Sycamore Row - John Grisham

as a seven. He and Portia looked at their notes. Harry Rex, who was standing in a
corner by the jury box, studied his notes. Their model juror was a black male or female
of any age, but there weren’t many in the crowd. At the contestants’ table, Wade Lanier
and Lester Chilcott compared their research. Their model juror was a white female, age
forty-five or older, someone raised in the deeply segregated old South and not the least
bit tolerant of blacks. They liked Nevin Dark, though they knew nothing more about him
than Jake did.
Number Two was Tracy McMillen, a secretary, white female, age thirty-one. Judge
Atlee took his time unfolding the scraps of paper, studying the names, trying to
pronounce them perfectly, allowing each to assume a new position. When the first row
was filled, they moved to the second with Juror Number Eleven, one Sherry Benton, the
first black to be called forth.
It took an hour to seat the first fifty. When they were in place, Judge Atlee excused
the others and said they should remain on standby until further notice. Some of them
left, but most stayed where they were and became part of the audience.
“Let’s recess for fifteen minutes,” the judge said, tapping his gavel as he lifted his
cumbersome frame and waddled off the bench, black robe flowing behind. The lawyers
gathered into frantic groups, all chattering at once. Jake, Portia, and Harry Rex went
straight to the jury deliberation room, which was empty at the moment. As soon as Jake
shut the door, Harry Rex said, “We’re screwed, you know that? A bad draw. Terrible,
terrible.”
“Hang on,” Jake said, tossing his legal pad onto the table and cracking his knuckles.
Portia said, “We have eleven blacks out of fifty. Unfortunately, four of them are on
the back row. Once again, we’re stuck on the back row.”
“Are you trying to be funny?” Harry Rex barked at her.
“Well, yes, I thought it was rather clever.”
Jake said, “Knock it off, okay? I doubt if we make it past number forty.”
“So do I,” replied Harry Rex. “And just for the record, I sued numbers seven, eighteen,
thirty-one, thirty-six, and forty-seven, for divorce. They don’t know I’m working for you,
Mr. Brigance, and once again I’m not sure why I am working for you because I’m
damned sure not getting paid. It’s Monday morning, my office is filled with divorcing
spouses, some of them carrying guns, and here I am hanging around the courtroom like
Chuck Rhea and not getting paid.”
“Would you please shut up?” Jake growled.
“If you insist.”
“It’s not hopeless,” Jake said. “It’s not a good draw, but not completely hopeless.”
“I’ll bet Lanier and his boys are smiling right now.”
Portia said, “I don’t understand you guys. Why is it always black versus white? I
looked at those people, those faces, and I didn’t see a bunch of hard-core racists who’ll
burn the will and give everything to the other side. I saw some reasonable people out
there.”
“And some unreasonable ones,” Harry Rex said.
“I agree with Portia, but we’re a long way from the final twelve. Let’s save the