Jury Duty

There were fourteen of us sitting in the jury box.  Two of us would be dismissed before deliberation, but we did not know which.  

We were notified weeks ago to report for possible federal jury duty.  Just this morning forty-two of us had arrived, some from as long as two hours away.  After three hours of questions we fourteen were deemed worthy to sit in judgement of our fellow man.  He had not been in the courtroom during selection, but his attorney and the prosecuting side were there.  

When the trial opened that afternoon we all looked curiously at the man whose fate was in our hands.  He looked disappointingly ordinary.  He wore thick-sided black glasses and a crisp white shirt.  His hair was carefully braided tight to his scalp.  He did not look around but sat slightly hunched, staring straight ahead.  I reached out to him with my mind, trying to get a sense of his self, his truth.  Nothing.  I could not read, could not know this man sitting on the far side of the room.  He was a stranger, a random encounter.

The prosecution opened with a barrage of accusations against the defendant.  He was accused of lies, lies, manipulations, and more lies.  As the attorney demanded in her too-high voice that we find him guilty of his alleged crimes, I looked at him.  Still he sat, staring stonily ahead.  What was going through his mind as he heard this shrill woman tell us of his supposed failings as a member of our society?  Was he hurt by her words?  Was he angry?  Afraid?

I mused over these questions as the prosecuting attorney gave way to the defense attorney.  The tall, bearded, ginger-haired man cut a nice figure in his suit and tortoise shell glasses.  I imagined him standing in this hall of justice, fighting for the rights of the underprivileged and downtrodden.  I awaited his impassioned speech imploring us to trust our hearts and find his client innocent.  Then he started talking.  Yikes.

One of the first comments made during our deliberation was that the defense had made one of the worst opening statements ever.  We all agreed that he had no business working as a trial lawyer.  His argument was flimsy, his speaking stilted and awkward.  How could this man work as a defense attorney when he could barely produce a coherent sentence?  I felt a twinge of sympathy for the defendant.

As the trial progressed, we were inundated with hours of detailed evidence and witness testimony.  It was worse than the highest-level college class.  Imagine sitting in a daily eight-hour lecture with no class notes and an exam at the end of the week.  At the end of each day, we all looked as though our brains had encountered an immersion blender.  Every one of us had dark eyes and vacant stares, the result of too much intensity, too much information.

Yet, it was more than information.  It was the substance, the material we would use to decide whether a man would walk free or go to prison.  The weight of it pressed down on us, every passing hour adding to our burden.  

On the first day of the trial the judge told us that during breaks or any other time outside of the courtroom we were not to speak of any aspect of the trial.  We could not tell anyone about the twenty-two counts in the indictment, or about the heart-wrenching witness testimonies.  We were not to speak about it even to each other.  

The first two days we took her instructions too much to heart.  So much so that we barely even spoke to each other.  We were distantly polite, engaging in small talk about the extreme heat in the building, or how brain dead we all felt.  It wasn’t until the third day that we began to open up to each other.  

We didn’t tell our life stories, or reveal our deepest selves, but we did get to know each other a bit.  How could we work together to decide a man’s fate and remain strangers?  We couldn’t.  

During breaks we would walk the hallways, chatting about jobs and grandchildren.  We connected with our delightful jury manager who kindly saw to our every need.  We became an impromptu family of sorts.  We were having a shared experience that was a bit uncommon.  We knew it was unlikely we would ever see each other again after the trial concluded, which made our brief connection all the more meaningful.

The final day of testimony arrived.  We had heard the ‘truthful’ statements given by past business associates and the alleged victims of the defendant.  We had viewed nearly one thousand documents attempting to prove his guilt.  The prosecution rested its case.  The time had come for the defense to step up to the plate.  

To our surprise, the defendant was called to the witness stand.  I had watched enough courtroom procedural dramas to know that this could be a boss move or a catastrophe.  In approximately ninety seconds, I knew it was the latter.

All of my imagined nobility and assumed innocence imbued into this man vanished in less than two minutes of unbelievable tripe.  I think at some point my mouth may have been hanging open in disbelief.  How could he sit there and think he was believable?  While my earlier attempts to glean something of his character had failed, his insincerity and arrogance now blasted forcefully into my psyche.  

I counted no less than three times the prosecution asked him a specific question, each phrased differently, each answered differently.  He constantly contradicted himself, so wrapped up in his obfuscation that he lost any continuity or validity.  It was terrible, yet fascinating.  I felt I was watching a child, caught with his hand in the cookie jar, telling every conceivable lie that came to mind without thought or judgement.  With each word he uttered, he dug himself deeper and deeper into a hole.  It was a one-man car wreck, a complete derailment of the weak illusion of innocence constructed by his lawyer.

I realized, as the defense attorney now attempted to control the hemorrhaging damage caused by his client, that I felt somewhat sorry for them both.  The truth of his story was obvious to me now.  This small, self-deluded man was guilty.  It would take serious deliberation to verify each count against him beyond reasonable doubt, yet even if we found him innocent on a few of those, he was guilty.  Guilty of treating people without respect, of treating their struggles and worries with contempt.  He was guilty of greed and selfishness.  He didn’t care whose lives he harmed, he didn’t care how they suffered because of his actions.  He only cared about becoming rich.  

If he had shown even a hint of remorse, I could have retained some of my sympathy.  Yet he irrefutably gave no shits about anyone other than himself, causing my commiseration to evaporate like mist in the sun.  

Finally, armed with our fledgeling knowledge of each other, and with evidence presented by both sides,  we retreated to our over-warm room to deliberate.  We completed our due diligence in a little over four hours.

As we walked back into the courtroom, I felt not a sense of pride or satisfaction at a job well done, but light disquietude.  

The foreperson handed our judgement to the court clerk, who in turn handed the paper to the judge.  She unfolded the white sheet and began to read.  Each pronouncement of ‘Guilty’ rang out through the room, piercing each jury member, tattooing our souls.  All twenty-two verdicts of guilt are now a permanent part of who we are.

I did not look at the defendant as his future was read aloud.  I stared at the judge until my dry eyes began to water.  When she completed the list, I thought we were finished, but instead she asked if the prosecution wanted a count from the jury.  They declined.  The judge then asked the defense attorney and he said yes.  She asked each one of us if we did find, and still did find, that the verdict given is what we want.  I was second to last.  As each of my fellow jurors were asked and answered, my anxiety mounted.  I was very uncomfortable being singled out in front of this man, this criminal.  I had felt safe in our group, but now I was being exposed.  I was mildly bemused when I said ‘yes’ in a clear, strong voice.  

I stood with the others as the judge thanked us for our service and dismissed us to our room.  As we filed out, I could feel the defendant’s eyes boring into the back of my head.  I felt as though every aspect of my person, my physical attributes, my character, were being cataloged and stored for future use.  I knew it was my imagination, my emotional response to the culmination of days of intensity, but it gave me goosebumps.

Once again ensconced in our home away from home, I felt a mix of relieved elation and sadness.  Looking at the faces of my fellow jurors, I saw I was not alone.  Each one of us had been forever altered by this experience.  We had answered the call and done our duty.

Jury duty is just that, a duty.  It is also an honor, a privilege, and responsibility to our fellow Americans.  We do not presume guilt, but innocence.  We do not judge on hearsay, rumor, or circumstance alone.  We utilize common sense, logic, thorough examination, and serious discussion before we pronounce judgement. 

If only we would all do the same outside the courtroom.