Because Ye Be Innocent Ye Will Be Judged

Oh how I love jury duty, let me count the defendant’s wayward ways. At 8 o’clock on a Monday morning 200 people, myself included, arrived at our local County Court House to do our civic duty. Weeks prior we had been notified of this obligation by mail and most of us were annoyed. But after a few minutes of kicking and screaming, our collective sense of responsibility resigned us to do our part for the community.

Upon arrival we stood quietly single file in a long line at the end of which I sincerely hoped would be a bar serving complimentary welcome drinks. Nothing too strong, but it was indeed Bloody Mary and Mimosa hour. But to my dismay there were only sign-in sheets at the end of the line. Afterward we were herded into a large waiting room. Again, there was no bar. After waiting for an hour we were divided into small groups and lead into separate courtrooms. FINALLY there was a bar but it didn’t serve alcohol. It was simply a divider between us (cattle) and them (important court people).

Once seated, our attention was drawn to an unhappy man sitting behind a wooden table facing our group. The defendant and his attorneys were equally interested in who we were. My first impression was: This guy looks like a weirdo. He should’ve shaved this morning, he seems agitated, and why is he squinting? Someone came in from the sidelines and gave the defendant a pair of sunglasses, after which he seemed to feel much better. The Judge announced the man’s name and I froze. I recognized his name, but why? Did I know him? How, and from where? He didn’t look familiar. Next the Judge announced that he was accused of assault against his wife.

Guilty!

The Prosecutor stood and told us that he was accused of throwing her down and breaking her clavicle.

Fry him!

The Judge asked if any of us had ever served on a jury before. Some answered yes. The Judge then asked if it had been a positive experience for them.

Place the name; do you know the squinting guy? Think!

The Judge asked if any of us had ever been victims of a crime. Some, including me, raised our hands. Three of us had been victims of violence by the hands of those who had once vowed to love us ’til death, apparently concentrating mostly on the death part.

Bring me some rope!

And I remember now — a friend of mine used to date a guy by the same name as this loser, but that guy died, and this dude doesn’t look like the un-dead… although that would explain the squinting and the need for sunglasses.

The Judge asked if any of us felt that we would be swayed in either direction because of our previous experiences. Again I raised my hand. The Judge asked if I could put aside my feelings and follow his instructions. Suddenly, the neon phrase ‘innocent until proven guilty’ flashed on the billboard inside my mind. Lady Justice had a dire need for impartiality and this was a very serious situation. I thought about what the Judge had asked then answered, “Yes.”

Having never served on a jury before, I assumed these preliminary questions and instructions were a mere formality and that in a few minutes the trial would begin. But that was absolutely not the case. We who were seated in uncomfortable wooden benches, eyeing up the comfortably padded jury chairs on a riser in front of us, were going through a jury selection process and our interrogation had just begun.

After several more questions, all in the room fell quiet as the start of an awkward staring match began. We, the Innocent, were judged by the Prosecution and Defense teams as to whether we were suitable subjects for their strategic purposes. We were pawns in a sick politically correct human chess game, being scrutinized for ten long silent minutes as every detail about our person was taken into careful consideration. Our gender, race, age, choice of haircut and clothing were suddenly very important details. Our facial lines told whether they had formed from a life of leisure or pain. Private experiences were no longer private as educated well-trained, highly paid human experts peered into our souls, seeking details of any torturous private history hidden behind our eyes. Then half of us were excused — I was one of them.

Afterward we were escorted back to the corral to join all the other rejects from other jury selections whose compromising life experiences deemed them too bitter to be without bias. Throughout the day we were summoned in and out of various jury selections and each time the Judge exposed more private details of our lives for all to hear. Men and women who had been victims of childhood physical or sexual abuse, or who had had someone close to them be a victim of such abuse were asked details.

“Who exactly had been abused?… Your niece, you say. How long ago did the abuse occur, and were charges filed against anyone?… Were they subsequently convicted?… I see. Can you put aside your feelings and follow my instructions?”

The scene inside every jury selection room was the same. Defendants accused of crimes serious enough to require a trial by jury got to witness the buried pain of strangers unexpectedly emerge, sometimes in a flash which quickly disappeared; sometimes rising to the surface and remaining for two or three very uncomfortable minutes. I wondered how many hours of therapy had been required to give some the strength needed to move past those difficult experiences. Then I wondered how many more hours awaited some who had no idea they’d be forced to divulge such private information in public, in a courtroom, in front of others.

Keeping quiet when asked if we had any previous experience with whatever charge was on the table was not an option and that was something we all understood. Television shows and news stories have taught the importance of jury impartiality and full disclosure, and how sometimes large amounts of tax payer money is wasted by having to declare a mistrial and start the prosecution all over because one person on the jury didn’t disclose a pertinent piece of personal information.

The process reminded me of the song, In the Flesh part 2, off Pink Floyd’s The Wall, but with a few courtroom legal lyric changes: Has anyone got an issue in the audience tonight? Get him up against the wall. Are there any victims of a hate crime in the theatre tonight? There’s one in the spotlight — he don’t look right; who let this emotional riff-raff into the room? Get them up against the wall!

This process went on for five consecutive days, 8 hours a day, with each of us getting paid $9 per day for the first 3 days, then $25 starting on the 4th day. I never was selected to serve on an actual jury, and that’s a good thing, seeing how I had to admit to myself how difficult it may have been for me to be truly impartial in certain circumstances. Furthermore, perhaps it’s a good thing that those in our society who have been unfortunate victims of various crimes or experiences causing physical and emotional trauma do not have to bear one more burden — the job of having to decide whether another member of society is innocent or guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.

Maybe the fear of not knowing whether one made the correct decision over someone’s life should be left to those who have limited trauma experience. Let it be their burden to bear. Plus there’s comfort in knowing that whenever the innocent are indeed on trial for a crime they didn’t commit, they will be entitled to a trial by a jury who is impartial, coming from a relatively harmless incident-free life.