Imperfect Justice_ Prosecuting Casey Anthony - Jeff Ashton [1]
“I understand you have a verdict,” he said, addressing the jury foreman.
The coach handed the forms to the court deputy, who folded them in half and handed them to the judge. Years earlier, there had been times when we could see the verdict before it reached the bench. If the deputy was holding the forms a certain way, we could see which box was checked, “guilty” or “not guilty,” so the solution had been to fold the forms in half, prolonging those seconds of agony just a little bit more.
As much as I dread the anxiety of that single moment, the courtroom is in my blood. I love being a prosecutor. I love the work, the gamesmanship, and the theatrics. I love every aspect of the trial, from the performance to the public speaking. There’s an aspect of a trial that is like being the director of a play. There is an art to the order and presentation of the witnesses, to the choice of the questions you ask, to understanding the effects the answers have on the jurors, and to interpreting the opposing counsel’s responses. Ultimately, your preproduction and your opening moves can influence the outcome of a case.
I’m drawn in to the theatrics, but I always approach a trial with a sense of angst, as each one is fraught with variables and uncertainty. Will the witnesses show up? Will they testify as expected? I spend hours running through my mind every possible twist and turn the evidence may take based upon what the witnesses may say, what the other side may do, or how the court may rule on evidentiary issues in trial. I would not say that I plan every moment of the trial, or that anyone could, but I do try to anticipate every possibility and plan a response. It is sort of like playing chess with live pieces that can move on their own, and rules that may or may not be followed. The only certainty in a trial is that nothing will ever go as planned.
But once the jury enters the courtroom for the opening arguments, all of that dread disappears, and my juices start to flow. I relish being present in a trial. I imagine it to be much like what an athlete goes through before a game. My entire focus is on one thing. I particularly enjoy going up against an experienced attorney in front of a judge who knows the law. Only then are my skills supremely tested. Our judges do not use gavels, so our trial sessions begin with a simple “Please rise for the jury,” our version of “Gentlemen, start your engines.”
Having looked at these twelve jurors for as long as I had, I knew the futility of trying to guess their decision. I didn’t want to go through the mental gymnastics of trying to read their faces. Still, I was confident in the case we’d put together and how we’d presented it. My mind was ahead of the verdict, already planning how to work the dates for the penalty phase. I thought, with the first-degree murder conviction, we could start the arguments on Thursday. That would give the defense thirty-six hours to prepare their mitigating factors. With the death penalty on the table, they might need more time.
Judge Perry’s face gave away nothing, although he seemed a little aggressive with the verdict forms. There were nine pages altogether, seven for each of the seven counts and two for special findings, in the event the jury found Casey guilty. He made an unusual gesture with the third page. After he laid it down, he picked it back up to review it one more time and then put it down hard when he returned it to the pile. I didn’t think much of it. I just wanted to hear the verdict. To me, in light of the brevity of the deliberations and the weeks of testimony, the outcome was obvious. It had to be guilty.
At that moment, Judge Perry handed the verdict forms to the clerk and asked the defendant to rise. I didn’t give Casey much notice, staring instead at the clerk. I always try to read the clerk’s body language and eyes to detect