The World According to Vince - Jane Harvey-Berrick Page 0,75
a lot of votes.
So even though my defense had merit, I also knew that I was the weak link in Vince’s case: I simply didn’t have the charisma needed by a great trial lawyer. Vince’s lawyer needed to be liked and trusted by the jury, and I knew that I came over as cold and emotionless, and I couldn’t help that. If, for one second, I let my emotions rule me, I’d fall apart … because I cared too much.
I’d done the best preparation I possibly could, but it still might not be enough. Vince would go to prison, and the world would be less colorful because of it. As for me, I’d lose my best chance at happiness.
Even the selection of judge was against us and it seemed as if Fate hated us: Judge Herschel had been given the job—the woman who’d already been inflicted with a dose of Vince at his arraignment and his most inept. It would be harder to convince her that he was a sober, upstanding and useful member of society than someone who’d never met him.
I stared in the mirror, thin-lipped and haggard, with more makeup than I’d normally wear in court, trying to mask the dark circles under my eyes. But nothing could hide the six pounds in weight I’d dropped this week, leaving me looking ill and drawn. I’d barely eaten at all until Cady and Rick had come over and force-fed me a nutritious veggie omelet yesterday, before my first day in court, and again today.
Jury selection had been a grisly affair. DA Randolph Barclay and his deputy, Judge Herschel and myself had spent four, miserable hours questioning potential jurors, hoping to detect bias either in our favor or not. Both Barclay and I knew that getting the right jurors during voir dire could increase one’s chances in predicting individual verdicts by as much as 78%. But instead of the pet-friendly, animal-loving jurors I’d hoped for, it seemed we’d gotten Cruella De Vil’s meaner, extended family—all the tree-hugging Vince fans had been rooted out and sent home. I wanted to cry. But everyone was counting on me, most especially Tap, Zeus and Tyson.
I took a deep breath and forced myself to woman-up for the first day of trial.
Today would be the opening statements, giving a general overview of the case. The prosecution always went first, so I’d have to sit and listen to Barclay grandstanding, but it was my chance to analyze how the DA was planning to play this. It also meant that I’d have a brief chance to alter my plan of defense accordingly.
I’d been given a list of the prosecution’s witnesses in discovery, and had practiced the questions I’d be asking them. Vince had been determined to speak in his own defense, although I still wasn’t sure that was a good idea, given his history of going off-script, but he’d promised me that he wouldn’t. So, reluctantly, I’d be calling him as a witness. My last witness. The very last. God help us.
The bailiff, clerk and court reporter were already seated when I entered Courtroom Five of the Supreme Court with Vince, and the jury were lined up on one side.
Ten men in well-pressed clothes, only two elderly women. That wasn’t the odds I’d wanted. I’d hoped for lots of straight women and gay men, all with memberships to the ASPCA.
Fascinating factoid: the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals began in 1866 in New York City. It is the oldest animal welfare organization in the United States, and inspired by the RSPCA which was set up in the UK in 1824.
Cady, Rick, Erik the plumber and a number of Vince’s supporters were sitting in the public seating area, along with what looked like several members of the press who were busy scribbling notes.
Vince grinned and was about to wave at his friends when I gripped his sleeve.
“Don’t!” I hissed.
“Sorry,” Vince muttered. “Fookin’ forgot.”
“Well, don’t forget again!” I shot back. “You only have one chance to make a good first impression. Serious, sober, sensible—remember?”
“The judge isn’t here yet,” he said.
“You have to impress the jury, too. Don’t forget that either.”
“Fook,” he sighed.
Randolph Barclay overheard us and smirked, stroking his tie the way a Bond villain would stroke his cat. He looked poised, polished and unbearably smug.
I ushered Vince into his seat and plopped down beside him, trying to look cool, calm and collected instead of hot, sweaty and flustered.