If Ross Harris entered jury selection unaware of how the public views him, he certainly knows now.
Of the 70 or so citizens interviewed thus far for possible jury selection, an overwhelming majority said they believe Harris, accused of leaving his son inside a hot car to die, is guilty. Some of the prospective jurors say they can overcome their assumptions if presented convincing evidence, but just as many said no matter what happens in court, they’ll always believe Harris intentionally killed his son.
Not one of the jurors stated they believed Harris was innocent.
“He disgusts me,” a Vinings resident answered in her juror’s questionnaire. “I think he’s a psychopath.”
Harris, busily scribbling notes, barely looked up as the woman berated him from the stand. Until jury selection began two weeks ago, the 35-year-old Alabama native would enter the courtroom in a jail-issue orange jumpsuit, feet and hands cuffed. Now he enters the court unbound and wearing an Oxford shirt with a necktie, an outfit nearly as foreign to him as the orange suit.
Of all the jobs he had, from police dispatcher to web developer, Harris rarely had to wear his Sunday best. It actually makes him look younger, like a chastened schoolboy serving penance.
Harris, his life already shattered by the tragic death of his 22-month-old son and the raft of felony charges that followed it, will soon learn whether he will spend the rest of his days in prison. He’s been held without bond for nearly two years, surrounded by inmates who, much like the outside world, believe Harris murdered Cooper, his little boy.
"You know, the hardest thing is that you're treated like you're guilty here until you're found innocent," he told his brother-in-law, Michael Baygents, last year. Baygents shared the observation with The Atlanta Journal-Constitution.
For Harris, known as a gregarious type before his arrest, isolation is a daily reality. When not in court he’s housed in a one-person cell on the fifth floor of the Cobb County Jail's North Tower. He’s separated from other prisoners for safety reasons, said Marietta defense attorney Philip Holloway, who has been following the case from the beginning.
Holloway said he tries not to read too much into Harris’ courtroom demeanor.
“After all, it’s been almost two years and he may be numb to it all at this point,” he said.
But it's not just a murder trial weighing on Harris' mind. Last month, his 10-year marriage to Leanna ended in an uncontested divorce. It was an amicable split, unchallenged by Harris, whose voracious "sexting" habits are a key part of the prosecution's case.
The divorce cost him another connection to the world outside he once navigated with almost-carefree abandon. He used to speak with Leanna several times a week, calling from jail while she would sit on a blanket next to Cooper’s grave.
Despite the negative feedback from jurors, Harris maintained a stoic disposition through the jury selection process until last week, when one citizen discussed the final moments of Cooper's life, recounting the scratch marks the toddler had given himself as he struggled to break free of his car seat in the intense summer heat.
Harris buried his face in his hands, visibly shaken. The prospective juror was not moved.
"He’s guilty,” said the woman, a kindergarten teacher’s assistant. She told her co-workers she wouldn’t be picked for the trial “because I’ve already judged him.”
Dunwoody defense attorney Esther Panitch, who is not involved in the case, said Harris needs to avoid showing any positive emotion — no laughing, smiling or fist bumps, like the one he exchanged with his defense lawyers on the third day of jury selection.
“The juror is watching every move he makes,” Panitch said. “Even if he didn’t do it intentionally, his child is still dead. If he’s not walking around in sackcloth and ashes, the jury’s going to be angry. From his perspective, he wants jurors to see how much this has affected him.”
Whether they’ll hear from him is a different story. Panitch said she doubts Harris will testify unless the defense believes all else has failed.
His only public remarks came at his son's funeral in Tuscaloosa, delivered from jail by phone.
“He never did anything to anyone, ” he said of Cooper, audibly choked up. “I’m just sorry I can’t be there.”
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