The
doors of the movie theater fly open. Crowds of moviegoers pour out. They are
somber. A few talk quietly, but none are smiling. Some are crying, while others
just sniffle. What has affected them so? Leonardo DiCaprio has just gone down
with the Titanic.
Next
door, a crowd sits in the dark on the edge of their seats. Some have their
hands over their eyes. Others suppress a scream. The T-Rex has just eaten a
lawyer in Jurassic Park.
Across
town at the airport, a man sits in the lounge reading a well-worn paperback
novel. He turns the pages methodically, his eyes never leaving the pages.
Nothing breaks his concentration — the crowds, the blaring loudspeakers, the
general hubbub of thousands on the move. On the next aisle another person reads
a paperback, dabbing moist eyes with a tissue.
A
few miles out of town, gathered around a roaring campfire, listeners shiver
slightly as they hear a tale of haunted woods and visitors in the night.
All
of these people, like most of us, love a good story. They permit themselves to
become so consumed by the story that they forget the one thing they know from
the beginning about that story: it is a total fabrication. It is fiction. It is
untrue, and they knew that when the story began. Yet, somehow, they have
allowed themselves to believe the unbelievable.
How
could this happen to an intelligent person? The human phenomenon that has
enabled that person to become emotionally involved in a story that is utterly
false is referred to by novelists as the suspension of disbelief. They are
willing to allow themselves to be fooled. They have given the storyteller
permission to lie to them, and, in return, they have promised to become
genuinely involved in the lie. They are voluntary captives to the magic of the
story. But is the act of surrender to the storyteller really voluntary?
Was
it really the moviegoer who consciously decided to suspend his disbelief? Or
could it have been the storyteller, or even the story itself, that somehow
induced the suspension of disbelief? It is the thesis of this Article that many
times the magic spell of a good story is actually cast by the storyteller.
Casting this spell is an art that excellent trial lawyers use in every trial.
Storytelling in the opening statement is all about the creation of strong
mental images that will endure throughout the trial.
I. The
Lawsuit as a Story
The
trial of any lawsuit involves the re-creation of an event or events that
occurred long before the litigation arose. By its nature, the process requires
the lawyers to communicate to the jury what
happened
and why it happened. It demands of the trial lawyer an ability to, largely by
words, describe an occurrence, breathe life into the people who played a role
in the occurrence, and lend some human
significance to the event.
A
trial is a retelling of the story of the occurrence. The tale is repeated in
various ways by different people during the trial. The lawyer is a storyteller
during voir dire examination in some jurisdictions, in opening statement, and
in final argument.
Also,
while witnesses tell the story during direct examination, the lawyer once again
becomes the storyteller during cross-examination.
Most
importantly, it is essential that the trial lawyer recognize that what is
taking place is only slightly different from that which occurs around the
campfire, in the movie theater, or at the child’s bedside. He or she must
realize that it is a form of communication as old as humankind itself.1 It is
an art form that long preceded the advent of the trial lawyer. Yet, its
objective is the same: to communicate to an audience the occurrence of some
event, and to do so in a way that will affect the audience to the desired
result.2
The
critical essence of a good story is that the storyteller creates in the
listener a strong visual image of the occurrences that are the story. The
objective of the trial lawyer is to cause the jurors to visualize the events
and picture the story as the lawyer desires it. Of course, there are limits to
looking at the trial process this way. While there is a strong parallel between
lawsuit storytelling and storytelling as entertainment, the parallel is not
exact. Like any analogy, it can be taken too far. Therefore, a word of caution
is appropriate. If the jury ever comes to believe that a lawyer is trying to
tell a good yarn, then the effort is a total failure. The lawyer loses
credibility, and the client loses the case. This methodology should not be
taken too far and demands some subtlety. Thus, exaggeration, melodrama, or the
use of props, dialogue, or other such overtly theatrical devices can doom the
storyteller to failure. As with
anything
done in the courtroom, sincerity is the watchword.
II. Preparing to Tell the Lawsuit Story
Success
in lawsuit storytelling comes in large measure because of preparation.6 Good
stories do not just happen spontaneously in the courtroom. They are the product
of careful thought and detailed planning.
Some notion of what makes a good story is essential to preparation. This
concerns not so much how the story is told, as what constitutes the story
itself. Of course, a trial lawyer must tell the story that the evidence
presents. However, the lawsuit storyteller still has some discretion in how the
story is characterized, what parts of it to emphasize, and how to interpret the
conduct of the characters.
A. Identify
the Humanity of the Story
Good
stories involve people. They are human stories in which people are caught up in
some struggle or tragedy. Lawsuit stories, like any story, revolve around a
protagonist and an antagonist. The
trial
lawyer must find this story no matter how deeply it may be buried in the file.
Criminal
cases, of course, are just the type of stories that jurors find fascinating. It
takes little imagination to identify the humanity in such cases. Tort actions
involving death, serious bodily injury, egregious conduct, or any actions
resulting in human suffering, also provide the stuff of great stories. Still,
the presentation must be carefully planned so that it is a story not just of a
defective product — a thing — but of a person whose life was tragically changed
by a defective product. Other lawsuits, such as commercial or property cases,
are more challenging to the storyteller. A trial of trespass or title action
must be about a person’s love for the land and not about metes and bounds.
While a legal controversy may turn on the language of a contract, there is
little human interest in legal words contained in the four corners of a legal
instrument.
The
story cannot
be about
the document or the words. The story must be about the people affected by the contract.
Somewhere, perhaps hidden to superficial examination, there are human needs,
desires, feelings, and emotions. Perhaps it is the story of a person following
a lifelong dream to build a business by hard work, sacrifice, or just the
willingness to risk what he or she has in order to make something better.
Lawsuit stories often suffer from their close association with lawyers.
Many
lawyers cannot help but choke the humanity out of a story by reducing it to its
legal essentials. Thus, a story of a broken promise becomes a breach of
contract. A story of the tragic death of a loving husband becomes a cause of
action filed by a survivor seeking money damages for wrongful death of her
spouse. This is not only incomprehensible, but also deadly boring and minimally
persuasive. No good campfire tale ever began, “the plaintiff alleged . . . .”
Whatever
the legal cause of action, the trial lawyer must delve deeply into the facts
and circumstances that gave rise to the claim. No matter what the nature of the
claim, there must be an underlying human story, and it is the job of the
storyteller to creatively capture it. If this essential step is neglected, then
the lawsuit story will be as lifeless as the statutes and case law that created
it.
B. Identify
the Emotions of the Story
All
human stories are driven by emotion. All human conduct results from some
emotional underpinning. It is the blending of that emotion into the story that
gives a lawsuit story its power.
Each
significant part of a lawsuit story carries its own emotional mood. It is a
rare story that is driven by only one emotion. A sad story, for example, is
rarely entirely sad. If the emotional voice of sadness permeated the entire
story, then it would lose its impact. The power of the sad story comes in no
small measure from a preexisting happiness.
Thus,
the emotional structure of a wrongful death suit includes a story of happiness
in the relationship of husband and wife prior to the accident, contrasted with
the emotion of horror at the time of the accident, and succeeded by sadness in
the end. Perhaps part of the story involves careless and reckless conduct of
the wrongdoer.
The
emotional mood of this part of the story might be anger. Matching the emotions
with the appropriate parts of the story is important. The emotional mood
determines the way in which the story is told. The emotion is reflected in the
manner of delivery. The storyteller communicates the emotion primarily by his
or her voice, facial expression, pace of delivery, and word choice.
C. Identify
the Character Traits of the People Involved
Juries
decide cases, in large measure, based upon who they trust, who they respect or
admire, and who falls short of their expectations. Many jurors reach their verdicts
using their instincts, intuition, understanding of human nature, and, of
course, a rational process of weighing the evidence. However, many, and perhaps
most, jurors tend to make a decision based upon emotion and then justify it in
the evidence. In short, jurors make decisions about what is true based upon
their evaluation of the people involved — who they are, what kind of people
they are, and whether they seem trustworthy.
The
story must, then, develop the nature and character of the people involved.
Because the story is a human one and turns on human emotion, it is often the
case that the conduct of the people involved can be explained by their
character — what kind of people they are and how they react to human problems.
Developing the character of key players as a way of explaining why things
happened the way they did provides a useful opportunity to address the virtues
and vices of those whose conduct is under scrutiny.
Finding
a fit between the character of a person and the relevant conduct of that person
is a key to effective use of character. Jurors seem to be more sophisticated
now than in the past. Many jurors readily see through gratuitous praising of
the virtues of the parties. They may see
such actions as attempting to persuade them to decide the case on something
other than the relevant issues and actions of the parties. On the other hand,
if jurors see the nature of a person as playing a role in the events at issue,
then it seems to them something logical and properly considered.
Therefore,
a close connection between the character of those involved and the factual
dispute is important. Thus, it would be
hollow, thinly-veiled pandering to merely extol the virtues of a party —
charity work, church attendance, community service — without connecting the
character trait to conduct relevant in the lawsuit. Charity work, church
attendance, and community service probably flow from a strong belief that
helping others is important. That is the essential character trait of the
party. If the party engaged in relevant conduct for the purpose of helping
another, then praising the party for selflessness is not pandering, but rather
explaining the conduct.
The
most powerful character traits include courage or cowardice, honesty or
dishonestly, selflessness or selfishness, generosity or greed, sensitivity or
insensitivity, kindness or cruelty, loyalty or disloyalty, tenacity or
weakness, and a strong or weak work ethic.
D. Identify
the Structure of the Story
Whether
the story is one for the courtroom or the campfire, it needs a logical
structure. It is structure that makes it understandable and easy to follow. A
wandering and formless story causes confusion, lack of comprehension, and,
ultimately, daydreaming. It is essential that the trial lawyer outline and
understand the structure of the story before beginning to communicate it to the
jury.
Most
opening statements contain the following essential parts: introduction,
identification of the issues, personalization of the party, narration of the
events, discussion of weaknesses in one’s own case, and conclusion. It is the narration part of the opening
statement where storytelling comes most into play.
The
opening statement, of course, has an introduction and a conclusion.
Technically, neither the introduction nor the conclusion is a part of the
story. Rather, they are more like the prelude and the postlude. Yet, each is
important to the understanding of the story.
The introduction serves to identify the characters, set the context of
the story, and inform the jury of anything they might not readily understand.
The
typical introduction begins with a brief, powerful, and complete overview of
the entire lawsuit. For example:
This is a
case about the tragic drowning death of a five-year-old little boy named Billy.
You see, on July 7th, just three years ago, Billy Peterson fell into a
dangerous pit filled with water so dark that he could not see that the pit was
deep and deadly. And Billy, struggling
to survive as he gasped and gulped down the dirty, brackish water, died a slow
and painful death. That deadly pit was on the defendants’ property. They owned
it. And by their gross neglect and conscious disregard for the safety of
others, they caused the death of this innocent, energetic young boy. Today, his mother comes before you for
justice in the name of Billy Peterson.
The
conclusion draws the parts of the opening statement to a close. It brings
together the statement of the nature of the case, the explanation of the fact
issues, and the story itself. It draws a conclusion about the fact issues from
the story just told. It presents both the theory and the theme of the case. The
story itself has its own structure, of course. Typically, though not always, it
is based upon a chronological narration of the events. Occasionally, certain
stories suggest a variance from a chronological order. Perhaps, pure chronology
would cause the story to be less interesting because the climax of the story is
so long in coming or it would require the introduction of too many unfavorable facts
before the story works its way around to the favorable events. In these
instances, it might be more appropriate to begin with the climax and then, in a
flashback fashion, recount the events leading up to the climax.
Consideration
must also be given to the point of view of the story. A story can be told from
differing points of view and may be radically different depending upon whose
eyes the events are seen through. For example, a simple car wreck could be told
from the point of view of either driver. Conventional wisdom requires the
parties to tell the story from their own point of view. However, it may be more
effective for the plaintiff to tell the story, at least in part, from the point
of view of the defendant. This would be particularly persuasive, for example,
if the defendant had been going from bar to bar and drinking heavily before the
accident.
Another
way of telling the story would be to tell it from the point of view of both
drivers. That is, the plaintiff’s lawyer might begin by telling the story from
the plaintiff’s point of view: a story of an ordinary, peaceful drive in the
country, leading up to and through the collision. Then, shifting perspective,
the plaintiff’s lawyer might tell the rest of the story from the point of view
of the drunk driver.
Another
consideration on the structure of the story concerns a technique that the
novelist often uses — foreshadowing. Foreshadowing is an effective device to build
drama and keep the listener interested. The novelist, of course, generally
indulges in foreshadowing at the end of a chapter. The goal is to keep the
reader turning pages. Likewise, in the opening statement, the trial lawyer
might use foreshadowing to draw the jurors into the story. This technique
injects mystery and suspense into the story. For example, after telling the
jury that the plaintiff left home on the morning of the accident, the impending
tragedy might be foreshadowed: “When he kissed Sarah goodbye, he didn’t know
that it would be for the last time.”
When
considering structure, the trial lawyer must also identify where the story
begins to build toward the climax. Most stories have more than one place where
they build to a climax. It is essential to understand where the story builds to
its lesser high points, as well as when it builds to its final climax. This
understanding is important because the manner in which the story is told must
contribute to building toward the climax. Typically, this is done with the
voice, by altering the pace and volume of delivery.
E. Identify
Details That Help Listeners Visualize the Story
A
good story is rich in detail. It creates in the listener a vivid mental image
of the events and occurrences. In fact, this is the very essence of good
storytelling. It is the object of the trial lawyer to create in the jury’s mind
an image of the case identical to that held by the lawyer. While it is possible
for the trial lawyer to create this image merely by reciting the facts without
trying to bring the story to life, this depends entirely upon the imagination
of the juror. In this instance, the trial lawyer leaves too much to chance.
Instead, the trial lawyer must do
everything possible to help even the least imaginative juror see the story
unfold.
A
rich mental image of the story comes in large part from the degree of detail
the storyteller communicates. The more the listener is forced to create the
images from his or her own experience, the more likely it is that the image
will not match that of the storyteller.
The image is suggested and directed by the use of carefully selected
details, described with clarity.
These
details need not be, and indeed many times are not, important to the legal
controversy. They are supplied merely to help paint the larger picture. To that
extent, the trial lawyer must temper the conventional wisdom not to overload
the jurors with detail. Rather, what must be done is to carefully select those
details that serve to create vivid mental pictures. Image-creating details
stick in the memory, while trivial details tend to spill out from the juror’s
mind.
For
example, suppose that the lawsuit involves a mundane breach of contract. The
agreement in question is oral, made by the parties in the office of the
defendant. Suppose that the plaintiff’s theory of the case is that the
defendant, a sophisticated businessman, overreached the plaintiff, an
unsophisticated and younger person. The plaintiff wants to create an image of
vulnerability. The story of the meeting in the defendant’s office might begin
like this:
Sam Martin
put on his best suit on the morning of February 7th. He drove downtown and
parked in a garage under the Texaco building. He made his way to the lobby, and
then to the 53rd floor of the building. Before he went in, Sam straightened his
tie and took a deep breath. The office was plush. Thick carpets. Oriental art.
Scores of busy people hurrying about. He was taken into a large conference
room. He sat at a mahogany table that stretched the entire length of the room.
And he waited. Then Mr. Bass came in, followed by two of his associates and the
secretary. Mr. Bass was very polished. And very polite. They exchanged
greetings. Sam was nervous. His voice cracked a little. Mr. Bass asked his associates
to explain the agreement to Sam. It sounded like a great deal. They made it
sound like nothing could possibly go wrong. They seemed so knowledgeable. And
so finally Sam said, “Okay, let’s do it.”
F.
Internalize the Story
The
story must be internalized. That is, the trial lawyer must know it so well that
he or she does not have to think about the substance of the story. However, it
is important that the story, while internalized, is not memorized. This
difference is crucial. If a story is memorized, the storyteller then tries to
repeat the words that were written and committed to memory. Inevitably, the
lawyer will stumble over the words, have to back up and correct a mistake, or,
even worse, draw a mental blank on the next words. Additionally, it will sound
to the listeners like they are being read to, and that is never effective in a
courtroom. This all occurs because the storyteller is struggling to follow a
script.
A
much more effective way of delivering the story is to know and understand it so
well that the trial lawyer does not have to think about what comes next. The story
just flows. When his or her mind is not so focused on remembering the carefully
scripted story, he or she is free to concentrate on how to best tell the story.
He or she can focus on communication and persuasion, rather than the delivery
of a canned speech. The result will be much more effective — spontaneous,
conversational, and interesting.
How
one goes about internalizing a story is more about how one learns anybody of
information. It will necessarily vary from individual to individual.
However,
several important considerations must be mentioned. First, the storyteller must
know the structure of the story. This is best done by outlining the parts of
the story. Outlining helps one remember the story in a conceptual way, rather
than by memorization. Second, the storyteller must mentally see the images that
must be communicated to the jury. That is, the storyteller must visualize the
events before he or she can hope to create such visualization in others.
Ideally, the trial lawyer should be able to play an imaginary video of the
events in his or her mind’s eye, frame-by-frame. Visualization is a creative process fueled
by the imagination of the trial lawyer. The image must be accurate, and so it
is necessary to acquire accurate information about the events. Each frame in
the mental video must be accurate. Much of the information necessary to
visualize the story will come from testimony about the occurrences. However, a great
deal of it must come from observation. For example, the storyteller can learn
how the characters appear by observing them at depositions.
Additionally,
many stories involve places, and an accurate image of the site of an event can
best come from an inspection of that site. It is common for lawyers trying a
car-wreck case to visit the scene of the accident. A trial lawyer should visit
the scenes of the events no matter what the type of case, just for the purpose
of acquiring a good mental image of the events.
When it comes time to tell the story that the trial lawyer has
internalized in this way, it is a simple matter for him or her to describe,
frame-by-frame, the vivid mental images of the events.
III. Storytelling in the Opening Statement
A. Shedding
the Conventional Wisdom
Effective
use of storytelling techniques in an opening statement requires one to rethink
the conventional wisdom in the art of making an opening statement. Convention
requires the trial lawyer to be a lawyer, not a storyteller. Convention also
says that the lawyer should advise the jury that what is said is not evidence,
but only what he or she intends to prove. Further, convention tells the lawyer
to liberally sprinkle the opening statement with assertions that he or she is not
saying that this is what really happened.
To
avoid the taboo of an argumentative opening statement, the lawyer prefaces
everything with “the evidence will show.” The opener is admonished to
depersonalize the opponent by never using his or her name. Each of these
notions, because they possess some merit yet impair effective storytelling,
must be re-examined.
Because
the object of storytelling in the opening statement is to suspend the disbelief
of the jurors, it is important to avoid anything that reminds them that they
are jurors hearing a lawsuit and that their job is to be skeptical. Every
lawyer-like statement that comes into the story tends to break the plane of the
story. When the storyteller calls someone “the defendant,” the jurors recall
the reality that this is a dispute with two competing stories. With every
repetition of “the evidence will show,” the mental images grind to a halt
momentarily, and the jurors remember that this is only what the lawyer
contends. This is like a phone ringing while reading the exciting climax of a
novel. The reader is forced to drop his or her disbelief while dealing with
reality, and it may be difficult to suspend it again so readily. In short, the
moment is lost.
In
order to keep disbelief suspended during the story part of the opening
statement, the lawyer/storyteller should drop all references to the lawsuit,
the parties, the court, or the jury. The worn out phrase “the evidence will
show” should be discarded and retrieved only if the court sustains argumentative
objections. This type of opening statement will not be argumentative, however,
because the well-told story will argue for itself, without the lawyer drawing
conclusions. Indeed, the best story is one that, by its own force, compels a
certain conclusion that the listener reaches on his or her own. It keeps the
juror involved and interested, perhaps even silently bragging to himself or
herself, “I figured that out.”
B. Good
Storytelling Techniques
Word
Choice
Word
choice is critical. Two things kill a good story: legalese and long,
complicated sentences that are encumbered with clauses, modifiers, and
multi-syllable words. If the lawyer/storyteller has a model for word choice, it
should be the campfire rather than the courtroom.
The
language should be simple, straight-forward, and easily understood. Big words
only hinder some jurors in following the story. It is not even necessary to use
complete sentences. Fragments sometimes communicate better orally than proper
grammatical sentences. Short words, short sentences.
Furthermore,
the words should be vivid and image-evoking. It is elementary trial-advocacy
advice, and good storytelling practice, to use charged words such as: “crashed”
or “slammed into” instead of “collided;” “gunned down” rather than “shot;” and
“mangled” instead of “injured.” Care should be taken, however, lest the story
become overburdened by such verbiage.
Occasional use of charged words at carefully selected points in the
story is best.
Many
times the storyteller can create images more readily by telling the story in
the present tense, as if the listener is experiencing the event firsthand. The
juror is placed in the vantage point of one or more of the players and almost
becomes an eye-witness to the occurrence. Present tense facilitates
visualization. Consider this example:
It’s the
evening of Labor Day. Janet, Bob, and Bill leave the lake house at nine
o’clock. They talk and laugh and carry on, like teenagers do. It’s been a good
day, and Bob is enjoying the company. They go down to the pier and climb into
the boat for a relaxing evening cruise. Bob drives, with his twin sister Janet beside
him. Bill shoves the boat from the pier and hops in the back. Bob guides it
slowly down Buzzard’s Bay. The night is dark. There are lights at Sam’s Marina
off to the right. Bob doesn’t see any other boats. He gently veers the boat to
the left around the point, heading out into the lake. He feels the lake breeze
in his face as he passes the five mile-per-hour buoy. Bob increases his speed
gradually. The bow goes up slightly. Just as the bow comes down into a plane,
Bob sees something big coming out of the night to his left. It’s a boat. A huge
boat. And it’s coming fast. Right at them. He turns the wheel hard to the left,
but it’s too late. Everything goes black. Bob comes to. It feels very warm.
It’s water. The boat is swamped. He doesn’t fully understand what’s happened.
Then he looks to his right. Janet is floating face down in the water.
Pauses
Pauses
are the essential companions to vivid word choice. The pause is necessary
because it gives the juror time to create mental images of the events from the
story told by the lawyer.
Mental
images cannot be rushed. They must be carefully suggested, encouraged by vivid
word choice, and evoked by the passion of the storyteller.
Even
the best storyteller will fail, however, if the juror is given no time to
picture the events. It is a “co-creative process,” requiring input from both
the lawyer and the juror.
Pauses
also allow the juror to feel the emotions of the story. It is not enough to tell a sad story if the
storyteller does not give the listener time to feel sad. If the story includes
a feeling of anger at some wrongdoer, the juror must be given the time to get
mad.
Pace
Pace
is also an important tool of the storyteller because it allows him or her to
create excitement or calmness, build towards a climax or coast down from the
climax to the conclusion, or just give the listener the variety of delivery
that keeps the story interesting. A faster pace is not necessarily created with
a more rapid delivery of the words. Rather, pace is quickened with fewer and
shorter pauses between words and sentences, simpler words, shorter sentences,
and less detail. In contrast, pace is slowed by increasing the pauses, the
number of words, and the detail.
Volume
Loud
is bad. Many lawyers believe that it is effective to scream, yell, thunder at
the jurors, or make loud noises by slamming a hand down on a table. Generally,
this just startles the jury, makes them uncomfortable, and, if repeated, causes
them to hate the lawyer who does it.
A
much more effective use of volume is to soften the volume, sometimes almost to
a whisper. Care must be taken that all can hear, of course, but people are
usually more attentive to a quiet manner than a loud one. If the jurors lean
forward slightly to listen, then they are certainly hooked on the story.
Movement
and Position
Movement
and position should contribute to, and not detract from, the story. The lawyer who
paces back and forth while speaking will irritate the jurors to the point of
distraction. The lawyer who clings to a podium does nothing but build a wall
between himself or herself and the listener.
Ideally,
the lawyer/storyteller should stand about eight-to-ten feet from the jury. He
or she should move only when it fits with the story.
Typically,
movement should occur during transitions between distinct parts of the story.
Movement should be natural and limited. The lawyer/storyteller should pick two
or three powerful positions in the courtroom from which to tell the story.
Then,
at the transition points, he or she can move from one position to the
next. As a general matter, a position
closer to the jury is better for the softer, more intimate parts of the story.
A position farther away, perhaps closer to the opponent’s table, might be
appropriate for creating a mood of anger against a wrongdoer. Standing beside a
client may be effective when talking about him or her.
Eye
Contact
Eye
contact is crucial. The good storyteller draws people into the story by
engaging each listener. But, just a passing glance is not effective. The
storyteller must tell a part of the story to each person, locking eyes with the
listener. Each juror must feel personally spoken to.
Gestures
Natural
gestures are effective in storytelling because they aid the listener in
creating mental images. While the campfire storyteller might actually act out
some part of the story, the lawsuit storyteller is not as free to do so.
Rather, the lawyer may use gestures to suggest actions, while never actually trying to portray or act
out the action.
IV. Conclusion
Effective
opening statements are in part the product of a state of mind. They come from awareness
that the trial lawyer is a storyteller with a fascinating story to tell. If the
lawyer never realizes that he or she is a storyteller, then the opening
statement will never be a story. If there is no story, then the trial lawyer is
left to the luck of the jury summons as to whether the jurors get the right
picture in opening statement. Most juries are filled with ordinary people who
love a good story, but cannot shoot a mental movie on their own. They need a
storyteller. Someone to say:
Let me tell you what
happened. It was Saturday morning. For the Peterson family it was the best of
times. Everything was finally seeming to fall into place. But just before noon,
it would become the worst of times. . . .