PRESCOTT STOOD BEFORE the potential jurors, clipboard in hand, asking questions in his commanding way. There were forty of them, sitting in the courtroom’s benches like churchgoers in their pews. It was from this group, summoned from the jury room by Judge Gimbel’s clerk, that the twelve jurors and two alternates for United States v. Moore and Concannon would be chosen. Prescott had petitioned the court to be allowed to question the jurors himself and Judge Gimbel had grudgingly granted the petition. If you had asked him, Prescott would have told you he was examining these potential jurors in an effort to pick a fair and unbiased jury. What he was really doing, in addition to sneaking in pretrial arguments, was trying to find jurors who would be the most unfair and most biased in favor of Jimmy Moore and Chester Concannon. That’s the way a trial works: the lawyers on the two sides pack the jury with prejudices favorable to their clients with the expectation that these attempts at manipulation will balance themselves out. It is why more than a few juries break down in nervous collapse.

I was at one end of the defense table next to Chester Concannon, who sat with his back straight and hands crossed before him. Jimmy sat at the other end. Immediately behind us were three bright-eyed handsome lawyers all in a row, the Talbott, Kittredge and Chase trial team assisting Prescott. Madeline had been left at the office to do research. The Talbott, Kittredge crowd was furiously scribbling notes and conferring in whispers with a tall, bearded man with a brutal case of dandruff who, I was told, was their jury expert, a man named Bruce Pierpont. Despite repeated promises from Prescott and numerous requests, I still hadn’t seen Pierpont’s report. Every now and then one of the Talbott, Kittredge lawyers would lean over and whisper something to Moore and he would nod, a look of supreme probity on his face. I wondered how long Prescott had worked with him to get the expression just right. The Talbott, Kittredge lawyers never leaned over to whisper something to me. Except for our proximity in the courtroom, it was impossible to tell we were on the same side. That had been Prescott’s idea. “It shouldn’t seem like we’re ganging up on Eggert,” he had said, and so Chester and I kept our distance.

Closer to the jury box was the prosecution table where Eggert and a beefy older man, with heavy hands and a neck like an ox, sat representing the government. The ox wore a blue blazer and his hair was swept rigidly into place, the very image of a man who liked his steak still bleeding. He was the FBI agent on the case, Special Agent Stemkowski. Once, in the middle of the proceedings, he cracked his knuckles and the rat-a-tat sounded like gunshots.

Judge Gimbel sat up high on the bench, bowing his hairless head as he worked on documents obviously unrelated to this trial. He was a busy man, Judge Gimbel, and you couldn’t expect him to concentrate on something as routine as Prescott’s jury voir dire.

“Now, as you may know,” said Prescott to the entire group of potential jurors, “one of the defendants in this case is a public official, a city councilman. The other defendant is the councilman’s aide. Do any of you believe that public officials, like the city councilman here, are usually corrupt?”

No response.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, I need you to be honest. Don’t any of you look at a public official like my client, a city councilman on the government payroll, and say to yourselves, he is dirty somehow?”

Still no response. He smiled kindly, looked down at his clipboard, ran his finger across a list of names of the jury venire, and looked up again. “Mrs. Emily Simpson.”

An older woman raised her hand, thin frame, pale powdered skin, bouffant hair, glasses that looked like they were squinting.

“Mrs. Simpson, do you work?”

“Yes. I work the register at a discount store.”

“And you pay your taxes then, of course.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Simpson’s hands grasped the pocketbook on her lap.

“Do you think the money you send over in taxes is well spent?”

“On the whole? No,” she said, looking around at the others seated nearby for encouragement.

“Why not?”

“The politicians don’t listen to us, they listen to the rich folk, the people who have the money to help them.”

“So what you’re saying, Mrs. Simpson, is that most politicians can be bought.”

“I guess I am.”

“Anyone else? How many believe that politicians as a whole are generally unscrupulous and easily bought and paid for?”

Mrs. Simpson hesitantly raised her hand and looked around for support. The woman seated next to her, with thick features and a dignified cant to her head, smiled at Mrs. Simpson and raised her hand, and then a man in the front row, crew cut, thick neck, and then another hand, and soon the great majority of potential jurors had their hands raised.

I glanced at Eggert. He was nodding his head, as if Prescott was proving his case for him.

“And why is that?” Prescott looked back at his clipboard. “Mrs. Lanford?”

The dignified woman next to Mrs. Simpson said, “Yes, that’s me.”

“Why do you think politicians are so easily bought?” asked Prescott.

“Because they’s greedy.”

“And where do you think the money goes, Mrs. Lanford, this money that buys them?”

“In they’s pockets,” said Mrs. Lanford. “Right in they’s own wallets.”

“Those of you who said that politicians are often bought, is that what all of you think?”

“No,” said a man in the back, his gray hair neat, wearing a polo shirt on his day off from the office.

Prescott scanned the names on his clipboard. “Mr. Roberts, is it? Where do you think it goes?”

“To their campaigns,” he said. “They’re always campaigning. It seems every other year there’s a new election.”

“Do you think it’s the politicians’ fault that they need to ask for money?” asked Prescott.

“I guess not,” said Roberts. “I mean, we end up voting for the guy with the most television ads, so I guess it’s our fault as much as anyone’s.”

“Does anyone here believe that politicians should not be allowed to ask for campaign contributions?”

No hands were raised.

“I’m going to hold you all to that now. What you all are telling me is that you each believe it is proper for politicians to ask for campaign contributions, that such requests are precisely what the system demands of politicians like my client.”

Before anyone could reply Eggert stood and in his reedy voice said, “Objection, Your Honor. Mr. Prescott’s voir dire has again devolved into a lecture.”

“Civics 101,” said Judge Gimbel. “We don’t need citizenship classes, Mr. Prescott. Just get on with it.”

“I’m almost through, Your Honor,” said Prescott.

“We’re grateful,” said the judge.

“Now, how many of you have your own businesses?”

A small number of the jurors raised their hands. Prescott referred again to his clipboard. “Mr. Thompkins, what kind of business do you own?”

“A printing shop,” said a thin balding black man with extremely long fingers.

“Who’s running it now?”

“My employees. I have an assistant manager.”

“Now, Mr. Thompkins, if while you’re away your assistant manager should do something wrong, would you be responsible?”

“If he messed up a job, sure I would. I stand by all the work coming out of my shop.”

“Suppose he did something illegal while you were away. Suppose, without your knowing it, he started printing up counterfeit money. Would you still be responsible?”

“No way.”

“Does anyone believe Mr. Thompkins should be criminally responsible if his assistant manager started printing up counterfeit money in his print shop?”