who did?”
“She hasn’t given us a theory.”
Just then, a sheriff stepped into the courtroom. “All rise!”
The judge—a beefy, gray-haired guy in his early fifties—zipped up his robe over a white shirt and light blue tie as he stepped up to the bench.
“The Circuit Court of Cook County is now in session,” the sheriff bellowed, “the Honorable—”
The judge held his hand out to the sheriff and shook his head dismissively. The sheriff looked wounded but clapped his mouth shut.
“Judge Bates,” Maggie whispered. “He hates pomp and circumstance. New sheriff.”
I nodded and turned toward the judge, hands behind my back.
“Counsel, where are we?” the judge said.
Maggie stepped toward the bench and introduced me as another lawyer who would be filing an appearance on behalf of Valerie Solara. That drew a grouchy look from the judge.
“Hold on,” he said. “Let’s get this on the record.” He directed the sheriff to call the court reporter. A few seconds later, she scurried into the room with her machine, and Maggie went through the whole introduction again on the record.
“Fine,” the judge said when she was done, “now you’ve got three lawyers. More than enough to voie dire our jury panels.” The judge looked at the sheriff. “Call ’em in.”
“Excuse me, Judge,” Maggie said, taking a step toward the bench. “If we could have just five more minutes, we’ll be ready.”
Judge Bates sat back in his chair, regarding Maggie with a frown. He looked at the state’s attorneys for their response.
Ellie Whelan stepped forward. “Judge, this has taken too long already. The state is prepared, and we’d like to pick the jury immediately.”
The judge frowned again. I could tell he wanted to deny Maggie’s request, but Martin Bristol carried a lot of weight in Chicago courtrooms, even if he wasn’t present at the moment. “Five minutes,” the judge barked. He looked pointedly at Maggie. “And that’s it.” When the judge had left the bench, Maggie nodded at the door of the order room. “C’mon. Let’s go see how Marty’s doing. It will help that you’re going to try this case. You’re one of his favorites.”
We walked to the door, and Maggie swung it open. Martin Bristol sat at a table, a blank notepad in front of him. He was hunched over in a way I’d never seen before, his skin grayish. When he saw us, he straightened and blinked fast, as if trying to wake himself up.
“Izzy,” he said with a smile that showed still-white teeth. “What are you doing here?”
“Izzy’s looking for work, so I’m going to toss her some scraps.” Maggie shot me a glance. She wanted it to seem as if she was hiring me as a favor, not as a way to save her grandfather.
“I’d really appreciate it,” I said.
“Of course,” Martin said. “Anything for you, Izzy.” His posture slumped again, the weight of his shoulders appearing too much to hold.
“Mr. Bristol, are you all right?”
Maggie took a seat on one side of him. After a moment, I sat on the other side, a respectful distance away.
A moment later, when he’d still said nothing, Maggie put her hand on his arm. “Marty?”
Again, he didn’t respond, just stared at the empty legal pad, his mouth curling into a shell of sadness.
There was a rap on the door and the sheriff stuck his face into the room. “He’s had it,” he said, referring to the judge. “We’re bringing in the prospective jurors now.”
Maggie’s eyes were still on her grandfather. “Izzy and I can handle the voie dire. We may not open until tomorrow, so why don’t you go home?”
He sat up a little. “What have I always told you about jury selection?”
“That it’s the most important part of the trial,” Maggie said, as if by rote.
“Exactly.” He straightened more but didn’t stand.
“I think you should go home. Get some rest.”
His gaze moved to Maggie’s. I thought he would immediately reject the notion, but he only said simply, “Maybe.”
“Let us handle it.” Maggie nodded toward the courtroom. “I’ve already told the judge that Izzy was filing an appearance.”
Again, I waited for swift rejection, but Martin Bristol nodded. “Just this one time.”
“Just this once,” Maggie said softly.
Martin pushed down on the table with his hands, shoving himself to his feet. “I’ll explain to Judge Bates.” He slowly left the room.
Maggie’s round eyes, fringed with long brown lashes, watched him. Then she met my gaze across the table. “You ready for this?”
My pulse quickened. “No.”
“Good,” she said, standing. “Let’s get out there.”
5
“H ow’s Theo?” Maggie asked as the sheriff led a panel of about fourteen potential jurors through the Plexiglas doors and into the courtroom. Theo was the twenty-two-year-old guy I’d been dating since spring.
“Um…” I said, eyeing the potential jurors. “He’s fine. So what’s your strategy here? Did you do a mock trial for this? Do you know what kind of juror you want?”
As was typical, the possible jurors being led in were a completely mixed bag—people of every color and age. I remembered a story my friend, Grady, once told me about defending a doctor who had been sued. As they were about to start opening arguments, the doctor had looked at the jury and then looked at Grady. “Well, that’s exactly a jury of my peers,” the doc had said sarcastically.
When Grady told me the story, we both thought the doctor arrogant, but we understood what he meant. Chicago was a metropolis that was home to every type of person imaginable. As a result, you never knew what you were going to get when you picked a jury in Cook County. “Unpredictable” was the only way to describe a jury in this city.
“We talked to a jury consultant,” Maggie said, answering my question, “but tell me, what’s going on with Theo?”
I turned to her. “Why are you asking this now?”
“My grandfather always taught me to have two seconds of normal chitchat right before a trial starts.”
“Why?”
“Because for the rest of the trial you become incapable of it and because it calms you down.” She peered into my eyes. “And I think you could use some of that.”
“Why?
