Quickly a bailiff, a scrawny woman with gold-rimmed glasses and prematurely gray hair, read off a roster of names. Anne hadn’t even cracked her Frank O’Connor short stories when they called her to jury room D.

She sat there with thirty other prospective jurors while a different bailiff, a muscular bowling ball of a sergeant, passed out a questionnaire. Name; date of birth; can you see, hear, and command English; ever done this before; tell us when and what happened; did you reach a verdict—the normal stuff—but then on the second-to-last page Anne was struck by this paragraph:

Because this case has received extensive publicity many, if not all, of you will have heard and/or read something about this case from the media. It is vitally important that you truthfully answer the following questions . . .

Anne turned to the last page.

Do you know—or have you had any interaction with—Reverend Standing Raleigh or his wife, Margaret Raleigh?

Holy moly. This is the Raleigh trial. Anne knew Peggy Raleigh taught at Ursuline and tried to remember if they had met in person. She couldn’t recall anything and answered: “Yes, I know of her and her husband, but have never interacted.”

Do you know that Reverend Raleigh has been charged with the attempted murder of his wife, Margaret?

Have you ever been a member of Reverend Raleigh’s congregation at First United Methodist?

The following attorneys and court officers will be involved with the case, mark an X next to the name of anyone you have encountered in a legal proceeding . . .

Anne turned in her questionnaire and stared with disbelief at the jerky red second hand of the government clock. It isn’t even ten in the morning, Anne realized, but things are moving with a purpose.

After all the questionnaires were collected, the bailiff let the jury pool pass around sections of the Morning News. And there Anne found it—B5 in the Metro section—“Jury Selection to Begin in Raleigh Trial . . . the former pastor accused of strangling his thirty-eight-year-old wife in the garage of their Lake Highlands home, leaving her in a coma . . . Raleigh, arrested on July 14, has pleaded not guilty.”

The muscle-bound bailiff returned, and everyone stood and shuffled through a short hallway to the courtroom. Anne and the rest of the jury pool were seated in the gallery before the court of Judge Gideon Barefoot Samuels. The judge presided before his bench, to the right the two prosecutors, to the left two defense attorneys and the Reverend Raleigh, looking away with hunted eyes.

Judge Barefoot Sam gave the nod that everyone could be seated, and his clerk passed him the jury cards and a leather-backed selection grid with slips for twelve cards. The wizened judge had sandy blond hair and a punched-in pug face framed by look-over reading glasses. He smiled past the brim of a “Judges Rule!” coffee mug at the prospective jurors and began in a gentle Texas drawl: