Without a Doubt - [84]

His staff, he explained, had conducted phone surveys in which they had compiled demographic and personal data on those who refused to believe Simpson was guilty, those who were undecided, and those who were leaning toward guilt. His findings showed a wide racial divide. Caucasians tended to feel Simpson was guilty; African Americans tended to think he was not.

Duh.

I waited for some fresh insights, the flashes of revelation that would cause the scales to fall from our eyes. The most original of the lot?

“We found that people involved in bowling leagues tend to be anti-prosecution,” Vinson announced.

I couldn’t restrain myself. I burst out laughing. Even Bill was having a hard time maintaining his respectful poker face. Bowlers! That’s what we’d been waiting for?

The real shame of it all was that Don Vinson probably could have contributed something of value, if he’d had a clue. Instead of warning us off black women as a class-an utterly pointless exercise since we were going to have black females on that jury no matter what-he should have helped us fine-tune our questions in such a way as to identify the most reasonable and reachable African Americans, male and female, in our jury pool. Then, he could have offered some advice on how to reach them. Our biggest frustration stemmed from the fact that our repeated entreaties for that kind of help fell on deaf ears.

Now this guy was angling to sit in front of the rail! He wanted to be on national TV!

“No,” I said. “Absolutely and unequivocally no!”

But Garcetti reminded me that Vinson’s company had provided us with a terrific set of graphics. Which was true. And now wasn’t the time to alienate him, Gil insisted. So Bill and I packed up our notebooks and trekked down to court, followed by two law clerks, Vinson, and a parade of others from our office, all of whom wanted a front-row seat on the action.

By the time we got there, the cramped, plywood-paneled courtroom of Department 103 was packed to capacity with the jurors who had made it past hardship screening. The bailiff called the court to order. Ito’s clerk, Deirdre Robertson, pulled eighteen names at a time. The candidates took their place in the jury box. First the judge would question them. Then the defense. Then we would.

In California, it’s routine to have a judge ask jurors the tough questions, which in this case meant those concerning police credibility, domestic violence, and race. Conventional wisdom holds that jurors are more likely to be candid with a judge than with the lawyers. Jurors are generally impressed with the power the judge wields and will think twice before lying. Some of the questions, like “Have you or any family member been arrested?” could arouse personal resentments. Better they resent the judge than the attorneys.

Ito, however, seemed reluctant to assume the role of the heavy. He couldn’t bring himself to ask the tough questions. If, for example, he asked a juror, “Have you or anyone in your family been the victim of domestic violence?” and the answer was yes, he should have been prepared to press:

“Who was involved?”

“My father hit my mother.”

“Were the police called?”

“Yes.”

“How did that make you feel?”

“Pretty terrible…”

And so on.

But Lance was too delicate, too fearful of offending, to probe.

He floundered politely for a while, then finally said, “Ms. Clark?” He was turning the questioning over to me.

And so I stood to face the twelve in the box. No surprises here. The first batch was largely black, largely female. I had no illusions about this group. Their questionnaires indicated that they believed overwhelmingly that Simpson was innocent. But they’d be damned if they’d say that to me. I tried to get one young black guy to admit that seeing a celebrity on camera didn’t mean that one actually knew him-the point being that someone who seemed to be a real nice guy on the tube could still be capable of drawing a knife across a woman’s throat.

You’ve seen the defendant on television, according to your questionnaire, right? I asked him.

I could see from the look on his face that he regretted admitting even that much.

A couple of times, he replied.

Do you feel that you know him?

I don’t know.

Well, has he ever invited you over to dinner?

No.

Have you ever gone out to the movies with him?

No.

Have you ever met his family? Ever talked about the weather, politics, or religion?

Of course, this elicited a litany of nos.

So, do you think you know him?

I guess not, came the reluctant reply.

Jurors begrudged me even the most obvious answers for fear they’d say something that might get them dismissed. Bill seemed to fare no better. I was so frustrated that I even turned to Vinson to see if he had any suggestions. He was slouched in his chair, twirling his glasses, wearing a detached, supercilious expression. He looked to me like some indolent white plantation owner. I was astounded to see that he’d taken no notes. On the other side of the room, perky little Jo-Ellan Dimitrius, jury consultant to the stars, was busy scribbling on Post-its and passing them to Shapiro and Cochran.