FIRST IMPRESSIONS ARE CRUCIAL. THE JU-rors arrive between eight-thirty and nine. They walk through the double wooden doors nervously, then shuffle down the aisle, staring, almost gawking at the surroundings. For many, it's their first visit to a courtroom. Dot and I sit together and alone at the end of our table, facing the rows of padded pews being filled with jurors. Our backs are to the bench. A single legal pad is on our table, nothing else. Deck is in a chair near the jury box, away from us. Dot and I whisper and try to smile. My stomach is cramped with frenzied butterflies.

In sharp contrast, across the aisle the defense table is surrounded by five unsmiling men in black suits, all of whom are poring over piles of paper which completely cover the desk.

My theme of David versus Goliath is decisive, and it begins now. The first thing the jurors see is that I'm out-manned, outgunned and obviously underfunded. My poor little client is frail and weak. We're no match for those rich folks over there.

Now that we've completed discovery, I've come to realize how unnecessary it is to have five lawyers defending this case. Five very good lawyers. Now, I'm amazed that Drammond does not realize how menacing this looks to the jurors. His client must be guilty of something. Why else would they use five lawyers against only one of me?

They refused to speak to me this morning. We kept our distance, but the sneers and scowls of contempt told me they're appalled by my direct contact with the jurors. They're shocked and disgusted, and they don't know what to do about it. With the exception of stealing money from a client, contacting potential jurors is probably the gravest sin a lawyer can commit. It ranks right up there with illegal wiretaps on your opponent's phone. They look stupid trying to appear indignant.

The clerk of the court herds the panel together on one side, then seats them in random order on the other side, in front of us. From the list of ninety-two, sixty-one people are here. Some could not be found. Two were dead. A handful claimed to be sick. Three invoked their age as an excuse. Kipler excused a few others for various personal reasons. As the clerk calls out each name I make notes. I feel like I've known these people for months. Number six is Billy Porter, the Western Auto manager who allegedly called me last night. It'll be interesting to see what Drum-mond does to him.

Jack Underhall and Kermit Aldy are representing Great Benefit. They sit behind Drummond and his team. That's seven suits, seven serious and forbidding faces glowering at the jury pool. Lighten up, guys! I keep a pleasant look on my face.

Kipler enters the courtroom and everybody rises. Court is opened. He welcomes the panel, and delivers a brief and effective speech on jury service and good citizenship. A few hands go up when he asks jf there are valid excuses.

He instructs them to approach the bench one at a time, where they plead their cases in muted voices. Four of the five corporate execs on my blacklist whisper with the judge. Not surprisingly, he excuses them.

This takes time, but it allows us to study the panel. Based on the way they're seated, we'll probably not get past the first three rows. That's thirty-six. We need only twelve, plus two alternates.

On the benches directly behind the defense table, I notice two well-dressed strangers. Jury consultants, I presume. They watch every move from these people. Wonder what our little ploy did to their in-depth psychological profiles? Ha, ha, ha. Bet they've never had to factor in a couple of nuts out there the night before chatting with the jury pool.

His Honor dismisses seven more, so we're down to fifty. He then gives a sketchy summary of our case, and introduces the parties and the lawyers. Buddy is not in the courtroom. Buddy is in the Fairlane.

Kipler then starts the serious questioning. He urges the jurors to raise their hands if they need to respond in any way. Do any of you know any of the parties, any of the lawyers, any of the witnesses? Any of you have policies issued by Great Benefit? Any of you involved in litigation? Any of you ever sued an insurance company?

There are a few responses. They raise their hands, then stand and talk to His Honor. They're nervous, but after a few do it the ice is broken. There's a humorous comment, and everybody relaxes a bit. At times, and for very brief intervals, I tell myself that I belong here. I can do this. I'm a lawyer. Of course, I have yet to open my mouth."

Kipler gave me a list of his questions, and he'll ask everything I want to know. Nothing wrong with this. He gave the same list to Drummond.

I make notes, watch the people, listen carefully to

what's said. Deck is doing the same thing. This is cruel, but I'm almost glad the jurors don't know he's with me.

It drags on as Kipler plows through the questions. After almost two hours, he's finished. The vicious knot returns to my stomach. It's time for Rudy Baylor to say his first words in a real trial. It'll be a brief appearance.

I stand, walk to the bar, give them a warm smile and say the words that I've practiced a thousand times. "Good morning. My name is Rudy Baylor, and I represent the Blacks." So far so good. After two hours of being hammered from the bench, they're ready for something different. I look at them warmly, sincerely. "Now, Judge Kipler has asked a lot of questions, and these are very important. He's covered everything I wanted to ask, so I won't waste time. In fact, I have only one question. Can any of you think of any reason why you shouldn't serve on this jury and hear this case?"

No response is expected, and none is received. They've been looking at me for over two hours, and I merely want to say hello, give them another nice smile and be very brief. There are few things in life worse than a long-winded lawyer. Plus, I have a hunch Drummond will hit them pretty hard.

"Thank you," I say with a smile, then I slowly turn to the bench and say loudly, "The panel looks fine to me, Your Honor." I return to my seat, patting Dot on the shoulder as I sit.

Drummond is already on his feet. He tries to look calm and affable, but the man is burning. He introduces himself and begins by talking about his client, and the fact that Great Benefit is a big company with a healthy balance sheet. It's not to be punished for this, you understand? Will this influence any of you? He's actually arguing the case, which is improper. But he's close enough to the line not to get called down. I'm not sure if I should object. I've

vowed that 111 do so only when I'm certain I'm right. This line of questioning is very effective. His smooth voice begs to be trusted. His graying hair conveys wisdom and experience.

He covers a few more areas without a single response. He's planting seeds. Then it hits the fan.

"Now, what I'm about to ask you is the most important question of the day," he says gravely. "Please listen to me carefully. This is crucial." A long, dramatic pause. A deep breath. "Have any of you been contacted about this case?"

The courtroom is perfectly still as his words linger, then slowly settle. It's more of an accusation than a question. I glance at their table. Hill and Plunk are glaring at me. Morehouse and Grone are watching the jurors.

Drummond is frozen for a few seconds, ready to pounce on the first person who's brave enough to raise a hand and say, "Yes! The plaintiff's lawyer stopped by my house last night!" Drummond knows it's coming, he just knows it. He'll extract the truth, expose me and my corrupt paralawyer partner, move to have me admonished, sanctioned and ultimately disbarred. The case will be postponed for years. It's coming!

But his shoulders slowly sink. The air quietly rushes from his lungs. Buncha lying schmucks!

"This is very important," he says. "We need to know." His tone is one of distrust.

Nothing. No movement anywhere. But they're watching him intensely, and he's making them very uneasy. Keep going, big boy.

"Let me ask it another way," he says, very coolly. "Did any of you have a conversation yesterday with either Mr. Baylor here or Mr. Deck Shifflet over there?"

I lunge to my feet. "Objection, Your Honor! This is absurd!"

Kipler is ready to come over the bench. "Sustained! What are you doing, Mr. Drummond!" Kipler yells this directly into his microphone, and the walls shake.

Drummond is facing the bench. "Your Honor, we have reason to believe this panel has been tampered with."

"Yeah, and he's accusing me," I say angrily.

"I don't understand what you're doing, Mr. Drummond," Kipler says.

"Perhaps we should discuss it in chambers," Drummond says, glaring at me.

"Let's go," I shoot back, as if I'm just itching for a fight.

"A brief recess," Kipler says to his bailiff.

DRUMMOND AND I sit across the desk from His Honor. The other four Trent & Brents stand behind us. Kipler is extremely perturbed. "You better have your reasons," he says to Drummond.

"This panel has been tampered with," Drummond says.

"How do you know this?"

"I can't say. But I know it for a fact."

"Don't play games with me, Leo. I want proof."

"I can't say, Your Honor, without divulging confidential information."

"Nonsense! Talk to me."

"It's true, Your Honor."

"Are you accusing me?" I ask.

"Yes."

"You're out of your mind."

"You are acting rather bizarre, Leo," His Honor says.

"I think I can prove it," he says smugly.

"How?"

"Let me finish questioning the panel. The truth will come out."

"They haven't budged yet."

"But I've barely started."

Kipler thinks about this for a moment. When this trial's over, I'll tell him the truth.

"I would like to address certain jurors individually," Drummond says. This is usually not done, but it's within the judge's discretion.

"What about it, Rudy?"

"No objection." Personally, I can't wait for Drummond to start grilling those we allegedly polluted. "I have nothing to hide." A couple of the turds behind me cough at this.

"Very well. It's your grave you're digging, Leo. Just don't get out of line."

"WHAT'D Y'ALL DO in there?" Dot asks when I return to the table.

"Just lawyer stuff," I whisper. Drummond is at the bar. The jurors are highly suspicious of him.

"Now, as I was saying. It's very important that you tell us if anyone has contacted you and talked about this case. Please raise your hand if this has happened." He sounds like a first-grade teacher.

No hands anywhere.

"It's a very serious matter when a juror is contacted either directly or indirectly by any of the parties involved in a trial. In fact, there could be severe repercussions for both the person initiating the contact, and also for the juror if the juror fails to report it." This has a deathly ring to it.

No hands. No movement. Nothing but a bunch of people who are quickly getting angry.

He shifts weight from one foot to the next, rubs his chin and zeroes in on Billy Porter.

"Mr. Porter," he says in a deep voice, and Billy feels zapped. He bolts upright, nods. His cheeks turn red.

"Mr. Porter, I'm going to ask you a direct question. I'd appreciate an honest response."

"You ask an honest question and I'll give you an honest answer," Porter says angrily. This is a guy with a short fuse. Frankly, I'd leave him alone.

Drummond is stopped for a second, then plunges onward. "Yes, now, Mr. Porter, did you or did you not have a phone conversation last night with Mr. Rudy Baylor?"

I stand, spread my arms, look blankly at Drummond as if I'm completely innocent and he's lost his mind, but say nothing.

"Hell no," Porter says, the cheeks getting redden

Drummond leans on the railing, both hands clutching the thick mahogany bar. He stares down at Billy Porter, who's on the front row, less than five feet away.

"Are you sure, Mr. Porter?" he demands.

"I damned sure am!"

"I think you did," Drummond says, out of control now and over the edge. Before I can object and before Kipler can call him down, Mr. Billy Porter charges from his seat and pounces on the great Leo F. Drummond.

"Don't call me a liar, you sonofabitch!" Porter screams as he grabs Drummond by the throat. Drummond falls over the railing, his tassled loafers flipping through the air. Women scream. Jurors jump from their seats. Porter is on top of Drummond, who's grappling and wrestling and kicking and trying to land a punch or two.

T. Pierce Morehouse and M. Alec Plunk Junior dash from their seats and arrive at the melee first. The others follow. The bailiff is quick on the scene. Two of the male jurors try to break it up.

I stay in my seat, thoroughly enjoying the thrashing. Kipler makes it to the bar about the time Porter is pulled off and L"rummond gets to his feet and the combatants are safely separated. A tassled loafer is found under the

second bench, and returned to Leo, who's brushing himself off while keeping a wary eye on Porter. Porter is restrained and settling down quickly.

The jury consultants are shocked. Their computer models are blown. Their fancy theories are out the window. They are utterly useless at this point.

AFTER A SHORT RECESS, Drummond makes a formal morion to dismiss the entire panel. Kipler declines.

Mr. Billy Porter is excused from jury duty, and leaves in a huff. I think he wanted some more of Drummond. I hope he waits outside to finish him off.

THE EARLY AFTERNOON is spent in chambers going through the tedious process of picking jurors. Drummond and his gang firmly avoid any of the people Deck and I mentioned on the phone last night. They're convinced we somehow got to these folks, and somehow persuaded them to remain quiet. They're so bitter they will not look at me.

The result is a jury of my dreams. Six black females, all mothers. Two black males, one a college graduate, one a disabled former truck driver. Three white males, two of whom are union workers. The other lives about four blocks from the Blacks. One white female, the wife of a prominent realtor. I couldn't avoid her, and I'm not worried. It takes only nine of the twelve to agree on a verdict.

Kipler seats them at 4 P.M., and they take their oaths. He explains that the trial will start in a week. They are not to talk about the case with anyone. He then does something that at first terrifies me, but on second thought is a wonderful idea. He asks both attorneys, me and Drummond, if we'd like to make a few comments to the |uiy,"off the record and informal. Just tell a little about your case. Nothing fancy.

I, of course, was not expecting this, primarily because it's unheard of. Nonetheless, I shake off my fear, and stand before the jury box. I tell them a little about Donny Ray, about the policy and why we think Great Benefit is wrong. In five minutes I'm finished.

Drummond walks to the box, and a blind person could see the distrust he's created with the jury. He apologizes for the incident, but stupidly blames most of it on Porter. What an ego. He talks about his version of the facts, says he's sorry about Donny Ray's death, but to suggest his client is responsible is ludicrous.

I watch his team and the boys from Great Benefit, and it's a scared bunch. They have a rotten set of facts. They have a plaintiffs jury. The judge is an enemy. And their star not only lost all credibility with the jury but got his ass whipped as well.

Kipler adjourns us, and the jury goes home.