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The hum became a roar and the judge pounded her gavel to bring the court back to order.
“Miss Norstromm, are you an American citizen?”
“Not yet. I’ve applied for citizenship and am going through the process.”
Keith’s body was rigid but his tone was still reasonable. “What country are you from, Miss Norstromm?”
“Sweden,” she replied proudly.
“A lovely country. I’ve been there several times.”
She said nothing. The courtroom was quiet.
“How long have you lived in America?”
“Three years.”
“So, you’re an editor at Welburn Books who is from Sweden and has only lived in this country for three years. A woman from a country which has comparatively few Black citizens. A woman who may not quite grasp certain situations in the United States. Could it be, Miss Norstromm, that Jacqueline Blue did not become angry because you are a white woman? Could it be that Ms. Blue reacted quite strongly to your woeful ignorance of the fact that such a book would be viewed as a gigantic slap in the face by the African-American community?”
The courtroom erupted and Ruth Champ shouted “Objection!” over and over again as Keith demanded an answer.
After Judge Veronsky sustained Champ’s objection, Keith said, “I have no further questions for this witness,” and sat down beside me. His face was unreadable, and my taps on his hand to elicit some reassurance that we were off to a good start produced nothing.
Champ’s next few witnesses were Annabelle’s mother, aunt, and some cousins. She led them through their paces, and they talked about her upbringing in Scarsdale and the Vassar education. How funny, intelligent, well-read, pretty, and kind she was . . . what a loyal friend and wonderful mother she was . . . how she hoped to have another child someday, and the hole her absence had left in their lives.
By the time they were done, tears were coursing down my cheeks, some members of Annabelle’s family were sobbing openly, and even my own lawyer appeared grief-stricken. He declined to cross-examine any of them.
Mama had a doctor’s appointment and Paul had to go to work, so they skipped the afternoon session. Keith and I had lunch at an out-of-the-way burger joint. He ordered a grilled cheese sandwich, fries, and a cup of tea for himself. I picked at a salad that had lettuce leaves as limp as I felt.
Keith patted my hand for a moment. “I know this morning was rough, but keep your chin up. It ain’t over till it’s over.”
“What about this afternoon?”
“Jackie, this whole thing is going to be tough, okay? Let’s just hope that the outcome is favorable.”
He ate silently and with gusto until I couldn’t stand it anymore. “Keith, why do I have a mostly white jury?”
He poked at the slice of lemon bobbing up and down in his cup. “Because there hasn’t been a case this big since O.J. Simpson. The next predominantly Black jury on a huge celebrity case involving a Black defendant will vote to convict, just to avoid criticism.”
“That’s crazy.”
His face tensed. “The whole race thing is crazy, Jackie, but I didn’t create it.”
“This sounds very risky.”
“We have a full-time jury consultant. He says that the next high-profile Black jury will convict just to prove to whites how impartial they can be.”
“And this person thinks a predominantly white jury will vote in my favor?”
He shrugged. “We stand a better chance with them . . . particularly since she was cheating on her husband with a poor, Black man.”
“Victor isn’t poor.”
He sighed. “Still coming to his defense, eh?”
“All I meant is that Victor probably makes about $100,000 a year . . . the same amount I was earning at Welburn.”
“Baby, that’s poor.”
