You Have Been Chosen to Join the Justice Squadron at the Municipal Fortress of Vengeance
I was this close >| |< to being a juror at the trial of a woman accused of abusing her three adopted daughters and murdering two of them. I would have been, had not one side changed their mind about me. That's how close I was.
This was my first jury summons ever in my life (and I was pleased to receive it a month ago, as I had begun to wonder why I never had. I suspect it may be related to the fact that since turning 18 I have never had the same mailing address for three years until now).
There were 300 summoned for jury duty yesterday. About 150 of us were to be considered for that trial, but a delay kept us in the jury lounge for 5½ hours. Finally they sent us to the courtoom for jury selection (voir dire, which does not mean "to tell the truth," but rather "to see [and] to say," no matter what all the court officers said). It lasted 3 hours. During that time I revisited some of my thoughts on American justice. This was not a capital case but I realized that if the opportunity presented itself I would be unable to vote to sentence anyone to death. The greatest eye-opener, though, was the solemnity of this trial in particular and, at a general minimum, all murder and abuse cases. Often when hearing about such cases in the media the reaction is that the hammer of justice must be wielded righteously. But I came to see this trial as a tragedy all around, for accused as well as victims; nothing good will come of it, nothing and no-one will be made whole. It must be done, yes, but it is not something of which society should be proud or for which we should be grateful.
After the questioning they called us up into the jury seats by juror number. Mine was low, so I was among the first 12 called. We each stood for both sides to approve or request the court to excuse. Until they got to me, all men were accepted and all women were excused. My heart was pounding. At that moment, caught up in the proceduralism of it all, I desperately wanted to be accepted. And I was.
We sat down, they had us consolidate the spaces vacated by the excused jurors, and they repeated the process until all 12 seats were occupied. During this time I had a clear, uninterrupted view of the defendant. I looked over the other 11 people, wondering who would be foreman, imagining sitting in that chair for 5 days (the court's estimate of the trial's duration), imagining the testimony of child abuse and murder that I would hear and the exhibits I would see, wondering if I would have time to call my office before it closed to tell them I'd be out for five more days or if I'd have to call in the morning.
When there were 12 of us (9 men and 3 women), the judge asked if both sides were satisfied. At that point one side seemed to calculate from their list of jurors that they could get someone else (another man apparently, the jury finally comprising 10 men and 2 women), so they requested I be excused.
For a couple of minutes, while I returned to the jury lounge, I felt disappointed and miffed at the "unfairness" of it: how dare you pick me and then un-pick me! But then I realized that I wouldn't have to hear the testimony and see the exhibits (I do like a good medical pathology but I'm also a bit squeamish about injuries to the living) or decide whether the fellow human being in the defendant's seat had done the hideous deeds of which she is accused, and a great tension that I didn't know was there left my body leaving me a bit shaky and feeling more tired than I thought I was. I realized that the disappointment had nothing to do with losing the opportunity to perform that civic duty, but with the attention I would receive from friends and acquaintances once the trial were over, a prideful disappointment of which I'm ashamed.
I decided, too, that having just escaped the "opportunity" to hear all of the details, I now don't want to know any of them. This calamity has already taken two lives, damaged a third, and maybe a fourth; it is no longer any of my business and I simply do not want to know any more than I already do, except what the verdict is. All morning I have thought of the other 11 people I sat up there with (especially the devastatingly cute Juror No. 1), lucky enough to have been chosen and unlucky enough to be now listening to details small, large, and horrible, and I wonder how they feel and what they are thinking; I envy them, and I'm relieved not to be with them.
At the beginning of the day the county jury commissioner had said that if we were selected for a jury it would be an experience we would always remember, but not if we weren't selected. For me, she was wrong.
Update, 22 Feb.: The verdict is guilty.
This was my first jury summons ever in my life (and I was pleased to receive it a month ago, as I had begun to wonder why I never had. I suspect it may be related to the fact that since turning 18 I have never had the same mailing address for three years until now).
There were 300 summoned for jury duty yesterday. About 150 of us were to be considered for that trial, but a delay kept us in the jury lounge for 5½ hours. Finally they sent us to the courtoom for jury selection (voir dire, which does not mean "to tell the truth," but rather "to see [and] to say," no matter what all the court officers said). It lasted 3 hours. During that time I revisited some of my thoughts on American justice. This was not a capital case but I realized that if the opportunity presented itself I would be unable to vote to sentence anyone to death. The greatest eye-opener, though, was the solemnity of this trial in particular and, at a general minimum, all murder and abuse cases. Often when hearing about such cases in the media the reaction is that the hammer of justice must be wielded righteously. But I came to see this trial as a tragedy all around, for accused as well as victims; nothing good will come of it, nothing and no-one will be made whole. It must be done, yes, but it is not something of which society should be proud or for which we should be grateful.
After the questioning they called us up into the jury seats by juror number. Mine was low, so I was among the first 12 called. We each stood for both sides to approve or request the court to excuse. Until they got to me, all men were accepted and all women were excused. My heart was pounding. At that moment, caught up in the proceduralism of it all, I desperately wanted to be accepted. And I was.
We sat down, they had us consolidate the spaces vacated by the excused jurors, and they repeated the process until all 12 seats were occupied. During this time I had a clear, uninterrupted view of the defendant. I looked over the other 11 people, wondering who would be foreman, imagining sitting in that chair for 5 days (the court's estimate of the trial's duration), imagining the testimony of child abuse and murder that I would hear and the exhibits I would see, wondering if I would have time to call my office before it closed to tell them I'd be out for five more days or if I'd have to call in the morning.
When there were 12 of us (9 men and 3 women), the judge asked if both sides were satisfied. At that point one side seemed to calculate from their list of jurors that they could get someone else (another man apparently, the jury finally comprising 10 men and 2 women), so they requested I be excused.
For a couple of minutes, while I returned to the jury lounge, I felt disappointed and miffed at the "unfairness" of it: how dare you pick me and then un-pick me! But then I realized that I wouldn't have to hear the testimony and see the exhibits (I do like a good medical pathology but I'm also a bit squeamish about injuries to the living) or decide whether the fellow human being in the defendant's seat had done the hideous deeds of which she is accused, and a great tension that I didn't know was there left my body leaving me a bit shaky and feeling more tired than I thought I was. I realized that the disappointment had nothing to do with losing the opportunity to perform that civic duty, but with the attention I would receive from friends and acquaintances once the trial were over, a prideful disappointment of which I'm ashamed.
I decided, too, that having just escaped the "opportunity" to hear all of the details, I now don't want to know any of them. This calamity has already taken two lives, damaged a third, and maybe a fourth; it is no longer any of my business and I simply do not want to know any more than I already do, except what the verdict is. All morning I have thought of the other 11 people I sat up there with (especially the devastatingly cute Juror No. 1), lucky enough to have been chosen and unlucky enough to be now listening to details small, large, and horrible, and I wonder how they feel and what they are thinking; I envy them, and I'm relieved not to be with them.
At the beginning of the day the county jury commissioner had said that if we were selected for a jury it would be an experience we would always remember, but not if we weren't selected. For me, she was wrong.
Update, 22 Feb.: The verdict is guilty.
posted by Dr. Bubbles at 13:50
1 Comments:
That's pretty wild. As much of an effect (notice I didn't use "impact") yesterday had on you, I imagine that actually serving on the jury for a trial like that would transform one's life for better or for worse. I don't know anyone else who has come anywhere nearly that close to being a juror of a murder trial; so at least for my purposes, that's pretty noteworthy. I agree with you though, I understand it all needs to be done, but I would not want to be a part of it because the result is just bad no matter how you cut it. Interesting experience nonetheless.
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