Reasonable Doubt

A couple months ago I learned what it’s like to be a prostitute. Or, more specifically, what it means to be used. I’m sitting in a courtroom, watching a pair of lawyers pace back and forth in front of a jury panel, interrogating them like a detective would a murder suspect. Or, as it’s called in lawyerese - voir dire.

“Ma’am, would you feel comfortable passing judgement on another person?”

“How do you, personally, determine whether or not a person is being forthright?”

“What does reasonable doubt look like to you?”

The jurors, all seemingly respectable, intelligent individuals, would answer, some admitting their inability to serve because of religious or moral convictions, others overtly eager to serve as a part of their civic duty.

And then, one by one, came the lawyer’s inevitable verdict:

“The prosecution would ask that jury member number eight be excused, your honor.”

Six jurors ahead of me. Five. Four.

We’re dropping like flies.

Three.

Two.

One.

I’m called to the panel and asked many of the same questions by the state prosecutor.

“How did I feel when I received my juror summons?”

“Do I have a problem accepting the testimony of a police officer?”

I administer my responses, then the defense rises. And she issues a single statement.

“No questions, your honor.”

Um… What?

A little background might help. I’m a light skinned black guy. The defendant was dark skinned. The case we were hearing was one of questionable identity, as many of the witnesses throughout the trial would attest, the gentleman they saw running away from the crime scene was fair complected.

So...yea. Exhibit A - Nyon Smith. A real light skinned young man. Almost fifty-fifty European/African. So light he might get mistaken for white.

Even though I could feel the resentment coursing through my veins for being made a tool to convict my own brother - just as the colonists pit my ancestors against each other to build this great country - I felt happy to be on the “right” side of the law. The quote/unquote house n*****, as it were.

Am I better or more deserving of freedom than other African Americans, simply because I'm lighter? I certainly never felt racially profiled when I've been pulled over for speeding.

But then, why when I attended a Kid Rock concert at fifteen with a biracial friend did someone spit out the N word behind our backs?

Maybe that defense attorney was wrong in her assessment of society’s ability to sort through gradations. Maybe it didn’t matter if her client was mocha cappuccino, white chocolate caramel or dark roast.

Maybe, just maybe, it’s true what the Phil Dunphy said on Modern Family.

If you ain’t white, you ain’t right.