I am not very fond of novels. At least, not novels published these days.
They tend to be something to read when you just cannot bring yourself to clean the aquarium or wash the car.
There is only one contemporary novelist that falls outside that proscription for me -- Scott Turow. I was hooked with his first novel, Presumed Innocent, in 1987. In the following thirty-three years he has written a total of twelve novels. The twelfth, The Last Trial, was published last month.
It would be easy to say that I like his writing because he is a lawyer who writes knowingly about his profession. And there is some truth in that. I do like reading stories about my former profession.
But that is not the sole reason. I like Turow because he writes literature. His colleagues jokingly refer to him as F. Scott Turow. He delves into the human condition while telling us interesting tales. "Donne had declared that no person is an island. He had it exactly wrong. We all are."
When DHL brought me my copy on Saturday, I decided to clear my reading calendar starting yesterday, I am now two-thirds of the way through its 450 pages, and I am not the least bit disappointed. He has chosen to narrate all of the court scenes in the present tense -- a choice that adds just the right amount of attention and immediacy to his story.
About five minutes ago, I read this paragraph that sent me off on a little reverie:
Like all trial lawyers, Stern has mixed feeling about juries. On one hand, Stern venerates their role as fundamental to liberty. Yet back in the jury room, they will sometimes construct a reality that bears little resemblance to what they've heard. As a lawyer you are trying a case according to century-old rules, and they retire and decide they are playing SimCity or another game his grandchildren liked, where the universe constructed bears only occasional resemblance to your own.
The year was 1985. I had been hired by a young black man, Billie, to represent him in a Driving Under the Influence of Intoxicants charge. The outcome of the case would have a big impact on his life because he had twice been convicted of the same charge.
It was late on a July night when Billie and his brother drove from Portland to one of its suburbs to pick up Billie's wife and children. The town was one of those former mill towns where almost all of the residents were working class. As far as I know, almost no minorities lived there.
Billie and his brother got out of the car to let his wife know they had arrived. A town police car saw the car pull up, and the police said they saw one figure walk in front of the headlights.
By their own admission, the police said they stopped because they were curious what two young black men were doing in town. During the conversation, the police noticed Billie had been drinking; his brother had not. After a few agility tests that Billie flunked, the police arrested him for what we slangily call "drunk driving" even though both Billie and his brother told the police that his brother had been driving.
It seemed to be an airtight defense. At trial, the police officer testified that he thought Billie had walked in front of the car as he was driving up. But the officer admitted it was hard to see with headlights shining in his face, and he was candid in testifying that he mixed up Billie and his brother at the scene at least once when talking with them because they were physically similar. They were brothers.
Billie's brother testified that he had driven the car.
When I completed my closing argument. I felt like Atticus Finch. I had even stolen a line from Harper Lee as my last sentence: "Having taken an oath to God to give a true verdict based on the evidence provided, I deeply hope and trust that you all perform your duties as moral and lawful citizens."
Then, came the part of every trial I always dreaded. The wait while the jury deliberated over the evidence. I was positive that it would be short. It wasn't.
Jury deliberations are considered to be one of the most solemn and secret rites in the judicial system. Once the door closes them in, they live, as Turow wrote, in a world of their own construction. What happens in the confines of the room remains there until the jury renders its verdict.
The jury deliberation room was badly positioned in that courthouse if confidentiality was its purpose. The door opened onto a long marble hallway that opened onto a central staircase. It was essentially a megaphone.
Billie and I were sitting half-way down the hall. When jurors spoke in a normal voice, we could hear nothing. But if they raised their voices, we could hear it all.
And raise their voices they did. A male juror was upset at someone's stupidity. Then he bellowed: "Of course he's lying. They always lie for each other."
Billie looked sheepishly at me. My better nature thought the juror might be referring to the obvious point that familiy members stand up for each other -- an argument that the prosecutor was well within the law to make when he made it.
Then, there was no doubt that I was being painfully naive. "Niggers always lie for each other."
I shot up from the bench ready to object, mistakenly thinking I was still in trial. Then, I recognized my dilemma. The juror was out of line, but I should not have heard what he said.
The bailiff was sitting in front of the jury door. I asked him if he had heard what I heard. He had.
I asked the judge's secretary to call the prosecutor to the court room. I told him what I had heard and he talked with the bailiff. Now, we were all in the same morass. There was no option but to talk with the judge.
The judge had the power to interview jurors, though it is a power that is seldom used because it undercuts the myth of confidentiality. And lawyers are loth to see that happen when a jury is still deliberating because no jury can then deliberate without the interview tainiting their process.
In this case, the prosecutor saw what I considered to be the obvious way out. Neither of us would have trusted the jury's verdict under the circumstances. He decided enough harm had been done.
The judge discharged the jury, and Billie went home. Unfortunately, because alcohol is the poison it is, I saw Billie in two subsequebt cases -- including a rather acrimonius divorce.
I was talking with a lawyer friend yesterday. We served in the Air Force together before we both wandered off to different law schools.
I called him to discuss the death of George Floyd. My former school-mate is one of the few black friends I have, and I was interested in hearing his take.
He currently practices in DC. Not surprisingly, we sounded as if we were in an echo chamber because we kept repeating similar sentiments.
He then asked an interesting question: "What do you think is going to happen when the four policemen are acquitted?" I was taken aback.
"Steve, certainly you don't think any of them will be convicted do you? What are the odds of that happening? The jury system is sacred to me. Without it, we would be socially poorer. But the odds of a conviction are not there. It is possible. But I doubt it will happen."
I realized that he was talking out of experience. He had represented several police officers over the years.
It is extremely difficult to get a conviction of a police officer even with the most damning evidence. A lot of people (I would venture a large majority) see the police as a line of defense between order and mayhem. The feeling is international. The Chinese Communist Party uses the same tactic in claiming it is the only institution that can prevent the Maoists from carting off the Chinese middle class to re-education camps -- or worse.
That is why I am interested to see what will come out of the protests over George Floyd's death. The Congressional Black Caucus is discussing the possibility of essentially federalizing all local police procedures with yet-to-be-disclosed standards. There certainly will be a lot of constitutional issues raised with that aopproach.
A better (and far more lawful) move would be to enact reforms at the state and local levels. Reforms that take into account the difficult job we ask the police to perform and to protect the rights of all citizens from abuse.
Maybe Turow's next novel will tackle that issue.
It was late on a July night when Billie and his brother drove from Portland to one of its suburbs to pick up Billie's wife and children. The town was one of those former mill towns where almost all of the residents were working class. As far as I know, almost no minorities lived there.
Billie and his brother got out of the car to let his wife know they had arrived. A town police car saw the car pull up, and the police said they saw one figure walk in front of the headlights.
By their own admission, the police said they stopped because they were curious what two young black men were doing in town. During the conversation, the police noticed Billie had been drinking; his brother had not. After a few agility tests that Billie flunked, the police arrested him for what we slangily call "drunk driving" even though both Billie and his brother told the police that his brother had been driving.
It seemed to be an airtight defense. At trial, the police officer testified that he thought Billie had walked in front of the car as he was driving up. But the officer admitted it was hard to see with headlights shining in his face, and he was candid in testifying that he mixed up Billie and his brother at the scene at least once when talking with them because they were physically similar. They were brothers.
Billie's brother testified that he had driven the car.
When I completed my closing argument. I felt like Atticus Finch. I had even stolen a line from Harper Lee as my last sentence: "Having taken an oath to God to give a true verdict based on the evidence provided, I deeply hope and trust that you all perform your duties as moral and lawful citizens."
Then, came the part of every trial I always dreaded. The wait while the jury deliberated over the evidence. I was positive that it would be short. It wasn't.
Jury deliberations are considered to be one of the most solemn and secret rites in the judicial system. Once the door closes them in, they live, as Turow wrote, in a world of their own construction. What happens in the confines of the room remains there until the jury renders its verdict.
The jury deliberation room was badly positioned in that courthouse if confidentiality was its purpose. The door opened onto a long marble hallway that opened onto a central staircase. It was essentially a megaphone.
Billie and I were sitting half-way down the hall. When jurors spoke in a normal voice, we could hear nothing. But if they raised their voices, we could hear it all.
And raise their voices they did. A male juror was upset at someone's stupidity. Then he bellowed: "Of course he's lying. They always lie for each other."
Billie looked sheepishly at me. My better nature thought the juror might be referring to the obvious point that familiy members stand up for each other -- an argument that the prosecutor was well within the law to make when he made it.
Then, there was no doubt that I was being painfully naive. "Niggers always lie for each other."
I shot up from the bench ready to object, mistakenly thinking I was still in trial. Then, I recognized my dilemma. The juror was out of line, but I should not have heard what he said.
The bailiff was sitting in front of the jury door. I asked him if he had heard what I heard. He had.
I asked the judge's secretary to call the prosecutor to the court room. I told him what I had heard and he talked with the bailiff. Now, we were all in the same morass. There was no option but to talk with the judge.
The judge had the power to interview jurors, though it is a power that is seldom used because it undercuts the myth of confidentiality. And lawyers are loth to see that happen when a jury is still deliberating because no jury can then deliberate without the interview tainiting their process.
In this case, the prosecutor saw what I considered to be the obvious way out. Neither of us would have trusted the jury's verdict under the circumstances. He decided enough harm had been done.
The judge discharged the jury, and Billie went home. Unfortunately, because alcohol is the poison it is, I saw Billie in two subsequebt cases -- including a rather acrimonius divorce.
I was talking with a lawyer friend yesterday. We served in the Air Force together before we both wandered off to different law schools.
I called him to discuss the death of George Floyd. My former school-mate is one of the few black friends I have, and I was interested in hearing his take.
He currently practices in DC. Not surprisingly, we sounded as if we were in an echo chamber because we kept repeating similar sentiments.
He then asked an interesting question: "What do you think is going to happen when the four policemen are acquitted?" I was taken aback.
"Steve, certainly you don't think any of them will be convicted do you? What are the odds of that happening? The jury system is sacred to me. Without it, we would be socially poorer. But the odds of a conviction are not there. It is possible. But I doubt it will happen."
I realized that he was talking out of experience. He had represented several police officers over the years.
It is extremely difficult to get a conviction of a police officer even with the most damning evidence. A lot of people (I would venture a large majority) see the police as a line of defense between order and mayhem. The feeling is international. The Chinese Communist Party uses the same tactic in claiming it is the only institution that can prevent the Maoists from carting off the Chinese middle class to re-education camps -- or worse.
That is why I am interested to see what will come out of the protests over George Floyd's death. The Congressional Black Caucus is discussing the possibility of essentially federalizing all local police procedures with yet-to-be-disclosed standards. There certainly will be a lot of constitutional issues raised with that aopproach.
A better (and far more lawful) move would be to enact reforms at the state and local levels. Reforms that take into account the difficult job we ask the police to perform and to protect the rights of all citizens from abuse.
Maybe Turow's next novel will tackle that issue.
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