Burners Read Free Page A

felt about those convictions? Have you disagreed with any of the decisions?”
    “My job is to report and analyze, not to agree or disagree.”
    That was good. It suggested an inability or at least unwillingness to judge, which should give the prosecution some doubts about my reliability on a jury. Then again, it could also suggest an innate impartiality. That would be bad.
    A young man in a tan suit, who I figured was a clerk, got Lipscomb’s attention. She leaned down to hear him whisper something. Then she whispered something back and I began to imagine myself being dismissed, walking out of the courthouse, sitting in my car, slipping Bob Seger’s
Against the Wind
into the CD player, and cranking the volume.
    Lipscomb was nodding as she turned her attention back to me.
    “One more question, Mr. Chapa. Would you have any trouble voting to send a man to jail for the rest of his life for murder?”
    This was my shot. A “yes” answer would likely bring my part of this to an abrupt end. So easy. Just say “yes.”
    But not really easy at all. In my years as a journalist I’ve written about some of the worst monsters the Chicago area has ever spit up. Hell yeah, I could send a man to jail for murder.
    “Would you like me to repeat the question, Mr. Chapa?”
    No, I heard it the first time. I was just calculating my options, and determined I have a much better play with the defense.
    “I could send a man to prison for life. No problem.” I didn’t add what I actually thought—
If I was certain he was guilty.
    “We have no further questions, or any objections to this potential juror.”
    Not what I wanted to hear. But I sensed I had a good shot of getting bounced by the defense.
    As the younger of the two defense attorneys stood, I saw Lebanon abruptly re-enter the courtroom through the back door, followed an instant later by a tall, shapely woman who appeared to be more than a little irritated. She had dark shoulder-length hair, a nice figure, and an outfit to match. She looked like she’d just stepped out of the front window of an exclusive Mag Mile clothing store.
    “Good afternoon, Mr. Chapa.” The slender attorney had taken off the poindexter glasses he’d been wearing earlier.
    I nodded, said nothing, since verbally agreeing under these circumstances would most certainly constitute perjury.
    “Mr. Chapa, have you ever covered a case or written a story about arson?”
    The defense attorney’s question diverted my attention away from the woman—
    “No.”
    —but only briefly. There was something familiar about her, and I wondered if she might be a fellow reporter. Someone whose path had crossed mine once or twice.
    “Do you have any sort of prejudiced feelings toward Hispanics?”
    “What?”
    I hadn’t been paying attention, and for a moment I wondered whether I’d missed a question.
    “Hispanics in general, Mexicans in particular. Any feelings or history of prejudice?”
    “No, of course not. As I said before, I’m Cuban.”
    “Cuban, yes, but—”
    “No, I have no prejudice against anyone.”
Besides asshole attorneys in particular, morons in general, and folks who forget to turn off their blinkers on the tollway as a matter of principle, that is.
    Though I could not make out what was being said, the hushed conversation in the back of the courtroom was anything but friendly. Fingers were being pointed, hands perched on hips, and it was clear that Lebanon was no match for this woman.
    I was intrigued.
    “Based on one of your earlier responses, do you believe you have a predisposition toward finding a defendant guilty?”
    I had just decided that she was wearing too much money to be a reporter, when the woman turned and looked my way for an instant. Just long enough for me to confirm this was no reporter.
    “Mr. Chapa?”
    Lieutenant Jacqueline Daniels? What was she doing so far out her comfort zone, which included Chicago’s most treacherous streets, dive bars, and crack houses, but not