One mistake prosecutors sometimes made was assigning too many prosecutors to a case, making the defense look like the underdog. O. J. Simpson had nine defense lawyers, an army. To get the jury on their side, the State should’ve had one prosecutor at their table, a newbie with no murder trials under his belt. The Art of Jury Trial as War, chapter 17: “Everyone thought the best attorneys were the old-timers with decades of experience, but the old-timers were weary, and juries could pick up on indifference.” New, young lawyers, sweating and fumbling with papers because their hands were shaking, their voices cracking with anxiety, were the type of attorneys juries threw their arms around and protected. If LA County had put one of them on the case, OJ would’ve been enjoying his workouts in the yard at San Quentin.

The judge came in just then, and we rose and then sat. I watched the jury as they walked in: they tried not to look at either party. Pritcher seemed indifferent, staring off into space. His two associates sat quietly with their hands folded on the table. Anderson stared at the tabletop, tapping a pencil against his palm underneath it.

“We will now begin with opening statements. Mr. Graham.”

“Thank you, Judge.”

I rose and approached the jury. “The first time I went to the Supreme Court in Washington, DC, I stopped on the steps in front of the courthouse. It was about five in the morning, and I was the first one there. A cold mist hung over the city, and the moon was fading as the sun came up. As I stood there, I looked up, and at the front of the court, I saw the words Equal Justice for All carved into the stone. And I stood there in . . . awe. For most of human history, the law was just a way for the rich to systematically exploit the poor, but here, in the United States, that was turned on its head. Equal justice for all. I got chills staring at it.

“And I thought of it when I got this case, the case of a young girl, Patty Winchester, who died in the worst way a human being could die.” I went to the table and pulled out a photo of Patty from the file, Hank’s photo of Patty hugging him and her brother. “On May tenth of this year, this young girl, Patty Winchester, a high school senior at River Falls High, went to a bar in Las Vegas with her friend Cecily. She sneaked out and went with her friend, thinking they’d have some drinks at a bar that didn’t check ID. And it’s there that she met the man that would end her life.” I pointed to Anderson. “Anderson Ficco.”