As I huddle with Cliff, the jury consultant, a uniformed bailiff approaches and asks, “Are you Mr. Rudd?”

I nod and he hands me some papers. Domestic Relations Court. A summons for an emergency hearing to terminate all parental rights. I curse under my breath, walk to the jury box, and take a seat. That bitch Judith has waited until this moment to further complicate matters. I read on and my shoulders begin to sag. Yesterday, Sunday, was my day to spend with Starcher; twelve hours, from 8:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m., a modified, verbal agreement between Judith and me. Being preoccupied with the trial, I of course forgot about this and stiffed my kid. In Judith’s twisted way of thinking, this is clear proof that I’m an unfit father and should be completely banished from my son’s life. She demands an emergency hearing as if Starcher is in imminent danger, and if one is granted it will be the fourth in the past three years. She’s 0 for 3! And she’s perfectly willing to go 0 for 4 to prove something. What, I don’t know.

I buy a once-frozen Fresh! Sandwich out of a machine and stroll down to Domestic Relations. Machine food is often underrated. Carla, a deputy clerk I once hit on, pulls the file and we look it over, our heads just inches apart. When I hit on her about two years ago she was “in a relationship,” whatever the hell that means. What it really meant was that she had no interest in me. I took it in stride. I’ve had my balls busted so many times I’m surprised when a woman says, “Maybe.” Anyway, Carla must be out of her relationship because she’s all smiles and come-ons, which is not that unusual among the army of deputy clerks and secretaries and receptionists who clog these offices and hallways. A single straight male lawyer with a little cash and a nice suit gets plenty of looks from the unmarried ladies, and from some of the married ones as well. If I played the game, had the time and interest, I could run these gals into the ground. Carla, though, has chubbed up considerably in recent months and is not looking nearly as good as before.

She says, “Judge Stanley Leef.”

“Same one as last time,” I reply. “I’m surprised he’s still alive.”

“Looks like your ex is a tough one.”

“That’s a huge understatement.”

“She’s in here from time to time. Not very friendly.”

I thank her, and as I’m leaving she says, “Call me sometime.”

I want to say, “Well, if you’ll hit the gym for about six months, then I’ll take a look and consider it.” Instead, and because I’m such a gentleman, I say, “Sure.”

Judge Stanley Leef stiff-armed Judith in her last effort to strip me of parental rights. He had no patience with her and ruled on the spot in my favor. The fact that she rolled the dice with this latest filing and got stuck with Leef again says a lot about her integrity, and her naïveté. In my world, if the case is critical—and what could be more drastic than cutting off a respectable father’s right to see his child—all measures must be taken to insure a fair hearing before the proper judge. This might require the filing of a motion to ask an unwanted judge to step aside. It might require a complaint with the State Board of Judicial Ethics. My preferred method, though, is simply a cash bribe to the right clerk.

Judith would never consider any of these tactics. Thus, she’s stuck with Leef again. I remind myself that this is not about winning or losing, not about this judge or that one. It’s nothing but abuse of the court system to harass a former spouse. She has no worries about legal fees. She has no fears of retribution. She roams this section of the Old Courthouse every day, so this is her turf.

I find a bench and read her petition as I finish my sandwich.

8.

For the afternoon session, we move our chairs to the other side of our tables and stare directly at the jurors. And they stare at us as if we’re aliens. Under Fabineau’s selection scheme—and every trial judge is given great leeway in devising methods to pick juries—those with numbers one through forty are seated in the first four rows, and from there we’ll likely find our final twelve. So, we zero in on them as Her Honor rambles on about the civic importance of jury service.

Of the first forty, there are twenty-five whites, eight blacks, five Hispanics, one young lady from Vietnam, and another one from India. Twenty-two females, eighteen males. Thanks to Cliff and his team, I know their names, addresses, vocations, marital situations, church memberships, and histories of litigation, unpaid debts, and criminal convictions, if any. For most of them, I have photographs of their homes or apartments.

Picking the right ones will be tricky. Carved in stone is the belief that you want all the black jurors you can get in a criminal trial, because blacks have more sympathy for the accused and a greater distrust of the police and prosecutors. Not so today. The victim, Sean King, was a nice young black man with a good job, a wife, and three clean-cut kids. For a few bucks on the side, he refereed boxing matches and cage fights.

When Fabineau finally gets around to the matters at hand, she asks how many in the pool are familiar with the facts surrounding the death of Sean King. Out of the ninety-two, about a quarter of the hands go up, an enormous percentage. She asks them all to stand so we can jot down their names. I glance at Mancini and shake my head. Such a response is unheard of and, in my opinion, clear proof that the trial should be moved. But Mancini just keeps smiling. I write down twenty-two names.

To prevent further contamination, Judge Fabineau decides to take each of the twenty-two and quiz them individually. We return to her chambers and gather around the same table. Juror number three is brought in. Her name is Liza Parnell and she sells tickets for a regional airline. Married, two kids, age thirty-four, husband sells cement. Mancini and I are all charm as we attempt to curry favor with this potential juror. Her Honor takes charge and starts questioning. Neither Liza nor her husband is an MMA fan, in fact she calls the sport disgusting, but she remembers the riot. It was all over the news and she saw the video of Tadeo pounding away. She and her husband discussed the incident. They even prayed at church for the recovery of Sean King, and were saddened by his death. She would have a difficult time keeping an open mind. The more she is quizzed, the more she realizes how firmly she believes Tadeo is guilty. “He killed him,” she says.

Mancini asks a few of the same questions. I take my turn but do not waste time. Liza will get the boot soon enough. For now, though, she is instructed to return to her seat on row one and not say a word.

Juror number eleven is the mother of two teenage boys, both of whom love cage fighting and have spent hours discussing Tadeo and Sean King. She hasn’t watched the video, though her boys begged her to. She does, however, know all about the case and admits to having plenty of preconceived notions. Mancini and I politely poke and prod but get nothing. She, too, will be excused.

The afternoon grinds on as we work through the twenty-two jurors, all of whom, it turns out, know far more than they should. A couple claim they can set aside their initial opinions and decide the case with open minds. I doubt this, but then I am the defense lawyer. Late in the day, after we have finished with the twenty-two, I renew my motion for a change of venue. Armed with fresh and irrefutable evidence, I argue that we’ve just seen clear proof that too many people in this city know far too much about the case.

Go Slow listens and acts as though she believes me, which I think she does. “I’ll overrule your motion for now, Mr. Rudd. Let’s proceed and see what tomorrow brings.”