Free Temporary Sanity by Rose Connors

the courtroom in a huff.
    Judge Long’s courtroom clerk, Wanda Morgan, selects a new name from the glass bowl on her desk. The new potential juror comes from the gallery to the box to replace Mrs. Holway. His juror résumé identifies him as a fifty-six-year-old restaurant owner. More important, he is the father of three adult sons.
    We will select fourteen jurors this morning, including two who will be told-only at the close of the case-that they are alternates. Judge Long addresses the panel first. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, smiling at them, “let me tell you at the outset that the lawyers handling this case have assured me that this trial will take three days, no longer.”
    The judge points at Stanley, then at Harry and me, and we all nod our acquiescence.
    “That means,” the judge continues, “that they’ll finish not later than Thursday afternoon, at which time the case will be turned over to you. Now, no one can predict how long your deliberations may take. But I believe it’s safe to assume we’ll all be home for Christmas on Saturday morning.”
    Stanley leans over his table and stares at Buck, his expression suggesting that Buck shouldn’t include himself in the judge’s assumption. Buck doesn’t look back at him.
    Next, the judge conducts a general inquiry into matters such as the presumption of innocence, the burden of proof, and reasonable doubt, then asks each potential juror a series of more specific, and more personal, questions. Only then do Stanley and I get our turns.
    Each of us is allowed just two follow-up questions per juror. Judge Long is clear about the two-question limit, but Stanley doesn’t seem to believe it. No such cap exists, apparently, in any New Bedford courtroom. Stanley begins a third question with every candidate, and the judge cuts him off every time. Stanley whines like a thirsty dog each time it happens, but the judge shuts him down anyway, always with that dazzling smile.
    After our questions are asked and answered, the judge calls upon Stanley and me to state our challenges for cause. I have none. Stanley has just one. Juror number nine should be excused, he says, because she has a seven-year-old son.
    “Denied.” Judge Long shakes his head and rules while Stanley is still talking.
    “But Your Honor,” Stanley protests, “I’m not finished.”
    “But Mr. Edgarton,” the judge replies, his smile enormous, “you most certainly are.”
    The jurors laugh at this exchange, and Stanley glares at Judge Long. No prosecutor wants a panel laughing at any point during a murder trial.
    “But Judge,” Stanley persists.
    “Mr. Edgarton, let me be perfectly clear about this. No juror will be removed from this panel-or from any panel, in my courtroom-because she is a parent.”
    “But that’s not it, Judge. That’s not it at all. It’s not that juror number nine is a parent. It’s that her child happens to be a seven-year-old boy.”
    “Denied, Mr. Edgarton.”
    “But Judge…”
    My gut tells me Stanley just uttered one “But Judge” too many. Judge Leon Long dons his half glasses, lifts Stanley’s trial brief from the bench, and pretends to examine the signature line. Judge Long has done this before, more than once. Harry and I both know what’s coming.
    “Oh, pardon me,” the judge bellows, his voice thick with sarcasm. “I must be using the wrong name, sir. You don’t seem to understand that I’m talking to you. Mr. J. Stanley Edgarton the Third,” the judge roars, “your challenge for cause is dee-nied.”
    If he is true to past pattern, the judge will call Stanley “Mr. Ed-gar-ton the Third” for the rest of the trial. I put my hand over my mouth and swallow a laugh. Buck Hammond watches me, his eyes saying he doesn’t know what to make of this. Harry, of course, looks like the Cheshire cat.
    In the end, Stanley gets rid of juror number nine by using one of his three peremptory strikes, challenges each side may exercise without cause,