"Seat Number 2."
Wiley, bending to Lydia's ear, whispered, "I want you to challenge freely—anyone you feel might be antagonistic. I trust to your woman's intuition. The jury is the important——"
She ceased to hear him, for she saw Foster's face light up and she knew that at last the district attorney was in court. She recognized his step behind her, and almost immediately his tall figure came within range of her vision. He sat down on the left next to Foster, crossed his arms, fixed his eyes on each juror who entered the box. It was to Lydia like the rising of the curtain on a great play.
"William McCann."
"Seat Number 12."
The jury was complete.
O'Bannon unfolded his long person and rose. Crossing the space in front of Lydia, he came and stood in front of the jury, looking from one to another, asking routine questions, but with a grave attention that made them seem spontaneous. Did any of them know the defendant or her counsel? Had any of them ever been arrested for speeding? Had anyone of them ever injured anyone with an automobile?
To Lydia his whole personality seemed different—more aggressive, more hostile. When, in speaking, he put out his fist she noticed the powerful bulk of his hand, the strength of his wrist. She could not see his face, for he stood with shoulder turned to her, but she could see the upturned faces of the jurors.
Number 10 was in the automobile business, and was excused. Number 2 admitted a slight acquaintance with the defendant, though Lydia couldn't remember him and was inclined to think he was merely escaping duty. Number 5, in the midst of the interrogation, suddenly volunteered the information that he was conscientiously opposed to capital punishment.
At this the judge looked up from his writing and said loudly, "But this isn't a capital-punishment case."