Peerless: short fiction by Corance Davis

Peerless

by Corance Davis

     And so, this really pregnant white lady steps up before us and smiles this, “Oh, ain't I trustworthy like your mom” smile. She's the A.D.A, and we've all filed in nice and orderly for her so she can know our names from the seating chart she's holding. Calling our names out like she knows us will make us relax, so that we can reveal the knowledge she needs to choose which of us should make the jury. It's a popular customer service tactic that's useful in a variety of places.

     She begins by explaining what she says are the rules of the court. Prescient, yes, but nothing I don't know. And then she starts with the questions: You know CSI isn't real, right? What does “reasonable doubt” mean? If you were convinced of someone's guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, could you convict without physical evidence?

     Well, of course; if I were convinced beyond a reasonable doubt. But, that's not what she's asking, is it? She wants to know if I'll convict on testimony alone. Because, obviously, she has no physical evidence.

“Is that so, Mr., um...Goode?”

     Oops, did I say that out loud? That's okay, I'll defend my position. “Well, my dear ADA, that is so. I see the group-think you're trying to set up here. Going down the line, asking for a 'yes' from each person, in turn. It just seems to me you're trying to get a conviction before the trial even starts.”

Oh, and then she tilts her head, cocks an eyebrow and shoots that “smile” again. The one you give your 3 year old when he asks a stupid question. The one that says, “Aw, ain't it cute how he's ignorant of the ways of the world!”

     “So Mr. Goode, is that a yes or a no on whether you could convict without physical evidence? And remember, you're already convinced beyond a reasonable doubt.”

     “Yeah, but, that's not what you're really asking me.”

     “Iiiiii think that's what I just asked ya.”

     “No, that's what your words are asking me, but that's not what your social engineering is asking me.”

     “I have to 2^nd that emotion, your honor!” the council for the defense chimed in. He was a dotering old man who, apparently, used to be a judge. “The ADA is using the jury selection process to gather guilty votes.” Beside him sat a black kid; 17. He seemed harmless enough, no one I'd be afraid to meet in a dark alley (But, of course, I'm twice as big and twice as black as this little boy, so that's easy for me to say.) but you never know what lies beneath.

     The kid was accused of armed robbery, attempted murder and sexual assault. No one actually said this directly, but when someone asks if you're aware that guns can be lost, and that using one's hands to grope someone doesn't leave DNA, they obviously want you to know what he's being accused of.

     “Council, you'll have your turn.” the judge said.

     “I'm just saying, judge,” the defender said, with some frustration, “If it looks like a horse, and smells like a horse; it's a horse!”

     “It might be a mule!” Everyone thought my little jibe was quite amusing. Even the judge laughed.

     I didn't think it was funny at all.

     Jury duty is a solemn responsibility; an honor. This old guy in front of me gets selected to serve on the jury and reacts like a 3 year old; shaking his fists, going, “Aww, man. Yer kiddin' me!” and stomping up to the jury box. It was pathetic! I, of course, was weeded out.

     They needed me on that jury, though. I'd probably be the only serious one there. Instead, they've got a bunch of clowns they think they can manipulate. Well, so be it.