The Seventh Victim

The

Seventh Victim

The Tyrone Briggs Story

as Told by a Juror

Joanne Spencer

Copyright © 2016 Joanne Spencer

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2016

ISBN 978-1-68409-158-4 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-68409-159-1 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Arrested

Chapter Two

Jury Duty

Chapter Three

The Trial

Chapter Four

Deliberations

Chapter Five

Aftermath

Chapter Six

Second Trial

Chapter Seven

Jumping In

Chapter Eight

Stunned

Chapter Nine

Enter Clarice

Chapter Ten

Second Trial Autopsy and Filing Appeal

Chapter Eleven

Visiting Jail

Chapter Twelve

Community Support

Chapter Thirteen

Parole and Monitoring

Chapter Fourteen

Back to Jail

Chapter Fifteen

Close Call

Chapter Sixteen

Appeal Court at Last

Chapter Seventeen

Square One Again

Chapter Eighteen

Discovery

Chapter Nineteen

More Intimidation

Chapter Twenty

Mission: Dismissal

Chapter Twenty-One

Trial 3

Epilogue

In His Own Words

Chapter One

Arrested

It was one of those damp, soggy, penetrating January nights in Seattle, the kind that follows days of gray skies and drizzle. It was one of those times when fog shrouds the area, a rare occurrence that could shut down operations at SeaTac Airport. For some of us, it was a night to get cozy in front of a fireplace and read a good book.

Tyrone Briggs wasn’t paying attention to the weather. The neighborhood gym was fewer than a couple of blocks from where he lived in Yesler Terrace, and only a rare snowstorm could close down the place. For Tyrone, that night started out like any other—basketball with his buddies—but the way it ended would force Tyrone’s life to veer from its path into the face of tragedy.

Basketball was Tyrone’s love—whether it was just a one-on-one or playing with a full team, he was doing what he loved most. With his school team, the position he played was guard, but as far as spirit and enthusiasm was concerned, he was the center. Anyone who saw Tyrone Briggs on the court knew he was born to play basketball. His mom was proud of the fact, but it didn’t stop her from constantly yelling, Tyrone, y’all stop bouncing that thing in the house!

Playing basketball was something he’d been doing since his hands were big enough to hold the ball. It was just another extension of his hand. Tyrone’s closest male friendships were those formed through a common love of the sport. Basketball was his world.

Tyrone’s coach at Nathan Hale High School showed excitement and enthusiasm when he talked about Tyrone. Tyrone’s not only a good player, he’s an outstanding basketball talent. Coach White added, I’ve been approached by numerous college coaches who’re excited over recruiting Tyrone Briggs. They all want him on their team. Tyrone was named most valuable player in the state tournament.

Tyrone could have been eligible for a college basketball scholarship, but he was one credit short of getting his high school diploma. He went to the prom and through graduation exercises, but one fact stared him in the face. He lacked a credit in US history to get his diploma.

Tyrone knew he’d have to scramble to somehow make that up. He couldn’t qualify for a scholarship yet because of it, and he was too poor to go to college without one. It had been a bitter pill to swallow, being delayed like that, but he’d had to face up to it and work toward that end. Tyrone knew he had to do what he had to do to qualify him to be a member of a college basketball team and then move on to his cherished goal: to be a professional basketball player. It was all Tyrone Briggs dreamed about.

This goal seemed a long way down the road to a young guy like Tyrone, but somehow he had to get there. If he could make it on to a professional team, he would make money doing what he loved most. Eventually, I’ll get myself a car, buy my folks a fancy house. He dreamed on and on. One possibility he had in mind was to bypass college and go directly to play for a professional team. I’ll just try out as a walk on, maybe, he thought. At least one professional team had already expressed interest in the recently turned nineteen-year-old.

Tyrone had another goal in mind as well, a more personal, rather secret goal. He desperately wanted to get rid of his lifelong stutter. It had embarrassed him since he was old enough to notice. He died a thousand deaths every time he had to get up in front of a class to read aloud. That was the worst. Once, he confessed to his mom, Ah-ah-ah I remember when I was just a little kid. Ah-ah-ah it really hurt me when my brothers and their friends used to tease me an ah-ah-ah call me Porky Pig because of the way I talked. Ah-ah-ah-ah sometimes I’d run into my room and stay there ah-ah-ah till they went off someplace. He knew that basketball, his love, was a way to achieve an education and make a career for himself. As long as Tyrone could keep getting that basketball through the hoop, it wouldn’t matter how he talked.

That night in the gym, Tyrone was jumping up for a layup when, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted his dad coming through the door, a serious look on his face. The distraction made him miss his shot. Tyrone stopped and walked over to the side.

To answer his question of Ah-ah-ah, what’s up, Dad? his father, wearing a frown and a question mark on his face, said, Some cops came around to the house a little bit ago and wanna talk to you again. You gotta come home right away. His dad told him the police had left, but they asked his mom to call them back as soon as Tyrone got home.

Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah gotta go, guys, ah-ah-ah-ah-ah see ya later, Tyrone called over his shoulder as he left the gym with his dad.

Ah-ah-ah, gee, Dad, it’s weird the cops wanna talk to me again. I already squared the traffic ticket with ’em last night. So did they say why they wanna ah-ah talk to me again now?

Beats me. His dad shrugged. I only know they wanna talk to you.

As they strode along, Tyrone felt a little jittery, knowing that anytime the cops wanted to talk to a guy, it usually didn’t mean anything good.

Tyrone thought back to the night before, when the police came to the gym to arrest him for the fifty-six-dollar traffic ticket he hadn’t paid. Talk about embarrassing, he thought. Right in front of everybody.

When he first arrived at the gym that night, the guys were all talking and laughing about it. They asked, What was that all about? and said, Thank God, at least the cops didn’t come barging into the gym again tonight.

A while back, when his dad came home from work, Tyrone had jumped into the family car and rushed over to a friend’s house without grabbing his driver’s license from another pair of jeans. On the way, the police made a routine traffic stop, which happened often to him and his African American brothers, but he never got used to it. It still made him nervous and resentful as well. When Tyrone couldn’t produce his license this time, he got the ticket. He thought the whole episode was unreasonable and didn’t pay the fine.

When the cops had picked him up at the gym the previous night and arrested him for nonpayment of the ticket, they went so far as to take him down to the police station. They took fingerprints and a mug shot. He was pretty scared. When he got home, his brothers laughed, teased him, and called him jailbird. Tyrone was embarrassed and didn’t think it was funny.

While Tyrone and his dad were walking the short distance home from the gym and dodging mud puddles, Tyrone complained, Ah-ah-ah I hope they’re not gonna drag me down to the police station again. Ah-ah the traffic ticket deal was bad enough. But he had heard they’d been picking up every guy between fourteen and thirty years old who lived around there, taking them to the station to question them about some woman being hurt or something. I hope they’re not gonna do that to me too, but getting hassled by police is nothin’ new to us guys, he thought.

Ah-ah-ah I wish they’d at least waited till the game was over, Tyrone grumbled to his dad. This is the second night in a row they’ve done this to me. He figured he didn’t have anything to tell them anyhow. He didn’t know anything about it anyway, except what he heard his mom say when she came in all excited one morning and woke him and his brother to tell them about that lady who had gotten hurt in Johnny’s old place.

He later saw the police cars and tracking dogs when he went out to get his hair processed, but he couldn’t tell them anything more than that. So why do they have to bother me again? he wondered.

Tyrone’s mind flashed back to how upset his mom had been that morning not long before Christmas when she rushed in all breathless and told him and his brothers what she had seen. She’d heard a lot of police cars coming when she was putting Felicia on the school bus, and she walked down the lane to see what was happening. It’s awful, that poor lady bein’ carried out on a stretcher an’ all, an’ she had blood all over her, he remembered her saying. Why, ah feel so sorry fo’ that lady, it’s terrible.

After her pronouncement, Tyrone got out of bed and peeked out his bedroom window. He saw a few police cars parked on the street and people still milling around. He felt sorry for that lady, but things were always happening around the neighborhood, so it didn’t seem so unusual to him.

When Tyrone and his dad got home from the gym, his mom called the police back as she promised. Y’all can come back and talk to Tyrone now, ’cause he’s here, she told them. When the police arrived, his mother invited them in. Tyrone recognized the police woman who had taken part in arresting him for the traffic ticket the night before.

The officer turned toward Tyrone and said, I’m Detective Cline, and I’d like to ask you a few questions. After a brief conversation with Tyrone and his parents, Cline again turned to Tyrone and said, Okay, now tell your mom what you did.

Tyrone, looking puzzled, replied, Ah-ah-ah-ah, what do you mean tell my mom what I did?

Cline narrowed her eyes and said in a low, harsh tone, You know what you did.

Tyrone, still looking puzzled, said, Ah-ah-ah-ah I didn’t do anything.

Cline, now in a more menacing tone, said, Oh yes, you did. We know you’re the one who attacked those women. We have a bloody stick with your fingerprints all over it. We’re placing you under arrest for rape, robbery, and assault!

Tyrone was in shock. What bloody stick? It was unreal, like it was happening to someone else. His mother, Dorothy, became hysterical. His father tried to calm her down, but it was impossible.

Tyrone’s mom and dad watched in disbelief and horror as their youngest son was handcuffed, placed in a police car, and whisked away. It was the beginning of a horrible, appalling nightmare.

In the police car, Tyrone’s denials and protestations were ignored. Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah, please, please listen to me. Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah I didn’t do anything. Ah-ah-ah-ah I didn’t hurt anybody. Please, please, let me go!

The cops continued talking among themselves, acting like they didn’t hear him, ignoring his pleas altogether. They were in control, had the badges and the power. Tyrone was powerless. The terror building inside him was mounting to a level of sheer panic.

This can’t be happening, he thought. This isn’t real. But he knew the tears he had seen running down his mother’s cheeks were real. The salty taste of his own tears and the terrified look in his parents’ eyes as they pleaded with the police not to take him were real. The set jaws and unyielding looks of the police officers, the pain he felt from the handcuffs digging into his wrists, and the terrible, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach were all too real as well. Tyrone felt as though he was going to pass out.

When the police car arrived at the jail, bearing the newly acquired prisoner, Detective Cline led Tyrone to a cell. Bang! went the heavy steel door as the detective slammed it shut. Between the bars, she threw red prison clothes at him and demanded, Put them on. Cline barked, We know you’re the one who’s been running around attacking those women. We have all kinds of evidence against you, including the bloody stick with your fingerprints all over it.

Tyrone knew this wasn’t true because he hadn’t attacked anybody. He didn’t know anything about any bloody stick. What are they talking about? he agonized. His thoughts darted frantically. How can they say things like this about me that aren’t true? Why don’t they listen? Why won’t they believe me?

We know you did it, Cline insisted. You’d better confess now and get it over with. You have just ten minutes to talk.

Now Tyrone was overtaken with terror; he thought his heart was jumping right out of his chest, as if he was having a heart attack. He felt helpless and claustrophobic. Please, God, Mom, Dad, somebody, anybody, help me. Please, God, make them believe me.

After eight minutes or so, Officer Cline came back into Tyrone’s cell and said in no uncertain terms, Okay, now you only have two minutes left.

This shocked him into asking to see a lawyer. Somehow the officer misconstrued his request for an attorney as a sign of guilt, or so she claimed.

Once again, Cline slammed the cell door shut and yelled, Yippee, we got our man!

It was like a stab in Tyrone Briggs’s heart when the officers congregating in the hall chimed in together, Yeah, we got our man!

For young Briggs, his arrest on January 21, 1987, in Seattle, Washington, marked the beginning of an insidious nightmare. It was the night that was to rob Tyrone Briggs of his future promise, a night to leave his life devastated. That was the night when the ugly steel jaws of injustice grabbed him and set out to tighten their stranglehold on him.

Following Tyrone Briggs’s arrest that night, a search warrant had been obtained by Detective Cline. By 12:30 am, two carloads of police officers had arrived back at the Briggs’s home and were loudly knocking on the door.

There would be no sleep in the house that night. Tyrone’s mother, Dorothy, was still sobbing, red-eyed, and hysterical when the police got there. His dad, Henry, was somewhere between cold shock and hot anger. When their oldest son, Eric, opened the door to the police, all the family could do was stare blankly at them. After what had transpired earlier, nothing more could faze them. They were just trying to make it, trying to cope, still trying to believe it.

Before police came back for the search, Tyrone’s parents had tried pulling themselves together enough to get Felicia, Tyrone’s nine-year-old sister, calmed down. Felicia had been so frightened and disconsolate after her brother was taken away in handcuffs, she couldn’t go to sleep. Henry and Dorothy were in shock themselves but tried to reassure Felicia that everything was going to be all right. It’s a mistake, they told her, and they said her brother would be safely home by morning. She finally dropped off to sleep in her parents’ bed.

When police came back for the search, Felicia woke up and was terrified. The security the child had always felt in her home was suddenly gone. Her whole world was falling apart. She stiffened with fright when police came into the bedroom, abruptly snapping on the light. Are they going to take me now too? Felicia wondered. Instinctively, Felicia lay still and pretended to be asleep. She shivered under the covers and wished the police would hurry up and go away.

When the police began the search, they told Tyrone’s parents and his twenty-year-old brother Iris not to get out of their chairs. They took Tyrone’s oldest brother, twenty-one-year-old Eric, around the house with them while they searched closets, rooms, drawers, cupboards, etc., scooping up items as they went. Outwardly, Eric appeared calm and cooperative, but inside, even though forced, he felt guilty, as if he were aiding and abetting the enemy.

Tyrone’s family watched helplessly, feeling violated; nothing was sacred. Strangers, hostile strangers, were invading their home, their sanctuary. The family was hurting, even nauseous, and now this. They felt like prisoners in their own home, but they cooperated fully with the police. As humiliating as this procedure was, at least this search would show the police they had nothing to hide. Their son was innocent.

When the officers asked to see where Tyrone kept his clothes, Eric opened the door to the bedroom. Felicia’s bed was heaped with toys: teddy bears, a Smurf doll, Cabbage Patch dolls, etc. Beside her bed was a tiny blue-painted table holding a lamp. To the right of that was a set of bunk beds, neatly made up with orange-and-tan plaid bedspreads. The upper bunk belonged to Iris, the middle brother, and the bottom to Tyrone, Eric explained. Eric told them that since he himself was a student at Seattle University, he was allowed to have a small room of his own. It was more like a large closet, barely large enough to hold his bed and a desk for quiet study. The other three siblings were obliged to share a room.

A double dresser in the room where nine-year-old Felicia and her two brothers slept held all three brothers’ T-shirts, socks, underwear, etc. Since all three brothers wore the same size, these articles of clothing were kept in one area for any one of the three to take as he needed.

The police opened everything. They were systematically going through drawers and closets, taking certain items as they went: shoes, pants, shirts, underwear, etc. The police asked Eric where Tyrone kept his coat. Eric pointed, and the police followed him to the front hall closet. Eric opened the closet door and handed them Tyrone’s winter coat. They asked if this was the only coat Tyrone wore. Eric responded, Well, sometimes my brother borrows my coat. So the police took Eric’s winter coat also, even though it was the coldest time of the year and Eric needed his coat to walk to the university daily. The police made a thorough search of the kitchen, taking an item or two from there as well.

After taking photos of every room in the neatly kept apartment, the police rushed back to the station, leaving the family to themselves, with their churning stomachs and their sickeningly troubled thoughts.

Tyrone’s mother, Dorothy, was torturing herself and Henry with unanswered questions. How can they jus’ come to ma house an’ snatch ma son away? How can this happen to us? How can this happen in America? How can an innocent chile be snatched right outa his own home an’ taken to jail for somethin’ he didn’t do? She kept going over it and over it.

Dorothy couldn’t think of anyone in her family who’d ever spent time in jail for anything before. Not that they didn’t get their share of parking and traffic tickets, but nothing more serious than that. Well, actually, there was the scary time the cops nabbed Iris for drugs, but they let him go when they found out they had made a mistake.

Dorothy and Henry worked hard at raising their family. They made sure their kids had activities, things to do. It made them happy that their boys were so consumed with basketball instead of out making trouble. When they first rented the apartment in Yesler Terrace, it really wasn’t such a bad neighborhood. But now, since drugs, prostitutes, and gangs began taking over, it was getting scary. That’s the reason Dorothy always walked Felicia to the school bus stop and waited with her until the bus came. Dorothy would only leave when Felicia was safely on board. Sometimes it embarrassed Felicia in front of her friends, made her feel like a baby, but Dorothy paid no mind. Felicia’s safety was the only thing that mattered.

It was Dorothy’s habit to then return home and fix Eric a little breakfast before he walked off to his college classes. The family hoped they would scrape enough money together sometime for a down payment on a house of their own, but that never seemed to happen. Dorothy always dreamed of their having a house of their own, not just an apartment, but a real house, something that belonged to them. That’s what it was though, just a dream. It was hard enough to keep the family going and the old car running.

After she saw Eric off to his university classes, Dorothy made sure the other two, Tyrone and Iris, got up and had breakfast before she started her daily housework. That way, she could tidy up their room, get the morning dishes put away, and afterward have a few minutes to herself, maybe visit with her friends around the neighborhood, go to the grocery store, or even play a little bingo, which she loved to do.

Dorothy and Henry had met when they were children back in Louisiana. When she was thirteen years old, a fierce hurricane swept through the little town where she lived with her mother and nine brothers and sisters. Her dad had left her mother with the ten children some years before. Henry, who was just a few years older than she, came to help the family during the hurricane, and that was the first time they met. She loved him ever since.

In those days, her mother worked as a domestic on a farm owned by a white couple, who was very kind to the family. The man always teased Dorothy and fondly referred to her as the little po’ gal. His wife saw to it that Dorothy’s mother took home a basket of eggs, and permitted her to milk a cow to get enough for her ten children. Life was good then, she thought. Oh, not that they weren’t terribly poor, but their mama gave them so much love, just as Dorothy was giving to her four children.

Many times as a small child, Dorothy worked alongside her grandmother picking cotton. It was hot out there in the fields, with the sun relentlessly beating down. Her hands got scratched and bled from the rough work, but it helped out the family, and she loved being with her grandmother. Sometimes, the children didn’t have enough good clothes to wear to school, so they stayed home and worked. They usually went to church on Sundays, and Dorothy loved the music. Gospel was her favorite. Once, Dorothy had a part to say in a school play. She was so proud, and she learned it well, but she couldn’t bear to think of standing up there in front of all those people, wearing her old clothes. Besides, Henry would be there to watch her. She had seen a pretty pink dress in the department store window and knew it would be just the thing. But she also knew there was no way she could have it. She had blurted to her mother and then felt ashamed of herself, because she knew her mom would feel bad that she couldn’t get it for her. But somehow, her mother managed to surprise her with it just in time for the school program. Yes, life was hard but good then, she thought. It didn’t prepare her for the heartbreak she was facing now; nothing could.

Henry Clay Harris and Dorothy Briggs fell in love when they were teenagers, but as was the case with many of their peers in Louisiana, they didn’t marry—at least not until after they had three sons. Later on they married, and their daughter, Felicia, was born. Soon after, the family moved to Seattle to look for work. Henry found a job. He worked hard and did so for many years on the docks as a stevedore loading and unloading ships laden with heavy cargo. He hated the fact that the money he earned never went far enough for a down payment on a house or any luxuries, but he tried to give his children the things they needed. Henry is a man of few words, so when he speaks, people, including his children, listen. He always ruled his family with a firm but loving hand.

His greatest wish for them was that unlike himself, they would all get through high school and college and not have to do hard physical labor as he did. His three sons grew up and towered over him, but they knew that what their dad said was law.

After a sleepless night and when it was finally daylight, a heartsick Henry went out to find an attorney. He would have gone outright after the cops took his son if he could have, but no matter how desperate he felt to get working on it right away, he had to live through the torturous night and wait for office hours, until some attorney got to his office in the morning.

My kid’s innocent. I won’t settle for a public defender, Henry vowed. I have to get the best there is to fight for my son. Henry knew it was going to be expensive, but he was shocked to find out just how expensive. Henry found that most lawyers he talked to wanted at least twenty-five thousand dollars up-front just to get started. He knew there was no way in this world he could put his hands on that kind of money. Unless I win the lottery, Henry thought. My chances of coming up with money like that are about the same as winning the lottery. He had to keep looking. There’s got to be some lawyer out there someplace who’ll help us for less.

Henry finally found a good attorney who would take less. But as irony would have it, after getting started with Tyrone’s defense, the lawyer told him one day, Henry, I’m sorry, I’ll have to drop your son’s case. I’ve discovered that one of the victims of an attack your son has been accused of is already a client of mine in another matter. Representing both the lady and your son would make it a conflict of interest on my part. It would be unethical for me to continue, he said.

Henry was shocked, and his heart sank over this setback, but he had to shake it off and keep going. That was when Henry found Richard Hansen, who was well known for defending tough cases. Hansen came recommended by the previous attorney. Henry quickly made an appointment and took Eric with him. He laid the whole heartbreaking story out to Hansen, pleading with him to help his youngest son, Tyrone.

Hansen told Henry that on the face of what he was telling him, it sounded possible that Tyrone could be innocent. However, he wanted to have a look at the formal charges by the prosecutor’s office and get an overview of the case before he could commit himself to taking it. Hansen tried to reassure Henry not to worry and told him he’d be getting back to him soon.

After Hansen checked on the charges against Tyrone Briggs and reviewed some of the preliminary material, he went to the jail to pay Tyrone a visit. When Hansen heard how difficult it was for Tyrone to speak even a few words without stuttering and after noticing that Tyrone didn’t resemble the physical descriptions of the attacker given by the victims in the case, it seemed doubtful to Hansen that Briggs could be the perpetrator.

During Hansen’s law career, he had defended all types, and most of them routinely claimed they weren’t guilty, but he was struck with what seemed like Tyrone Briggs’s sincere demeanor and protestations of having anything to do with these crimes. Tyrone also claimed to have alibis for some of the time frames around the attacks.

Hansen was haunted by the pain and fear on the kid’s face as he walked the few short blocks from the King County Jail to his office.

When Richard Hansen got back to his office and mentioned the case to his partner, David Allen, Allen, said, Yeah, I’m vaguely familiar with the case. I’ve heard bits and pieces of it here and there in the media, but I don’t know the particulars, only that they’ve arrested a suspect.

Hansen heaved a sigh and said, Well, I just got back from the jail, and I think they may have arrested the wrong suspect.

Allen raised his eyebrows. Really, what makes you think that?

Hansen went on to say, The kid doesn’t fit description given by the victims in the case. Not only that, this kid stutters, and none of the victims described their attacker as having a stutter.

Allen had to admit these differences sounded odd to him too.

Hansen said, This kid’s dad came in to see me a day or so ago and wants me to act as his son’s defense.

Allen shifted in his chair. What did you tell him?

Hansen answered, Just that I’d have to look over the case in general, meet the kid—and oh, by the way, his name is Tyrone Briggs.

Allen said, Do you think you might take the case?

Hansen stared at the floor and hesitated, as though he was trying to formulate his own decision as he was speaking to Allen. You know, David, I’m kind of inclined to take it. Unless I learn something different when I dig into it, I’m thinking now that this kid’s getting a bum rap. When I talked to him, he actually seemed like a pretty nice kid, and there’s no doubt he’s in a real jam.

Allen countered, But you know you’re getting married pretty soon, and God only knows, you’ve got a heavy caseload as it is.

Hansen said thoughtfully, I know, that’s one of the reasons I’m talking to you first before I give Briggs and his dad my answer. If I agree to take the case, some of this will fall on you and, I’m sure, on Roi.

Well, you know—David Allen adjusted his glasses as he spoke—I’m almost bending under my own caseload as it is, but if you think you have to do this, power to you. I’ll help as much as I can, and you know how willing Roi always is. Allen added, And which of us is going to break the news to Paula?

Their secretary was forever willing to help too, but she was only human. It wasn’t unusual to find Paula there on a Saturday, and she’d already put off her vacation more than once to keep up with the work they kept throwing her way.

Oh, there’s one other thing, David, Richard Hansen slipped in cautiously. This family has very little money. The dad’s desperate, and I felt so sorry for him. I told him if I do take the case, I’ll do it for a lot less than I normally would. In fact, come to think of it, I’ll probably even lose money, Hansen added.

Richard Hansen was moved by the visible relief on Henry’s face when he told him he’d decided to take the case and at a fraction of the normal cost. Henry eagerly signed a statement that he would make monthly payments. The payments would be taken out of Henry’s wages weekly, from his job as a longshoreman, until the debt was paid.

Hansen tried to reassure Henry that since there was no physical evidence to implicate his son in the crimes he was charged with, coupled with the fact that the victim’s descriptions of the assailants didn’t match him, the case could possibly be dismissed, perhaps not even go to trial. After all, Hansen pointed out, Tyrone has that prominent facial mole and the obvious stutter that the attacker or attackers didn’t have. With a little luck, this might be straightened out without ever going to trial. Hansen wasn’t too sure whether he was trying to convince Henry or himself.

The prosecution had had a giant head start. It was an understatement to say Richard Hansen didn’t have a minute to waste. He called Donald Roistacher, fondly referred to as Roi, into his office, gave him a briefing on the situation, and told him to start digging into the routine paperwork on the case while he took care of other details. Roi was a budding young attorney who began his career by assisting in the law firm of Allen and Hansen.

Hansen knew that if his attempt for dismissal failed, there was only a short time to prepare the defense for a trial. It was already February, and the trial was set for April. Hansen figured that lining up a good detective might be a smart way to go.

Chapter Two

Jury Duty

I routinely scooped up the mail from behind my mail slot, and one day, among the bills and advertisements, I discovered a manila card. It came from the King County Courthouse. I quickly scanned the message. Well, I’ll be darned was my first thought. After all these years, I’m being called for jury duty. My husband had been called twice, but this was my first. He had never served because of work-related commitments.

Of course, I knew others who’d served on juries at one time or another, but I couldn’t remember any of them describing what it had been like. I recalled one friend telling me that it was the single most fascinating thing she’d ever done. Her comment made it sound like it might be pretty interesting.

Would jury duty be anything like on TV or the movies? I wondered. I heard that if you’re ever called, you practically have to be at death’s door or have some similar excuse to get out of doing it, so I probably didn’t have a choice. It seemed like it would be confining, though, to sit in a stuffy old courthouse just as spring was making its debut. But after all, the card indicated it should require only about eight days of my time, not too bad, I thought. Oh well, I decided. I guess I might as well turn myself in and go do my civic duty.

If I could have seen into the future then, I might have had more than second thoughts on the subject. I might have tried to get out of it somehow. Little did I suspect that what seemed to be just a routine stint of jury duty was about to launch me on an odyssey that would forever change how I perceived our justice system and lead me on unchartered paths I’d never dreamed I’d take.

When my first day of jury duty arrived, I got up early to eat breakfast and dress in plenty of time because I didn’t want to be late. As I was walking up the granite courthouse steps, I felt torn between feelings of anxiety and excitement. I didn’t have any idea what to expect. When I wandered through the endlessly long halls and found the room number the manila card said to report to, I felt overwhelmed when I walked through the tall doors leading into a huge room and saw how many people were assembled there. Why, there must be three to four hundred people, I estimated. I saw a long brown desk in the front of the room with a sign that told me this was where I should check in. I was given a number, a jurors’ handbook to read, and a badge to wear that read, Juror–King County Superior Court.

After signing in, I looked around the gigantic room for an empty seat and spotted one beside a round table at the far end. There were two friendly-looking women already sitting there, and they gave me a welcoming glance as I walked by, so I pulled out a chair and sat at their table. I introduced myself and found out they had met before at another time when they both served as jurors the year before. The two were pleasant.

Welcome, I’m Sharon Allen, said one of them, and the other smiled and introduced herself as Phyllis Young.

I felt lucky when I found I was seated with women who’d already been on jury duty before and seemed to know the ropes. What’s it like? I asked. I smiled when they told me, It’s kind of fun in a way.

I was taken aback when one of the women remarked, However, just because you’ve been called to jury duty doesn’t mean you’ll necessarily be on a jury. This surprised me. I thought being called to jury duty meant you were going to be on a jury. I had no idea a person had to wait for her juror number to be called and then go through a lot of questioning herself before she would actually become a juror.

Sharon and Phyllis told me that a prospective juror had to be questioned by the defense and prosecuting attorneys and might be eliminated, never to serve on a jury at all. They said some people called to jury duty might end up spending the whole time just sitting in this same big room.

How boring, I said. I hope that doesn’t happen to me. Otherwise, it would seem like a complete waste of time.

As I sat making polite conversation with my new acquaintances and waiting for the jury orientation, I noticed a man walk past our table. It was probably the way the man was dressed, his unkempt look, and the stack of newspapers he carried that caused me to notice him. He passed up all the tables where anyone was seated and didn’t stop until he found an empty table in the back of the room. He stood out from the rest because he was unshaven, sloppily dressed, and wore a plaid cap, which he didn’t bother to take off. He was carrying a large stack of newspapers and had one rolled up in his back pocket as well. I thought, How odd, this fellow doesn’t show enough respect to remove his cap inside the jury room. He has an air of purposely holding people at arm’s length and obviously prides himself in being different. He flaunts it almost. His body language says, I want to be alone.

Anywhere else, I wouldn’t have given him a second thought, but it occurred to me that I wouldn’t want to be on the same jury with him because his whole demeanor suggested antisocial and aloof behavior. My first impression of him made me wonder just how open-minded and tuned in this individual would be on a jury. How could a person so obviously a loner work within a group to agree on anything as important as a verdict? I thought. He clearly had an attitude.

The crowd stopped talking when a man wearing a gray suit and an officious manner stepped up to the mike and introduced a superior court judge. The judge welcomed us, congratulated us on doing our duty, and then proceeded to tell us a tasteless joke about a lady juror and a rapist. This judge was probably trying to put us at ease, but instead, I sensed that most people were offended since they didn’t laugh like they enjoyed it, more like they were merely trying to humor the teller of it. Phyllis, Sharon, and I looked at one another and grimaced. Somehow, this joke might have been humorous in a men’s locker room, but here it was definitely in poor taste. We were then shown a video about court, narrated by actor Raymond Burr.

Following the video, a neatly dressed woman came to the microphone and began calling out names and numbers. I listened for mine. About twenty minutes later, there it was. I said a quick bye to Sharon and Phyllis. As I walked to the front of the room where they were lining up the jury panel, I was wondering where I would be sent and whether I would be seated as a juror. I was told to go directly to the courtroom of Judge Mary Bridger and was given her courtroom number. My heart pounded with nervousness.

Judge Bridger was an attractive female judge who looked to be in her mid-fifties. She appeared quite regal in her black robe as she sat at her high wooden desk, peering down at the rest of us. The judge displayed a charming smile as she told us this case was a criminal one. There went my pounding heart again when she mentioned the words criminal case. The judge’s friendly manner soon put me at ease, and after submitting to questions from the prosecutor and defense council, I was selected as one of the twelve from the panel to sit on the jury.

The trial lasted about two and a half days. It was a drug dealer case, and there was substantial evidence against the defendant. During our jury deliberations, after we chose our foreman, and after hashing the case back and forth with one another, we took a vote. Our first vote was eleven guilty and one innocent.

The innocent vote came from a woman named Carol. Some of the others reminded Carol of the evidence against the defendant. She lamented, But I feel so sorry for his pregnant wife. The defendant’s pregnant wife attended the trial each day. Carol held the rest of us at bay with her pity factor for quite a while.

Finally, I got through to her by saying, "But, Carol, I feel sorry for the defendant’s pregnant wife too, but pity has nothing to do with the defendant’s guilt or innocence. Our function as