A Killing at the Creek: An Ozarks Mystery

ELSIE PULLED OUT her standard jury selection presentation, writing madly in the margins as she added the particular questions Chuck had intended to ask the prospective jurors. She knew they had to cover the age question; it was crucial that they uncover and ferret out any jurors who would be reluctant to penalize the defendant on account of his youth. She needed to suck the poison on the DNA evidence as well; the jury shouldn’t be surprised to learn that a forty-­year-­old woman had intercourse with the boy. Elsie needed to let them know that up front.

Pausing, she shook her head to clear it; what else had they decided to ask? Her pen was poised over the notes as the courtroom door opened and the jury panel filed in.

She heard a woman gasp as she entered, and saw her turn to the man behind her and ask, “Is the air-­conditioning broken in here?” The man shook his head with an expression of disbelief. Elsie kept her face neutral. If you think it’s hot now, baby, just wait till the afternoon sun beats in, she thought.

The men and women on the jury panel filed in behind Emil, filling all the seats in the jury box and the gallery. More jurors waited outside, because the room accommodated only sixty or so. Elsie scoured them with a keen eye; some jury panels were better for the prosecution than others. As a rule, she knew that her best jurors were blue-­collar males, between thirty and sixty years old. In her experience, they were law and order types, not inclined to fall for defense attorney tricks and unlikely to vote based on sentiment. In her early trials, she had learned the hard way that she could not pack the jury with women and hope to win. Women jurors, as a rule, were more sympathetic to the defendant and more inclined to return a “Not Guilty” verdict.

The jurors were a mixed group, containing both elderly panelists and young ­people in their twenties, she noted with displeasure. She’d get rid of the young ones. They were always pro-­defense, and with a defendant as young as Tanner Monroe, they would be much too likely to identify with his plight. And the old-­timers could be problematic as well; they might tend to be too merciful in spirit, as they approached their own Judgment Day.

The judge entered. “All rise!” said the bailiff, and everyone stood. Settling into his seat, the judge greeted the jury with exaggerated cheer. Judge Callaway was up for reelection soon, and as the trial judges in McCown County, Missouri, were still picked by popular election, jury trials provided the candidate with excellent opportunities for face time with the public.

Elsie glanced over and surveyed Yocum and his client at the defense table. She had to hide a smirk; Tanner Monroe showed a marked change in his personal appearance. He had obtained a haircut at the county jail, but the look did not flatter him; Elsie suspected that the jailer who provided the trim had placed a mixing bowl on the boy’s head. Terrible, she thought, but that’s Yocum’s problem, not mine.

But the look was so very dated and jarring, Elsie wondered whether it might lend an air of pathos to the defense, and touch the heart of someone on the jury. The boy was dressed in an old suit and tie, undoubtedly borrowed from Billy Yocum’s closet, with pants and sleeves that were far too long. It added to the image of youth and immaturity.

Tanner pushed at his sleeves, revealing the jailhouse tattoos on his hand. Squinting at the marks, Elsie was determined to see whether the tattoos on his fingers spelled out a message or contained a code. She craned her neck for a closer look. She had suspected in the past that the tattoos on his hand had spelled “LP.” If he was creating a grudge list, she needed to know. It could be a basis for a cross-­examination question, if she played her cards right.

The juvenile turned his head toward her, and as if he could read her mind, he splayed both hands on the counsel table, so she could see them plainly at last.

Elsie stared at the fingers of his hands; each digit bore a letter. The left hand spelled out: “FREE” The right said: “METM.”

What the hell, Elsie thought; is he advertising free meth? She leaned in for a better look. The right hand was within her sight; his four fingers read: “METM.”

Okay, Tanner, Elsie thought. Got it. A letter to the jury, signed by Tanner Monroe. “Free me, T. M.”

She glanced sidelong at the boy, to gauge his mood. He was laughing at her. While she watched, he wiggled his middle finger on the table.

Right, she thought. Well, fuck you, too.

Judge Callaway commenced his general voir dire questions, and Elsie transferred her attention to the jury panel, jotting notes onto a chart she’d made on her legal pad. At length, the judge finished, and turned to Elsie.

“Ms. Arnold,” Judge Callaway said with gravity, “you may proceed.”

Elsie stood, her knees just a touch wobbly. “If it please the court.”

The judge inclined his head and she walked to a wooden lectern, setting her jury selection file on it and sending a warm smile around the courtroom.

“Ladies and gentlemen, as Judge Callaway told you, I’m Elsie Arnold, assistant prosecutor of McCown County. The defendant in this case is Tanner Monroe, and he has been charged with the felony of murder in the first degree.” She turned to the defense table and shot Monroe a long look. He met her eyes with an innocent expression, and lifted his shoulders in a shrug.

She returned her attention to the jury panel. “This part of the trial is called voir dire. The attorneys—­-­Mr. Yocum and I—­will ask you questions. And I want you to know, it’s not our intent to be nosy, or pry into your personal affairs. It’s just that we have to conduct this kind of inquiry to obtain a fair and impartial jury, a jury that will be fair to both sides.”

A man sitting in the back row of the jury box, sporting a striped tie, listened intently, nodding. Elsie made a mental note: she wanted the guy with the tie. He was tuned in, and taking the matter seriously.

“In our American system of justice, all defendants are innocent until proven guilty.” Elsie wanted to cover the presumption of innocence so Billy Yocum couldn’t pretend that he’d invented it. “It’s the state’s job—­my job—­to prove him guilty by calling witnesses and putting on evidence in this trial, which I will do. Does everyone understand that the fact that defendant has been charged with a crime is not evidence? Evidence will be provided by witnesses who sit on the stand and testify. Do you understand that all defendants are innocent until proven guilty? If not, please raise your hand.”

Please don’t please don’t, Elsie begged silently. Please don’t raise your hand.

Some of the jurors looked around, waiting to see how others would respond. She saw several men and women sit with their eyes downcast, and a few who looked bored or disgruntled. But not a single hand was raised.

She walked through standard questions on the burden of proof and the jury’s obligation to follow the court’s instructions of law. She covered the DNA bombshell, though when it didn’t garner any major fireworks, she wondered whether she had soft-­balled the issue. She was approaching the big question: the elephant in the living room. But she led up to it gradually.

“In this trial, it will be your job to find this defendant guilty or not guilty.” She tried to convey sobriety and understanding in her voice. “There are some ­people who, because of personal sensitivity or religious or philosophical reasons, just aren’t comfortable with the prospect of serving on a jury in a criminal case. Who just aren’t certain they could find someone guilty of a crime even where the state proves its case beyond a reasonable doubt. Is there anyone in here who feels that way? That they just can’t sit in judgment on their fellow man?”

She scanned the room expectantly, nodding, encouraging the faint of heart to speak up. Elsie had no use for anyone who would hesitate to convict because of feelings of personal delicacy. She needed to show them the door.

To her satisfaction, she inspired three women and one man to raise their hands. After consultation with the panelists at the bench, the judge excused them, over the loud objection of Billy Yocum.

Elsie grasped the sides of the wooden podium with both hands. In a clear voice, she said, “The defendant in this case is fifteen years old.” The ­people in the room shifted: moving in their seats, shaking their heads, exchanging glances.

Elsie left the comfort of the lectern. “He is standing trial as an adult for the crime of murder in the first degree. Is there anyone on this panel—­and I need you to give this question your most serious consideration—­anyone who would hesitate finding him guilty because of his age?”

When there was no immediate reaction, she persisted. “Because he is so very young. Only fifteen.”

A woman in her twenties was the first to break the ice. Elsie saw her glance around the room before raising her hand. Elsie took a step toward her. “Ma’am?” she said.

“Can I talk to the judge?” the woman asked. She was dressed in worn denim jeans and a T-­shirt; working class, Elsie thought.

Elsie turned to Judge Callaway with an inquiring expression. He beckoned to the woman. “You may approach.”

Elsie and Chuck joined her at the bench. In a low voice, the woman said, “I have a little brother; he doesn’t live here anymore. But he got into trouble with the law, back in high school. Vandalism. Some shoplifting stuff.”

You can’t serve on this jury, Elsie thought. You gotta go.

But Yocum spoke up; with a coaxing tone, he said, “But it’s your duty as a citizen to serve. You can put all that out of your mind, I’m sure, and base your decision on the evidence alone. Can’t you? I’m sure you can. Clearly, you are an intelligent young woman.”

The woman looked over her shoulder, focusing on Tanner, then shook her head. “He reminds me of Bobby. He kind of looks like him.”

“But you can be fair,” Yocum began, and Elsie interrupted. “Judge, she has made it clear—­”

Judge Callaway cut them both off. “Ma’am, I appreciate your candor. Thanks for being so forthcoming with us. You’re free to go.”

She nodded; and with a last glance at Monroe, the woman headed for the door.

Nearly a dozen panelists followed, mostly mothers of young sons. One man who smelled like stale booze pleaded to be excused because of sympathies stirred by the defendant’s youth. Elsie suspected that he wanted to bail out of the courtroom so he could return to the party; it seemed Judge Callaway thought so, too, from the hairy eyeball he gave the man. But he excused him from the panel, punctuating his decision with a private look over his glasses to Yocum. Yocum smiled broadly in response.