Johnny Nine: Capano Juror

By Johnathan M. Carter

Youve read the reporters story, the mystery writers story and the investigative reporters story...now read the story told from the point of view of a juror in the Tom Capano murder trial. What is the day to day life of a juror in a high profile murder case? The parade of witnesses, who is believable and who is not? The evidence, the sometimes bizzare testimony, and the tedious. This book talks about all of these issues, sometimes with curiousity, astoundment, horror and even, sometimes, amusement. Every element that makes up humanity comes through in this trial, and in the pages of this book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 27, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462814077

Johnathan M. Carter

Johnathan M. Carter first wrote about being a juror in a high-profile murder case. His third book is an analysis of the entire trial process, based on the research skills he learned after taking a paralegal certification course at the University of Delaware.

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Copyright © 2000 by Johnathan M. Carter.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

DAY ONE, WEEK ONE, MONDAY,

OCTOBER 26, 1998

DAY TWO, TUESDAY, OCTOBER

27,1998

DAY THREE, WEDNESDAY,

OCTOBER 28, 1998

DAY FOUR, THURSDAY,

OCTOBER 29, 1998

DAY FIVE, WEEK TWO, MONDAY,

NOVEMBER 2, 1998

DAY SIX, WEEK TWO, WEDNESDAY,

NOVEMBER 4,1998

DAY SEVEN, THURSDAY,

NOVEMBER 5, 1998

DAY EIGHT, WEEK THREE, MONDAY,

NOVEMBER 9, 1998

DAY NINE, TUESDAY,

NOVEMBER 10, 1998

DAY TEN, WEDNESDAY,

NOVEMBER 11,1998

DAY ELEVEN, FRIDAY,

NOVEMBER 13, 1998

DAY TWELVE,WEEK FOUR,

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 16, 1998

DAY THIRTEEN, WEDNESDAY,

NOVEMBER 18, 1998

DAY FOURTEEN, THURDAY,

NOVEMBER 19, 1998

DAY FIFTEEN, WEEK FIVE,

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 23, 1998

DAY SIXTEEN, TUESDAY,

NOVEMBER 24, 1998

DAY SEVENTEEN, WEEK SIX,

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 1998

DAY EIGHTEEN, TUESDAY,

DECEMBER 1, 1998

DAY NINETEEN, WEDNESDAY,

DECEMBER 2, 1998

DAY TWENTY, WEEK SEVEN,

MONDAY, DECEMBER 7, 1998

DAY TWENTY ONE, TUESDAY,

DECEMBER 8, 1998

DAY TWENTY TWO, WEDNESDAY

DECEMBER 9, 1998

DAY TWENTY THREE, THURSDAY,

DECEMBER 10, 1998

DAY TWENTY FOUR, WEEK EIGHT,

MONDAY, DECEMBER 14, 1998

DAY TWENTY FIVE, TUESDAY,

DECEMBER 15, 1998

DAY TWENTY SIX, WEDNESDAY,

DECEMBER 16, 1998

DAY TWENTY SEVEN, THURSDAY,

DECEMBER 17, 1998

DAY TWENTY EIGHT, WEEK NINE,

MONDAY, DECEMBER 21, 1998

DAY TWENTY NINE, WEEK TEN,

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 29, 1998

DAY THIRTY, WEDNESDAY,

DECEMBER 30, 1998

DAY THIRTY ONE, WEEK ELEVEN,

MONDAY, JANUARY 4, 1999

DAY THIRTY TWO, TUESDAY,

JANUARY 5, 1999

DAY THIRTY THREE, WEDNESDAY,

JANUARY 6, 1999

DAY THIRTY FOUR, THURSDAY,

JANUARY 7, 1999

DAY THIRTY FIVE, WEEK TWELVE,

MONDAY, JANUARY 11, 1999

DAY THIRTY SIX, WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 13, 1999:

DAY THIRTY SEVEN, THURSDAY, JANUARY 14, 1999

DAY THIRTY EIGHT, FRIDAY,

JANUARY 15, 1999

DAY THIRTY NINE, SATURDAY,

JANUARY 16, 1999

DAY FORTY, SUNDAY,

JANUARY 17, 1999

WEEK THIRTEEN, DAY FORTY ONE,

WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 20, 1999

DAY FORTY TWO, THURSDAY,

JANUARY 21, 1999

DAY FORTY THREE, WEEK FOURTEEN,

MONDAY, JANUARY 25, 1999

DAY FORTY FOUR, TUESDAY,

JANUARY 26, 1999

DAY FORTY FIVE, THURSDAY,

JANUARY 28, 1999

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

I have given false names to my fellow jurors, men and women that I had come to admire in those tough times from October of 1998 through January of 1999, just as a precaution. It is unlikely that the jury would come to any harm from a man who is trying to appeal his verdict, but if his money and influence are no help in getting a new trial and if the verdict stands, well, who knows?

It is easy to become somewhat jaded to the system when one sees how easily a convicted murderer can sue someone he claims to have committed the murder, the ease with which he can file appeals on every aspect of the trial.

The hope of this book is that it may reach someone in a similar situation, who might see themselves in it’s pages, and not make the same tragic mistakes that Anne Marie Fahey made, and save themselves and their families and loved ones many heartaches and worse.

John M. Carter

In many ways, 1996 was a hard year to forget, especially for all of the people who were shot, stabbed, beaten or otherwise brutalized in one of the worst crime waves that Delaware had seen for many a year. It was so bad that some enterprising person who was so fed up with what was going on, painted a sign that resembled the signs in the city that point the culturally inclined and tourists toward culture and tourism, only this sign read, Welcome to Mayor Sills Shooting Gallery, which was insulting enough, but this sign was on Route 52, a.k.a. Pennsylvania Avenue, the road more taken by wealthy bankers, doctors, lawyers, crooked construction magnates and wealthy drug dealers as they traveled from their fabulous mansions in Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania and Greenville, Delaware to the heart of Wilmington, where the action is, although a lot of doctors had taken the opportunity to leave the crime plagued city in the eighties, fleeing to new office space and hospitals in the suburban areas where they could park their cars and walk to an office without being propositioned by hookers, robbed, shot or raped, not that the heart of Wilmington is that bad mind you, but those side streets can be murder.

Not that the residents of the city are to blame for the crime wave, the big drug market has prompted many enterprising young men and women from places like Brooklyn and the Bronx, to come down to Delaware where they routinely set up shop and eventually murder several people before either being caught or fleeing back to New York.

Not that the police are incompetent, but local authorities efforts were hampered by local government, one of whom rallied to the defense of local criminals who complained that the law enforcement officers were too rough. One instant that will live in infamy, at least in Wilmington legend, allegedly occurred when a law enforcement official refused to shake the hand of a local politician who allegedly endorsed criminals over the efforts of law enforcement to protect the community. Usually a situation like this is just not complete without charges of racism flying around, but in this instance, all parties involved were the same, proving that there can be true equality in the day to day operations of a booming metropolis already beset with alleged wrongdoing by alleged officials. Allegedly.

In 1996, none of the crime and violence of the city bothered me because I avoided the city like the plague, living on the outskirts of it in nearby Greenville, unfortunately I was living in a fifty year old apartment building and not one of the fabulous mansions. My boss and I had recently been patted on the back by the corporate overlords who appreciated the fact that our relentless testing of material in a huge job resulted in one hundred percent payment, which is virtually unheard of in the stone industry in a job that involved millions of tons of material. They sure appreciated it, not enough to give us a raise of course, and yet people wonder why the work ethic in this country is so bad.

In June of that year, I was up at Valley Garden Park just off of Route 82 near Yorklyn, walking along a small stream, when I almost walked right into the midst of three large snakes who were stretched out near a big frog, who simply sat there. Under normal conditions, I would have run, screaming in panic from this situation, but I had my cameras with me, so I stopped and began taking pictures. This was the kind of situations that amateur photographers dream of, and none of these creatures were in a hurry to get away; the frog had already been bitten and was either paralyzed, or dead. The three large snakes waited either to battle it out for the frog, or wait to see who was going to get the green morsel, or perhaps they wondered if I was a contestant for the frog, but I simply snapped away, zooming in and out on the action as one snake shot forward at lightening speed and bit the frog again, the other two snakes popping their heads up to watch the action, or wonder whether or not to strike.

I looked up from my own self absorbed state of photographing and saw a little girl who had also seen the snakes and was walking toward them in curiosity.

Be careful, I said to her, even though I did not know what kind of snakes they were, they were big, and the frog was just sitting there in a poisoned stupor, if one of these snakes bit her, she could certainly end up in bad shape. Of course, I was practically standing on one of the snakes to be close enough to take pictures, but I had a valid excuse, I was a photographer.

Don’t get in the man’s way honey, he’s taking pictures, a man called out from thirty or forty feet away. I wonder what he would have thought if he had seen those three large snakes? I watched with some relief as the young girl left and a little sympathy.

The other two snakes slithered slowly away as the snake that had bit the frog earlier now shot forward and took the head of the frog into it’s mouth, dislocating his jaw to end up with half of the frog in it’s mouth, in my viewfinder, I watched and photographed as the snake raised his head and body from the ground, his head with the frog halfway in seemingly causing the snake’s head to move back and forth in an almost hypnotic ballet before suddenly launching himself, which, through the viewfinder, looked as if he had launched himself directly at me, toward the reeds on the other side of the stream. I had jumped back and probably missed the best shot of all. In the camouflage of the reeds he stared at me for a few moments before disappearing from view, and I did not see him anymore.

Then Anne Marie Fahey was in the newspapers, a beautiful young woman who was missing, in one of Wilmington’s worst crime years. When the story first broke, I had hoped she had just took a few days off and forgot to tell anyone, but as time went on, that became very unlikely, just as unlikely as the suspect, Thomas J. Capano.

Flyers with her picture, a description and an offer of a reward went up all over Delaware and the east coast. I was afraid that a serial killer was on the loose again, or maybe they had not caught the right person the first time, as I recalled media reports of the time, police had actually stopped their surveillance of their only suspect one Thursday night, and either late that night or early the next morning, another killing occurred. He had used the same kind of duct tape and electrical tape as most tradesmen, and the State, in trying to match tire tracks at the scene of one of the crimes went to a local automotive store that had changed the suspect’s tires, could not find the ones that had been on the suspect’s van so they essentially said, Take our word for it, the tires he had on his van matched the ones he had at the time. The man may well have been guilty, but as an outsider reading only newspaper accounts of the case, I wondered. Several years after the man’s death sentence (he was executed fairly quickly, having petitioned the court to forego appeals), another body was found in Wilmington, but then again, those days were ripe for serial killers, there was the cartoon van serial killer of Philadelphia who tooled around looking for mentally retarded young women and I believe there was one or two more in the tri state area at the same time as Delaware’s.

But what had happened to Anne Marie Fahey? As it became clearer that she had not just run off without telling anyone, what about Tom Capano? I had heard of Louis who had allegedly wore a wire to allegedly save his own assets in an alleged bribery scandal, Joe had allegedly been involved in some kind of alleged domestic dispute, I think everyone had heard of Capano Builders, but I had not heard of Tom, at least not that I remembered anyway, but in reading about him, it seemed unlikely that someone of his stature would actually be involved in the disappearance of a young woman. After all, he was a well respected, powerful, wealthy man who could certainly go out and find another girlfriend. Maybe he had dropped her off at her apartment and she may have surprised a burglar in the act, or someone she knew may have been waiting for her.

The News Journal, however, was on a roll. They could not print enough about Tom Capano and his alleged involvement. I was reminded of the turn of the century muckrakers, and their ilk who built newspaper empires on sensationalized stories, using insinuation and out and out lies to sell a product, a tradition which has never really died out. From the early days of William Randolph Hearst to the modern era of the tabloid press, and the blurred lines of truth between entertainment conglomerates that not only make movies, but own the newspapers and televisions shows that review them, and the stores that rent and sell the movies. These people do not believe in the terms, monopoly, or conflict of interest. That is the media, in a nutshell. Hunter S. Thompson once said that there was no such thing as objective journalism, and that only an idiot would believe that there was, perhaps he is right. Perhaps the media exists only to sell itself on a daily basis, and to do that, they have to entertain the customer, and people love to be entertained and may not ask if the facts are straight as long as the blood is bright red and the story is entertaining and the cameras are right in the face of the victim and or the victim’s family.

A general mistrust of the media notwithstanding, Capano might be guilty, he might think that he was wealthy enough, clever enough, and powerful enough to get away with it. Later, the home of his youngest brother was raided, there was a story about a cooler and one of the Capano brothers had allegedly tried to intimidate an alleged witness. I had heard enough of the story and stopped paying any real attention to it, it was very depressing, and if Capano was innocent, somebody was out there kidnapping young ladies, not something I like to read about when I had a younger sister who, like most people, thought nothing of popping out of the apartment to run to the laundry or to the corner store without locking the door, which is something that just blows my mind under normal circumstances.

Ooooh, somebody is going to come in and hurt me, she laughed sarcastically at my shock that she would leave the apartment that way. It was not enough to tell her that crimes like robbery, rape, murder were sometimes, crimes of opportunity, somebody might try doorknobs here and there, and if one is unlocked, the unlucky person inside is a victim, if the door is locked, the person inside may not know how lucky they are. In the early days of the Anne Marie Fahey disappearance, my sister had a change of heart.

I think I’ll start locking the door from now on, even if I’m gone for just a minute, she told me.

That’s probably a good idea, I replied, apparently the reality of danger had more credibility than my old womanish advice.

My sister married later that year, so I left the two bedroom apartment we had shared in Greenville, which broke my heart because there is a certain snobbery appeal to being able to say, I live in Greenville, suddenly people paid a little more attention, the attitude being, If this guy lives in Greenville, he must be wealthy and or powerful. Well, that illusion was gone now. But, loss of snob appeal aside, things were going well in September of 1998 when I opened the mailbox and pulled out an envelope that was immediately recognizable. The call to jury duty. My heart sank, for someone like me who enjoys a fairly predictable routine in life, jury duty was a big pain in the ass. Reluctantly, I opened the envelope.

Capital Murder, was the charge, The State of Delaware versus Thomas J. Capano, proclaimed another line, and a charge to stop reading or watching news accounts and to stop discussing this case. Great, and it would be just my luck to be picked for what would obviously be a long trial after having avoided jury duty three times. Twice when I had been called, I was part of a small workforce at a hot mix plant on Terminal Avenue and losing even one person for more than a day was a hardship, but the third time, I believe it was in 1994, the notice said that no excuses would be accepted.

I did not have anything against the City of Wilmington, there are just so many problems in the city that one does not run into in the suburbs. Parallel parking for one, I love to watch people parallel park when I am in the city, because nine times out of ten, when people parallel park, they bump the car in front of them, and they bump the car behind them, then there are the cramped and crowded side streets, one way streets that are not always labeled, there are the beggars who will sweetly ask for something, money, cigarettes, what have you, and then growl angrilly, Fuck you, if you do not hand over something. Some of these beggars are not dressed in rags pushing shopping carts either, they are dressed like average everyday people on there way to work somewhere, or like gangstas, or like street hustlers.

Hey buddy, got a cigarette, got a dollar, they ask from benches in the bus stop shelters or street corners, people without an ounce of pride. At least they can usually speak coherently, occasionally a fellow human being spouting jibberish like a character from a William S. Burroughs novel approaches the pedestrian, the words are in English, but the order is jumbled, suggesting a drug addled moron or just some poor bastard who has taken one too many late night beatings on the head. Whenever I see the street hustlers working the streets, I wonder why I bother going to work, I am sure I could dress right for a hustling stint, probably make some good money. Knowing my luck, I would be the one person that would actually be persecuted, excuse me, prosecuted for begging, some cop or judge would want to make an example out of me and I would get twenty years.

I was legally mugged in Wilmington one sunny, July evening. My sister had to go back to her office, and because she was dealing with the unwanted attentions of one of the city dwellers, I decided to drive her. Her stalker was an interesting story in itself, a man calling out her name, making crude gestures, following her to the building she worked in, at first she thought it was just an ignorant asshole, but as time went on and it did not stop, she sought the help of the Wilmington Police, who of course, had no interest in helping, it was too bad that her last name was not DuPont, or that she was at least wealthy enough to merit some kind of attention, but the Police were more inclined to wait for her to be raped or murdered, or at least beaten before they involved themselves, apparently stalking is not a crime of violence, but she was persistent however, and they finally did the job they were paid to do in the first place. Kudos to the Wilmington Police Department.

Anyway, I took her into the city around seven p.m., the financial hub was empty, but it was still daylight so it was relatively safe and I found parking easily on the desserted streets, pulling up in front of a couple sitting on a bench. As soon as I stepped out of my vehicle, this guy called out, Hey buddy. I knew what that meant so I pretended to ignore him and kept walking away.

Hey John, my sister called out, this man is calling you.

Gee, thanks sis.

My wife, you know, he pointed back at the young woman on the bench, well, we’re in a program, and she fell off of the wagon man, drank our bus money, could you help us out man? I would really appreciate it. What he was really saying of course, was, I know where your vehicle is, if you are rude to me or do not give me money, you will come back to a vehicle with slashed tires, broken windshield and windows, and a missing radio.

Here, I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out some ones to push into his hands, please do not take your wallet out in front of these bastards, they will kill you for it, I hope things work out for you two, I said with the utmost sincerity, which actually meant, Thank you for not using a gun or a knife, yes, I realize that if I turn down your request, that you will vandalize my vehicle, and that is why I am giving you the cash and speaking to you with respect, I understand this game and I am playing by its’ rules, thank you for not vandalizing my vehicle or my person.

God bless you, he smiled sincerely, saying in reality, You have played the game correctly, I will not vandalize your vehicle, please visit our fair city again with more cash.

Thanks, I said to my sister when we were out of earshot of the hustler, I hope I can do the same for you one day, we both started laughing.

I didn’t know, she insisted, he might have known you.

Yes, I am quite the gadabout in Wilmington and have many friends among the whitetrash, I said with my phony British accent.

That first time that I actually had to report for jury duty was also the first time that I had to ride the bus, which is not a bad thing, but to someone who is used to driving himself everywhere, it is annoying. I could have easily drove into the city and parked, if I wanted to pay the equivalent of the national debt to park in one of the many parking lots or garages. Besides, I pay my taxes, aren’t there enough drunks, homeless, mental patients etc., who could use the work and the low pay? No, a working man has to be inconvenienced. Thank you.

In true annoying fashion, I had to sit in a room at the bottom of the courthouse for three frigging hours. I noticed that most everyone else dressed in a rather slovenly fashion, and if I had thought about it, I would have done the same, appearance has to be part of what people consider when picking a jury. In the end, it was probably my progressive hair loss that kept me out of jury duty that time. For the last couple of years, my hair loss was very noticeable, so I had begun shaving my head, hoping that no one would think I was a frigging Nazi, but then again Michael Stipe and Billy Zane were clean shaven (for the same reason I was) and no one called them Nazis or skinheads.

We were eventually led upstairs to one of the courtrooms, taken in and seated. It was one of those old fashioned courtrooms with a really unnecessary thirty foot high ceiling, with all of that room, they could have had three courtrooms instead of one, but it was built in a time when people took pride in their building design and skill. I really do not understand why I was so annoyed, I was getting paid for jury duty, so it was like a day off, but then again, on a day off, I would not have come into the city.

The major players came in and eventually the lawyer for the defendant rose from his seat and began looking the crowd over, I was looking around too and had an annoyed look on my face and suddenly our eyes met, I can only imagine what he thought, Oh my God, that guy’s a pissed off Nazi. I was in the first group to be seated in the jury box, the first person dismissed knew the defendant, I was the second person dismissed, no questions, just dismissed, which was actually too bad because I found out later that it was a case that involved an alleged escort service which allegedly offered more than an alleged escort if you know what I mean, and I think you do. So as I rode the bus for only the second time in my life back to Greenville, I did so with a warm glow of pride for having done my civic duty and being spared having to do it again for another four years.

When I got back to the apartment, I looked at myself in the mirror. Geez, I did look like a frigging Nazi. I tried putting a pleasant smile on my face, which made me look like an effeminate bald man, the hell with it.

Now it was September of 1998, and I was reading a notice that told me I would have to report again, but I was thankful that there would probably be a large pool of potentials to choose from, and the odds were good for me to get out of it again, after all, I had read about the case since it happened … well, I had stopped reading about it for awhile, plus I doubted if the company I worked for was going to pay me for the duration of a long trial, I would simply claim financial hardship and get out of it.

You get paid for jury duty pal, my boss, Joe Bianchi laughed, knowing that I wanted to get out of it.

For a day, maybe a week, I moaned, but you know this will be a long trial.

It says so right here in the employee handbook, he smiled.

That frigging thing was written while Nixon was still in office, I protested.

I’ll call the main office and see what they say, he replied, dialing as he spoke. It turned out that I would get paid for jury duty no matter how long the trial was.

You could shave your head again, Bianchi laughed, they’ll think you’re a Nazi.

It’s October, it might start turning cold again and my brain will freeze, do you know that cold actually effects the brain?

Yes Mr. Science, I know that.

The summons stated that the night before I was supposed to report, I was to call the automated juror line to find out if there were any scheduling changes. I found out that I was supposed to report on a certain day and time, then I had to call the bus company to find out what the schedule was for the buses down at the Route 273 and Route 7 Park N Ride.

I boarded the Route 23 bus for what I hoped would be the last time, and behind me, an attractive young lady also boarded the bus. We were the only passengers on the trip into Wilmington that morning.

Are you stopping at Rodney Square? she asked the driver.

Yeah, we’ll be there in a few minutes, the driver replied helpfully.

I have never been here before and I have to report for jury duty, I really don’t need this, she huffed.

I know what you mean, I replied sympathetically as I hoped that we would both get off … jury duty that is. The crowd of media types with their cameras and microphones were a cause of instant unease, but I calmed myself and decided instead to feel sympathy for the poor chumps who would be picked, after all, this was the last day for me.

Filing into the courthouse with criminals and alleged criminals made me feel ill at ease as I put my keys into the little tray and walked through the metal detectors. There was no trip downstairs this time, we went directly to the third floor were we were crammed into the courtroom. There was a brief introduction by a woman who explained to us how we happened to be picked for jury duty, the voting records and driver licenses were to blame.

For me it could not have been the voting records because I did not vote in the years that I was first summoned, after all, it was obvious Ron would win in nineteen eighty, Carter was perceived as a horrible president, a genius of a man to be sure, but somewhat lacking in the political arena, at least on the presidential level, it was obvious Ron would win in the big brother year, so why bother? Then there was George, to me an obvious winner, so I finally gave in and registered to vote in nineteen ninety two as I began to tire of cheap whore, aspect of the Republican Party who seemed all too willing to align themselves with religious groups who were not so much into the spiritual life as they were into telling people what to do, and getting off on it, so, shocking everyone who knew me, I voted for Bubba, and when you compare trading arms for hostages and selling drugs for right wing causes, a guy who gets a little strange on the side and lies about it does not seem too bad at all. I did like his idealism and the fact that he wanted to bring socialized health care to this country, which by the way, every other civilized country in the world has, but he was woefully unprepared for the fact that special interests could buy off his own party members with the same ease that they bought off the Republicans. Thanks for trying anyway Bill.

It seemed as though the check in would be quick and relatively painless, as we all stood and moved to the front of the court, I saw a man sitting at a computer, holding one of those scanning wands in his hands which I automatically assumed he would use to scan in the bar code on our summonses. Not quite, apparently the computer and scanner were there just for show, he was simply penciling in people on a clipboard, it’s just as well, whenever the religious fanatics see a scanner, they begin to have visions of the mark of the beast, the end of times, the Anti-Christ and also of Charo, the coochee coochee girl. I would not imply that those who worship God are nuts, after all, I love Jesus too, but there is a wacky element out there that will use the name of Christ justify anything from scaring old ladies into handing over their savings to beating and murdering anyone with a different philosophy. Now that we’ve cleared that up …

Do I need a pencil? I asked loudly and plainly of the city employee who stood in front of several huge bins just full of pens and pencils as she handed out papers. It was obvious that we would need something to write with …

No, she said with conviction, surprising me, you won’t need anything but this, she patted the papers and spoke loudly. I should have reached across the desk and grabbed a pen or pencil, or at least insisted that she give me one anyway, or I should have asked, Why are there so many frigging pencils and pens if I do not need one you silly city employee? But I did not and I lived to regret it.

We were code numbered and alphabetized, so they moved on from a letter of the alphabet, they wrote numbers under the letters, we were supposed to remember the number and the letter of the alphabet that our name was placed under, so unless I had a photographic memory to remember my eight number code, I was fucked. I was fucked. Now how hard would it have been for that person to give me one frigging pencil or pen? They had thousands up there, but no, she could not give me one fucking pencil, and now I was totally pissed off, I hate being that unprepared, it was like the nightmare, walking along in familiar territory, then suddenly naked, in a strange and forbidding place, unprepared with nothing to fall back on.

Can I borrow your pencil? I asked the elderly woman to my left.

What? she asked, wondering how anyone could be so stupid not to have a pen or pencil, especially since there were so many up front. Or maybe she was deaf.

Can I borrow your pencil? I asked again, too loudly this time.

She smiled smugly and handed her pencil to me.

From a side door, the lawyers entered the courtroom with their client, who looked nothing like his picture in the paper, at least, not the ones that I had seen of a plump, middle aged man with a black beard and mustache. Tom Capano stood before the court, a thin, gaunt, cleanshaven man with graying hair. I began to actually consider what was going on here instead of my petty, selfish concerns regarding the break of my comfortable routine. A woman was possibly dead, and a man stood before the court charged with her murder, a man who could lose his freedom, or possibly his life if convicted.

Judge William Swain Lee real aloud from the twelve page, Jury Voir Dyre, three pages of which were the names of witnesses and possible witnesses which he asked us to read at our leisure and inform the bailiffs if we knew any of the potential witnesses. I live like a frigging hermit, so it is unlikely that I would know any of them, but I read it later that night just to be sure.

I was not in the group that would be called on this day, or the next day for that matter, I was in group ‘M,’ so the jury may have been filled by the time my number came up. We were also instructed to stay away from media reports of the case and not to discuss it or listen to discussions about it.

The group I was in would report on Thursday, but we were still instructed to call the automated juror line the night before we were scheduled to report to see if there had been any changes. I came back on Thursday morning, being led to a small jury room, number 302. The room was silent and grim, no one talked the way strangers do when thrown together. I doubted that anyone actually wanted to get this duty, it would no doubt be long and probably tedious. I sat in the chair, holding my copy of the Jury Voir Dyre, assuming that the questions in it would be asked of me, I thought that I might read along while the questions were being asked. I suppose I assumed that I would be taken to a small room with the Judge and attorneys present where I would be asked the questions, so I was unconcerned as the tall bailiff led me down the narrow, yellow corridor to a side door. He opened the door and I stepped into a cavernous courtroom that seemed full of people, and was led to the witness stand. Can I go home now? I wondered as I was told to remain standing, given a choice of swearing on the Bible or affirming, told to place my right hand on the Bible, so I naturally put my left hand on the Bible, not even realizing it until it was pointed out to me. The woman who swore me in would swear in every witness in the trial. I was very nervous and decided to look soley at Judge Lee, who began reading the questions.

We estimate that the trial in this case may take in excess of eight weeks once a jury has been selected. Is there any reason why you cannot serve during this period?

No, I answered regretfully as all my sources confirmed that I would be paid for jury duty for the duration.

Would you have any difficulty serving if the jury is sequestered; that is, restricted from going home in the evenings during your deliberations at the end of the trial?

No, I replied.

Do you know anything about this case through personal knowledge, discussions with anyone, the news media or any other source?

Well, there is the question that will get me out of jury duty, even though I had come to realize the seriousness of the situation and its’ importance over my own desire not to have my life interrupted, I had also come to suspect that this was probably a world that I did not belong in, and I felt sure I would return to it in short order as I replied, I have been reading about this case from the time it first appeared in the paper. Well, good night everyone, please drive safely, I am outta here.

Do you know any facts about this case?

Yes, I replied confidently, I have read about the cooler, Gerry and Louis and the intimidation of witnesses … my voice trailed off as I tried to think of anything else that I knew, but I had reached a point where I stopped paying any real attention to this case, sadly, there was nothing left to say.

Have you discussed the case with anyone?

Yes, I’ve discussed it with friends and co-workers.

Have you formed an opinion as to the guilt or innocence of the defendant?

Well, we think …

I’m not asking what, ‘we think,’ Judge Lee interrupted with a smile and a stern voice amidst