The Jackson 12 Makes Its Debut

Speedy Jury Selection Comes on a Day by Turns Serious and Light

Entertainer Michael Jackson gestures toward a photographer at the Santa Barbara County Superior Court on the final day of jury selection. (Aaron Lambert - Reuters)

SANTA MARIA, Calif., Feb. 23 -- In the most dramatic of the five days of jury selection, the 12 jurors in the Michael Jackson child-molestation trial were chosen Wednesday during a lively courtroom session in which potential jurors cracked jokes and revealed details about their private lives, and one became combative about the issue of race.

The mild-mannered judge grinned, the attorneys laughed and even Jackson smiled during moments of levity, though he appeared distressed when one potential juror -- an African American woman who said the jury pool lacked people "of color" -- was dismissed by the prosecution.

During one break, Jackson approached the courtroom artist, Bill Robles, and shyly asked for his card, having seen one of Robles's sketches the day before. (The one that caught Jackson's eye, according to the artist, was a dignified, colorful drawing of Jackson standing with three of his attorneys.) Soon after, one of Jackson's attorneys approached the artist and said that the defendant would like to purchase the courtroom drawings and that Jackson might offer his autograph as part of the trade.

Robles, who said he's been doing courtroom sketches since the Charles Manson trial, later seemed still slightly surprised and said usually it's the attorneys, not the defendants, who request such sketches.

Juror No. 240, a 51-year-old African American woman who worked as a nurse in the correctional system, argued passionately during questioning that Jackson's potential jury was not sufficiently representative. "A jury of his peers would be people of his age and of color, of mixed diversity," the woman said to prosecutor Ronald Zonen. "How diverse is this jury looking to you right now?" she asked, as Jackson nodded.

The 12 jurors chosen consist of eight women and four men. The jury is mostly white, with four jurors appearing to be of Hispanic origin -- a mix that reflects the demographic pool of northern Santa Barbara County, which has a very small African American population. Attorneys could complete the selection of eight alternates Thursday.

Judge Rodney Melville, labeled the "anti-Ito" by one court observer -- a reference to the arguably more permissive judge who presided over the O.J. Simpson trial -- has kept the no-camera courtroom running swiftly despite two delays (lead defense attorney Thomas Mesereau Jr.'s sister died, and then Jackson came down with flulike symptoms). Jackson has been on time for court lately; Melville scolded him for being tardy to an appearance last year. The judge kept the attorneys on a tight regimen of 10 minutes' questioning per juror, interrupting them when they ran over.

Jackson, 46, is accused of serving alcohol to and sexually molesting a then-13-year-old boy, and of conspiring to hold him and his family captive.

On Wednesday Jackson wore a black suit with a red shirt and a dark armband, plus a gold-colored brooch at his neck and a gold-colored fob with large charms around his waist. He popped candy from the bailiff's desk into his mouth during breaks, watched the jury attentively during questioning and once rocked in his chair. When No. 240 was dismissed, Jackson put his hand to his head and looked upset. When he stood, he kept his hands stiffly together in front of him, like a child, and occasionally shrugged his shoulders.

There were numerous references to Jackson's fame during questioning, with the defense focusing on whether media scrutiny would allow him a fair trial and the prosecution asking whether potential jurors could be fair in evaluating the testimony of witnesses, many of whom may be celebrities. One young man -- an African American who may still be chosen for the alternates' pool -- said that Jackson's sisters LaToya and Janet were "very pretty" but that he would not be distracted by their presence in the courtroom.

Throughout jury selection, many potential jurors called Jackson a "great entertainer" but said they had no further opinions about the well-known and eccentric pop star. Others said they knew people who knew him, and a handful had been to his Neverland Ranch. Some said they'd once learned to do his famous moonwalk; one offered that he still remembered how.

At one point, an elderly woman being considered as an alternate was asked about her experiences with law enforcement.

"I never had a ticket," she said. "I got a nice plaque." "Really?" she was asked. "Yes, from State Farm." She added that she plays the organ but is "lousy" at it, prompting Jackson to give her a big smile.

On the Inside

Jury selection offered a fascinating glimpse into the people of northern Santa Barbara County. They shared their lives, these nameless people -- some reluctantly, some joyfully, as if they were on "Oprah." They shared the mundane and the traumatic. (A striking number have known or been the victims of sexual abuse.) They brought up incidents they hadn't thought of in years in response to questions.

There was the woman who ran a stop sign and said she deserved her ticket, and the man who was accused of cheating on a test in second grade but said he didn't.

There was the guy who loved karaoke and the woman who said, "I'm a 'Jeopardy' freak." (That was juror No. 100, who is 79 years old and said she sort of knew the woman at the perfume counter at JCPenney, who sort of knows Jackson.) There's a horse trainer, who offered, apropos of nothing, that she was surprised at how "small" Jackson is, with such "big energy."

The defense and the prosecution looked for clues: Who said they distrust the media? Which schoolteachers had known students to lie? Who'd been falsely accused of something? Who called the defendant Mr. Jackson and who called him Michael?

They also watched for outright bias.

"I'd like to see this trial turn out in a certain way," said one woman. "I have an opinion."

During brief breaks, the jurors got coffee from a cart outside the courthouse, and ate nuts and snack bars they'd brought with them. The reporters conferred, looking for bits of color. Was that emblem on Jackson's suit a monkey or a reindeer or what? Did the pop star twitch his nostrils in court?

This is a well-coiffed trial, at least on the defense side. There is Jackson, who often sits behind his black hair as if behind a curtain. And there is lead defense attorney Mesereau, with his long silver hair conferring instant dignity, the way white wigs do in the British court. It takes a big man with big presence to carry off such big hair.

For the most part, this is an orderly proceeding in a quiet place.

Near the courtroom, in a hallway, is a printout of cases. Between "Jackley, John Sheldon" and "Johnson, Danny Alan" is case No. 1133603, "Jackson, Michael Joe," in small type, just like all the others.

Santa Maria is surrounded by strawberry and broccoli fields, and you can get an overfilled basket of massive ripe strawberries for $2.50. The city has 87,000 people and is growing fast. It's known for something called "tri-tip barbecue." Along Broadway, the main strip, are a tortilla shop, a western wear shop, the LAZ-E-DAZE Retirement Center and a liquor store called Wimpy's.

Beyond the Trial

On Monday, when court was closed for the federal holiday, the protesters, who are usually here weekdays, were gone, and the TV trucks sat quietly out in the parking lot. High schoolers wearing suits congregated in the hallway. They were here for a mock trial competition. It was raining hard, as it has been in California lately, and a young lady walked in barefoot. A man carrying five pizzas brushed past the magnetometer where each day Jackson spreads his arms wide and is checked with a wand. The kids disappeared into courtrooms, anxious and full of pizza, and a kind, white-haired woman was left behind with pamphlets, directing late parents to the right rooms.

The rain stopped and the woman went outside to see a huge rainbow that had risen over Santa Maria. It framed the courthouse and the small, neat ranch homes nearby. There was a man walking with his yellow umbrella unfurled in front of his chest like a flower, and a bunch of kids played with a shopping cart.

"Santa Maria needs it," the white-haired woman said, looking at the rainbow. "Around the courthouse, everything is in such disarray." Driving from the courthouse, the back roads were like a water-park ride, with great big splashing puddles drenching the car in rainwater. Santa Maria was quiet again.