The objection is sustained. You’re not her pastor, are you?”

Dave shakes his head, suddenly looking as surprised as Kane that he’s still there. “No, Your Honor.”

Now Kane stands up. “Your Honor, I must protest. Clearly this man will be
 
—”

“Mr. Kane, I have already ruled on this juror’s eligibility. You had a set number of peremptory challenges, all of which you have used. Therefore it’s up to opposing counsel to make this decision.”

I look over at Kane and allow the grin to come around slowly. “We accept him, Your Honor.”

These little battles count, especially in front of the jurors. This is not only about finding the right people to judge this case but also to make a good first impression.