70

Bill Masterson knew how to pick a jury. I watched in awe on Monday and Tuesday as Masterson made friends with the potential jurors for the Caleb Tate murder trial. He was relaxed and self-effacing, even poking fun at himself about his weight.

He had a manner that allowed the jury to open up and share with him, and he had his own theories about the best potential jurors for our case. He wanted men. “They’ll be a lot more forgiving of Rikki.” He wanted Hispanics because Rafael Rivera was a key witness for us. And of course, he wanted bona fide evangelical Christians. Since he couldn’t use his peremptory challenges solely on the basis of religion, he got at the issue in other ways.

“Now, the evidence will be that Rikki and Caleb Tate argued about a lot of things, and those things included Rikki’s conversion to Christianity. Have any of you ever argued with your spouse about religious issues? If so, would that impact the way you looked at this case, or would you be able to put that aside and base your decisions solely on evidence?”

A few hands went up, and Bill chatted with them about the spats they’d had with their spouses. He discussed how Rikki’s conversion caused her to change in a big way. I watched the body language carefully. There were two nodders, and I circled them on my list. They were keepers. Would anybody be unable to judge this case fairly because of these religious aspects? Of course not.

Then Bill explained how Rikki’s conversion caused her to file a lawsuit against websites that contained her topless pictures. Caleb Tate opposed the lawsuits. This time I circled the frowners. Bill knew a lot of people struggled with pornography. Would anybody be unable to give Rikki a fair trial because she had once had topless pictures taken? Nope.

Caleb Tate had his turn in front of the jury as well. It frustrated me that he could talk to the jurors under the pretext of voir dire and then hide behind the Fifth Amendment and not take the stand. But there was nothing Judge Brown could do about it. On the plus side, Caleb seemed much stiffer and less at ease than Masterson. A couple of jurors crossed their arms when he asked them questions. When Masterson cracked a joke, everybody smiled. But for Caleb Tate, they were all business.

After two days of probing and haggling and trying to prejudge people based on limited information, both sides finalized their peremptory challenges, and we had a jury in the box. It was a diverse cross section of the citizens of Milton County, and it made me thankful for the jury system. Unlike a lot of trial lawyers, I trusted jurors. They didn’t know the law as well as the judges, but they had an instinct for justice, and they usually got it right.

Judge Brown dismissed the jury with the usual instructions about not discussing the case with anyone. He told them we would start openings first thing in the morning. The thought of it made my palms sweat. Normally I settled down during jury selection, and my nerves would be well under control by the time I gave the opening. But in this case, because Bill Masterson had handled all of the chores of jury selection, I just sat at counsel table and made myself more nervous.

That night, I knew I couldn’t sleep without the help of medication, and I didn’t even try. When I closed my eyes, I thought about my sessions with Gillespie and visualized the jury enraptured by my opening, affirming me with their eyes, drinking in the evidence against Caleb Tate. Deep breaths. Relax every muscle. Remember how they smiled at Bill Masterson.

I fell asleep dreaming of guilty verdicts.

For the most important day of my professional life, I wore a charcoal-gray suit, a white silk blouse, black pumps, and a gold chain around my neck. I had bought into the philosophy of my trial advocacy professor—don’t turn off the jury by the way you dress. It was better to keep it conservative so the jury could focus on what you were saying rather than how you looked.

I arrived ridiculously early and was able to riffle through my notes several times before the courtroom began filling up. During jury selection, the courtroom had been half-full. But this morning there would be standing room only. Judge Brown had allowed one pool camera, which would send a live feed to all of the local television stations. A few of my friends from law school came, as did a good number of Milton County’s prosecutors.

Bill Masterson had been coaching me and assured me that I was ready. Just before Judge Brown came out to gavel the court into session, Masterson leaned over and put his arm around my shoulders. “Your father was one of the best trial lawyers I’ve ever seen,” he said quietly. And Masterson had seen his share of trial lawyers. “You’re just as good, Jamie. Maybe better.”

“Thanks. But I feel like I’m going to puke.”

Masterson chuckled and patted my shoulder. Then he put his left hand on the table in front of me. “Notice anything about the fingernails?” he asked.

He had gnawed them down so far that they looked painful. I had never noticed that Masterson chewed his nails.

“They looked pretty good before I started jury selection,” he said. “If you aren’t nervous for a case like this, you’re in the wrong business. We just learn to hide it.”

The man was a genius. Who knows—maybe he had just chewed his fingernails that morning to put me at ease. But the trick certainly worked. Even the legendary DA of Milton County got nervous before a big murder trial. And look how well he performed.

By the time Judge Brown took the bench, called in the jury, and finished the preliminaries, I was ready.

“Does the prosecution wish to present an opening statement?” he asked.

“Yes, Your Honor. We would love to.”