Judge Stanton was allowing us a lot of leeway. When it came time to question a prospective juror, the attorneys were allowed to trade their time to question anyone else on the panel. He was also allowing the liberal use of back strikes, meaning it was acceptable to use a preemptory challenge to strike out anybody on the panel, even if they had already been questioned and accepted.

When it was my turn to question the artist, I walked to the lectern and told the judge I accepted her on the jury at this time without further questioning. I asked to be allowed instead to make further inquiries of juror number eight, and the judge allowed me to proceed.

“Juror number eight, I just want to clarify a couple of your views on things. First, let me ask you, at the end of this trial, after you’ve heard all the testimony, if you think my client might be guilty, would you vote to convict him?”

The tree trimmer thought for a moment before answering.

“No, because that wouldn’t be beyond a reasonable doubt.”

I nodded, letting him know that he had given the right answer.

“So you don’t equate ‘might’ve’ with ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’?”

“No, sir. Not at all.”

“Good. Do you believe that people get arrested in church for singing too loud?”

A puzzled look spread across the tree trimmer’s face, and there was a murmur of laughter in the gallery behind me.

“I don’t understand.”

“There’s a saying that people don’t get arrested in church for singing too loud. In other words, where there’s smoke there’s fire. People don’t get arrested without good reason. The police usually have it right and arrest the right people. Do you believe that?”

“I believe that everybody makes mistakes from time to time — including the police — and you have to look at each case individually.”

“But do you believe that the police usually have it right?”

He was cornered. Any answer would raise a flag for one side or the other.

“I think they probably do — they’re the professionals — but I would look at every case individually and not think that just because the police usually get things right, they automatically got the right man in this case.”

That was a good answer. From a tree trimmer, no less. Again I gave him the nod. His answers were right but there was something almost practiced about his delivery. It was smarmy, holier-than-thou. The tree trimmer wanted very badly to be on the jury and that didn’t sit well with me.

“What kind of car do you drive, sir?”

The unexpected question was always good for a reaction. Juror number eight leaned back in his seat and gave me a look like he thought I was trying to trick him in some way.

“My car?”

“Yes, what do you drive to work?”