We were told that the first day they would draw the jury and interview us to make sure we were fit to be heard. We watched as 11 people were chosen at random from a jury pool of 40, the defense and the prosecution refusing a total of 7. More of the "recusals" were by the defense. The final jury of 9 plus 2 alternates were mostly women, most of them under 50.
We were then herded into unused courtroom at about 2:45. There we had to stay without any supper and with police escorts to the bathroom until around 10pm when, one by one, we were called in to testify. The waiting room was by turns hilarious and silent. The English speakers tended to form a group apart from the French speakers with frequent incursions from one side to the other. My affection for the Issakhanian kids--Dorian 13, Alix 16, and Eleanore 18, deepened. The girls speak perfect English and are both very poised and strong like their mother. Dorian is normally very inward and the strain of the trial hasn't alleviated that. He came up to me out of the blue with a big, almost American-style hug which surprised and pleased me but otherwise he is uncommunicative.
Each witness saw the courtroom for the first time only upon being called in to testify. This is to prevent witnesses from talking about cross-examination or to coordinate stories. In the ornate high ceilinged court you go before a short bar and face the chief juge, M. le president, wearing a crimson robe and the two side judges wearing black robes. A hard-faced woman wearing crimson sits to the left of the triad of judges and the jury at right angles to the judges on two banks. You are sworn in according to a formula that became absolutely rote: "State name, date of birth, place of residence, profession. did you know Robert and Helene before the acts for which they are standing trial? do you swear to tell the truth and the whole truth without fear or favor raise your right hand anad say I swear." The translator, an American woman who grew up in Turkey, stood ready to bail you out for language lapses or translate the whole thing.
The president does most of the talking. He merely asked me to say my piece about the personality of Helene. I became increasingly tense as I heard my miserable french deteriorate into something that even a drunken 22 month old french baby would turn its nose up at. Thinking as I finished that I had accomplished nothing in terms of winning over the jury, to my horror the prosecutor had detailed questions about the statement I had made to the police 2 years ago. Why did you say that Helene is a clutz with her hands. What specifics made you say that. (I remember remarking to the police it was astonishing to me that she could do something as coordinated at shooting someone neatly between the eyes.) Also I had remarked that the neighbor's wife seemed phony years ago when in my presence she asked anxiously about the medical condition of the Issakhanian's family dog that her husband had apparently run over back and forth with his car. The defense attorney made use of both of these details: for the one to underline that Helene's loss of one eye was a handicap and the other to work in lurid photos of the horribly wounded dog.
I still can't get over the fact that the trial schedule is fixed and the head judge bulls his way through each day's allotted material until it is finished. How do the poor jurors bear these marathon days? Today started at 2 pm and they were allowed only two 5 minute breaks between then and 10:45. Perhaps one criterion for selection was a formidable bladder.
