A TIE JURE SELECTION

After months of delays and rescheduling, things were finally underway in the case of the People of the State of Michigan vs. Michael Fletcher. It was 8:30

a.m. Tuesday, June 6, 2000. The long-awaited DNA tests on what the prosecution said would be a crucial, damning piece of evidence—presumed blood-mist stains on Fletcher's green cotton Oxford shirt, which would prove that he was near Leann when she was shot and not, as he claimed, in the bathroom—had finally come back months late from the overworked Michigan State Police crime lab.

And now, the last bit of routine work—jury selection—was about to commence. Several days of the dull and mundane—the analyzing of jury surveys by both prosecution and defense and the actual picking of a jury—and then, finally, things could get underway in what promised to be one of the highest- profile, most dramatic murder trials in recent memory in Michigan.

Judge Jessica Cooper's courtroom on the third floor of the Oakland County Courthouse was nearly empty. Six members of the Misener family, including Jack and Gloria, sat in the front row. The attorneys—lead defender Brian Legghio; his assistant, Marla McCowan, who had been a classmate of Fletcher's at the University of Detroit–Mercy Law School; Gregory Townsend, who would head up the prosecution; and his assistant, Lisa Ortlieb—would spend all day today going over the surveys potential jurors had filled out, looking for reasons for rejection or approval and to prepare themselves for the jury interviews later in the week.

On a hanger near the defense table was a very dark, near-black suit and starched white shirt encased in clear plastic. It awaited Fletcher. When he faced his prospective jurors for the first time on Thursday, he'd be able to look more like an attorney, which he was, than like a prisoner, which he also was, in a bright orange jumpsuit which he'd been wearing for 10 months.

Lisa Ortlieb got up and came over to the Miseners. She leaned down in front of them and said quietly but excitedly: "We got the shirt in," she said. One of her

duties during the trial would be family liaison, explaining decisions, calming them down during low spots when Legghio's case would be going well, letting them know what was coming up. The Oakland County Prosecutor's Office took very seriously its secondary role as victim's advocate, and so did Ortlieb.

The attorneys had been busy the day before with Cooper, laying the ground work for the trial, discussing procedures and deciding on potential motions regarding evidence. Legghio had said many months earlier that he would fight the admission of the shirt as evidence, as it had been improperly seized the day of the shooting, but he told Cooper he was dropping his objections.

The family was all smiles, yesses and greats at the news.

They wouldn't have been so happy if they knew why Legghio was suddenly so agreeable. The DNA report had come back, but with hardly the result Townsend had expected. The test showed no positive match between what had been described to the press as the forensics equivalent of a smoking gun—blood mist that could only have come from shooting Leann at close range—and Leann's actual DNA.

Ortlieb would let that bad news wait a bit. The prosecution would later claim victory over the test, anyway—while there had been no DNA match because the sample was too small, it had tested as human blood—but clearly the prosecution had overstated the volume on the shirt and its ramifications on the case. It would, in fact, turn out to be nearly irrelevant to the proceedings.

*

Friday, June 9, 8:20 a.m. All day yesterday, dozens of prospective jurors had been questioned closely. Some had been dismissed upon agreement of both attorneys—those who said they couldn't give fair judgment to an admitted adulterer, for example, or those who admitted a bias against police—and others under the preemptory challenges allowed each side, where jurors could be eliminated without explanation in the combination of science, art and wishful thinking that is jury selection.

Today the process will be completed and on Monday the trial will begin. Fletcher is brought into the courtroom, dressed in the near-black suit and

white shirt, open at the collar. His hair is slicked back, a bit too much hair gel evident as it formed a small duck's tail in the back, a spit curl dangling over his forehead, teeth marks from the comb visible from 15 feet away.

Five of the Miseners sit across the right half of the front row. Also in the row, to the far left, are Mick's parents, John and Darla. Five or six feet of hard wood separate the two intertwined families.

Judge Cooper enters at 8:26. All rise.

At 8:27, Marla McCowan walks in with a pre-knotted tie and hands it to her client. The jurors who have thus far passed muster, and the dozens of others who are ready to be grilled, have yet to be brought in. Other than the families, just one reporter is on hand.

The tie is bluish-purple and clearly something about it displeases Fletcher. He nods his head "no." Marla says something, nods her head in a "yes," and tries to reassure him. He seems put out, puts the tie up against his shoulder. The color, apparently, displeases him. He lays the tie down on the table in front of him. Legghio has noticed the exchange. He comes over, says something to his client, picks the tie up, puts it up against Fletcher's suit and nods encouragement.

"Sure, it matches," he seems to be saying.

Finally, Fletcher grabs the tie, still clearly unhappy, buttons his top shirt button, puts the loose tie on over his head and knots it in place.

The whole exchange has taken just a minute or so and has gone unnoticed by most. But not by Ortlieb. She sees it, too, and thinks: "What ego! The guy's life is basically on the line and he's worried about whether his tie matches?"

Later, during the trial, she makes a mental note whenever she sees Fletcher borrow Marla McCowan's mirror so he can see how he looks.

*

The jurors and prospective jurors, each wearing a large number affixed to the chest, are brought in. As the day begins, 13 jurors have tentatively been selected and are seated in the jury box. Fourteen are needed. After the trial itself and before deliberations, two of them will be dismissed randomly and the other 12 will decide guilt or innocence.

A middle-aged woman who works as an operations manager for a trucking concern is called up to the witness stand. Legghio asks her if it would bother her if the people at the heart of this case had been involved in extramarital affairs. "I don't think so. My father did it. My husband did it. Everyone does it."

She is then shown graphic photos of the crime scene and Leann's lifeless body, pieces of evidence she will have to ponder at trial. She says she can handle such graphic displays and do her job as a juror. She is told to join the others.

Legghio then uses one of his challenges and tells one of those in the box to step down.

A young kid is called up and Townsend eventually asks him to be removed for cause, and Cooper agrees. One prospective juror turns out to be an attorney who knows Judge Chrzanowski and has represented police before. He is excused.

Another man is seated, bringing the total to 14. Legghio uses another challenge and dismisses a juror.

The owner of a dog bakery in nearby affluent Birmingham—part of a small franchise operation called the Three Dog Bakery founded in New Orleans' French Quarter—is seated. (She will later be one of the strongest proponents on the jury for conviction on the charge of first-degree murder.)

Townsend uses one of his challenges. Back to 13.

A kid who says he can't stand cops is dismissed. A man who hates philanderers because his ex-wife was a two-timer is excused.

Finally, at 10:11 both Legghio and Townsend say they are satisfied with the 14 in the jury box. They are all white, 10 of them are men, three of the men are engineers.

At 10:13 Judge Cooper gives them their instructions. They will be allowed to go home at night. They cannot discuss the case, amongst themselves or with loved ones. They cannot eat in the court cafeteria. They can eat in the jury room or leave the building for lunch. The trial will be on Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. Wednesday will be a day off for them, since that is the judge's day to hear motions in other cases and attend to other duties. The case may last for three or four weeks, and if any of them have any trouble from their employers,

let her know and she will handle it forthwith. Fletcher may or may not testify and they may not draw any conclusions about his innocence or guilt if he chooses not to.

At 10:30, court is adjourned for the day, and the weekend. It will resume at 8:30 a.m. on Monday. Legghio comes over to Darla Fletcher and has some advice for her. He has seen her slumped, looking depressed, as any mother might who is watching a jury being picked that's going to be voting soon on whether or not her son shot his wife in the back of the head with a Smith & Wesson.

Sit up straighter, he says. He offers the advice gently but firmly. You have to look more alert, focused even when you're not, or when you're bored. Don't let the jury see you bored or disinterested.

Legghio then greets a reporter and says: "This is really going to be a fun trial to watch. I don't say that because I am part of it. It's just that there's such good issues at stake. It's going to be very interesting for people who like these things."

On the way out, Legghio introduces the reporter to Townsend and the three of them share an elevator down. Townsend is on his way out to smoke his pipe. It is a sunny, warm day, and while he has his smoke, he and Legghio have some odds and ends of procedural business to discuss.

The elevator stops at the second floor and on walks a court employee who knows Townsend and Legghio. "I wanted to come in and get a look at your guy, see if he's as good looking as they say," she says to Legghio.

"He's a good looking kid," says Legghio. "I wish I looked like that." "Yeah," says Townsend. "Then you could have had a couple of judges." The three erupt in laughter. The elevator door opens and out they go.