A Jury of His Peers (Pt. 2)

The Choosing

Break over.  More waiting.  Only one trial was scheduled for the entire week (very unusual), so in a sense, we were lucky…only one chance at the brass ring.  If you missed, you could go home. But for now, it was simply wait.  Perhaps they were working out a plea deal?  Or playing cards.  By and by, at their leisure, the moment came.  Juror numbers were called, lots of them.  If you heard your number, you lined up in the hallway, to wait again.

Once all were selected, we were marched to the courtroom, upstairs.  Those left behind, we never saw again.  Gee, I thought.  If you don’t make the first cut in a jury selection, what does that say about you? Not too much, as we would soon find out.  And I’d like to know how these court folks choose jurors.  One of our members who was selected to go upstairs was a judge!  You know they are NEVER going to pick her for a jury, but she makes the cut!  Huh?

As we entered thru the public doors, the spectator seating was on our immediate right and left.  The courtroom was smaller than I imagined, barely room left over for a meager four rows of spectator seating. The juror box was further in, on our left, and on the right was a plain wall, with one door.  This, we gathered, was the door thru which the defendant entered, from a secure holding area beyond.  We prospective jurors completely filled every seat in the house -- jury box and spectator area.  The courtroom employed the same decorator as our gathering room.  It was modern, colorless, and yet functional. It was in need of some repair.  The staple of every courtroom in the land,  “In God We Trust,” hanging in its place of honor behind the judge, was skewed on the wall.  But loaded with flat screens and computers this room was, a testimony to modern technology.  I know I watch too much tv and too many movies, but in my mind’s eye I always picture courtrooms having personalities all their own - ornate, reeking of character and smothered with architecture - think "My Cousin Vinny."  This was none of that.

Before us, the judge and his assistants - stenographer, clerk, and court police officers. Two plain tables occupied the center of the common area, both adorned with flat screens.  An upscale swivel chair was at each table. One table had an additional chair.  Plain and simple, it didn’t swivel.  The fancy chairs were occupied by men in suits.  The lawyers.  Next to one of them, in the plain chair, sat a rather young man, neatly but simply dressed, and groomed for effect.  The defendant. Standing in this room, the seriousness of our impending task was palpable.  From this point on, it was clearly evident that it was all business. 

It was time.  The judge spoke, repeating the Lincoln quote to begin.  Then more words, to calm the prospective jurors and guide them in what was about to happen.  For the first time, he referenced the defendant by name, and outlined the charges against him.  Child sexual abuse. Multiple counts.  Of all the potential reasons for anyone to be on trial, this was one that the prospective jurors clearly did not want to deal with.  Our groans were inaudible, but our eyes spoke for them. Our thoughts of a glamour crime of, for example, bank robbery, were dashed.  Although such atrocities occur throughout our society, in the end we really don’t want to think people capable of such heinous behavior. We wished, to wish it away. 

The process was explained.  Twenty-one of our group would be called to take their place in the jury box. They would be questioned (voir dired) by the judge and both attorneys.  For various reasons, some prospects would be released.  We were told not to take this personally, for there were many reasons why a person could be rejected for service.  If fourteen (12 jurors, 2 alternates) of these original twent-one persons could be deemed acceptable to all parties, then the jury would be complete.  If not, more of us in the gallery would be called and questioned until fourteen jurors could be found.  Then, the rest of us could depart, our service complete.   

It began, and to my first great surprise, the jurors’ numbers, as well as their names, were read aloud.  I always thought that jury service, once you got in the courtroom, was anonymous. The defendant would have knowledge of each of our names.  That was disturbing to me.  But I had a feeling, which turned out to be accurate, that I was not to be called this day. I felt relatively free to enjoy the process.

The judge voir dired first, calling each to the bench. In muted voice, not unlike a priest in confessional, he posed his questions.  Most returned to the jury box, some did not. I couldn't help but note the paradox in the demeanor of two candidates. One young lady was in tears as she left the room, dismissed from service.  She had started reacting very emotionally when the judge read the initial charges.  Those tears never ceased, for good reason I am certain. Then, on the opposite end of the spectrum, the judge sitting in the jury pool had quite a private chuckle with the presiding judge before she left with a big smile on her face.  So, again, why was she allowed to progress this far in the process when it was clear she would never be allowed to sit on a jury? 

Then came the lawyers.  Each one was given thirty minutes to voir dire the remaining candidates.  Each took their turn separately.  It was at this point in the process that my second great surprise presented.  How many court room dramas have I watched where jury selection experts were called in to profile prospective jurors, or where the lawyers flamboyantly paraded and with probing questions, tried to reach into a juror’s soul.  None of that here. This was a trial on a shoestring.  These guys were on their own. 

In their capable hands, they shuffled the questionnaires we filled out at the beginning of our day. From what we could see, this was their only source of viable information about the future jurors seated before them. Every now and then, they would call out a name and pose a question.  Most seemed somewhat irrelevant, bordering on meaningless. The prosecuting attorney was more animated and spoke to more individuals.  He was even on his feet during the process, moving and gesturing - kind of like you think a lawyer would be.  The defense attorney remained seated, and asked fewer questions.  He seemed detached, but would confer with his client at times, as if seeking an opinion.  All in all, this process created more questions for me than it answered.

Suddenly, time was up.  If the judge did one thing consistently, it was to stay on point.  The attorneys were called to the bench.  A quick, lively, yet muted conversation took place and in mere minues the judge read off the names of 14 “good men and true” (I always loved that phrase, read or heard somewhere in my distant past).  In less than ninety minutes, three people interviewed twenty-one persons (note: some of the twenty-one were never asked any questions at all), and chose fourteen of them to sit in judgement of a human being's future, a future that would most likely affect the next 20 or so years of his only life here on earth. They were the chosen ones.  They took their place in the jury box and all others were dismissed.  In that instant, not recorded in any fashion for posterity, something rare and special transpired.

Next:  The Finalists, A Jury of His Peers, and The Trial

Mark Twain Quote: "An ingorance so shining and conspicuous as yours -- now I have it -- go on a jury. That is your place."