Dury Juty: Day 5
A mind-numbing descent into the American judicial system.
The weekend was a total blur. The residual energy of the past week has been so unexpected that I spent the two days “off” largely in bed — my brain felt too full to even scroll absentmindedly on the phone. I woke up extra early today, around 5:30am, and on the way to the courthouse I'm hit with a sudden wave of nausea. The physical effect of deciding another human’s fate.
As I'm pulling into the parking garage, I spot another juror in the wild at the crosswalk. There are hundreds of people around, going about their normal business downtown. She would typically appear a stranger among countless others, but for these few days our lives have been intertwined in a way neither of us could have fathomed. We share this brief, loaded experience only to return to unfamiliar once this is all over.
At the courthouse, I make my way through the metal detector and collect my belongings. I have a silent panic when I think that I've forgotten my juror badge and phone. Both are buried beneath my wallet and water bottle, but my jumpiness is telling. The main lobby is congested — a replay from my first day on the case. That day already feels like months ago, and the routine of coming here every day feels like my natural rhythm now, and the closest thing I've had to a desk job in fifteen years.
There is a pair of white underwear at the base of the stairs. The soft fabric stands out on the hard stone floor, so out of place and yet somehow I’m not at all surprised. I've been here less than a week and am already growing numb to the brutal, off-kilter logic in this venue. I turn and begin my daily ascent to the 11th floor, each step a sort of symbolic liftoff, as if I'm traveling to a temple or holy space.
Out in the hallway, a lawyer is going over a new trial with two well-dressed men. This must happen all day every day, ad nauseam. Each day a new trial, set of events, death, assault, a family torn apart. There is another lawyer speaking with a judge on speakerphone — he’s detailing his positioning, and frantically puts the judge on hold to locate his client before returning, “She's in the building, Your Honor.”
Our judge has a new assistant today, apparently the original assistant was only a temporary stand-in. The new clerk smiles to herself and sets about correcting records and establishing a more organized protocol for the day. As we're walking in, I hear the earlier lawyer saying, “Giovanni better be willing to testify talking all that shit,” before hanging up and rushing to the elevator.
Today is closing arguments, and after a quick word from the judge we begin with the DA. His argument replicates his opening statement, another impassioned restating of his case. Here we go with the slideshow again, the autopsy photos, and the surveillance video. One more time for affect.
My hands are damp and clammy and I chalk it up to my apprehension around this case coming to a close. The judge herself seems to be preoccupied with other things. She's in multitask mode — shuffling overstuffed folders of papers, writing in notepads, reviewing documents on her computer. It seems as if she’s not paying any attention, but the moment there's any comment directed at her, she locks back into the present. The troll appears missing from her desk, but later I see that she has stood it back upright, red hair aflame.
The DA sits as the Defense Attorney readies her paperwork. She’s having difficulty connecting her computer to the court’s TV system, and struggles for a few awkward moments before the DA slouches over to help. He quickly sorts out the issue, even going to the trouble of setting up the PowerPoint presentation she will use against him.
A picturesque stock photo flashes in front of the whole room — her desktop background looks to be Cannon Beach on the Oregon Coast. In the foreground there is a graceful silhouette of a runner, backdropped by a beautiful sunset. It's the kind of idyllic inspirational photo that would be framed on the wall of a high school English class, paired with text that reads something like Dare To Be Different.
Her PowerPoint isn't much better — bullet-pointed sentences sandwiched between cartoon clipart from the early ‘90s. She doubles down on the self-defense angle, reiterating that the defendant was “fearing for his life.” Ten minutes go by and she rests her case. The DA returns for a few more points and then it is all over. The clock reads 10:45, and since lunch is not until noon, the bailiff escorts us straight into the deliberation room.
The room is down a long, dimly-lit hallway, with musty gray carpet meeting a black rubber baseboard at the edge of the wall. The room itself is equally depressing. Two large wooden tables are pushed together in the middle of the empty space. Our notebooks are laid out and we’re instructed to take our seats in front of them. The room is so small that once we're are all seated, it's nearly impossible to move. There’s an old chalkboard along the wall with an inset metal water fountain and small microwave. Two small bathrooms span either side.
The bailiff explains the archaic buzzer system on the wall that we are to use for any questions, or when we have reached a verdict. He says if there is an emergency, push the buzzer as many times as possible and he will come. I wonder, what kind of emergencies have taken place in this room? In the middle of the table, there is a plastic tub full of leftover Halloween candy. The bailiff leaves us with an old Dell laptop, a few DVDs and photos to use as reference, plus the paper we are to sign when we reach a verdict together.
There are no further instructions and we are left to pick a leader, or foreperson, on our own. An uncomfortable silence fills the room for a few moments before the man to my right volunteers himself for the role. His background is in IT, and he comes across as very methodical and logical. I'm relieved that someone has so quickly stepped up to lead us, and I observe him to be clear, direct and equitable. He spends time listening to everyone's viewpoints.
It's fascinating to finally hear each juror speak, and to interact on a personal level for the first time. To get a glimpse into how our individual minds work, how each person, when presented with the exact same evidence, walks away with a different take. As personalities of the others start to fill-in, I find that some of my initial impressions have been accurate. Others not so much. Within the first hour of deliberation, I begin to see small friendships developing, and notice who is getting on whose nerves, mentally clocking which jurors would likely come to blows if we had to spend more than a couple days together.
For the most part, everyone is on the same page with regards to the trial. An initial survey has a few seeing a guilty verdict of first degree murder, a majority at second degree and then one or two at manslaughter/self-defense. One particular juror in the latter camp is struggling to come around. She can't get past the intensity of the fight from the night before the incident, and views it as ample enough reason for the defendant to have been on edge and fire his gun out of self-defense. A woman, also a lawyer by day, offers to write definitions of the different charges on the board so that we can better comprehend exactly what we're deciding.
Noon arrives, and we break for lunch. The cafe is buzzing and the lines are the longest I've seen them as I make my way to the deli. I can’t stop thinking about how this same routine plays out every week — a new mass of potential jurors, new criminals and new trials descending into this building. I glance over and see the Spanish interpreter having a spirited conversation. I'm starting to feel sick to my stomach again. As I sit down to eat, I notice a balding man across from me with a long greasy ponytail wrapped in six rubber bands. More nausea.
I finish my lunch and wait back outside the courtroom with a large group of others. There is a sudden outburst behind me, “Move out the way!” I turn to see two bailiffs maneuvering a man in an orange prison jumpsuit. His hands are cuffed in his lap, his body slouched in a wheelchair with his left leg extended out. “Move the fuck out the way! I'm gangsta! I'm straight thug!” The bailiffs try to quiet him as they barge through the crowd, but he continues, “I'm down for murder!” A lawyer from before is nearby, still talking loudly on speaker, “I can't be there today. I'm on a murder trial downtown.”
We make our way back to the deliberation room and continue to talk through the case, re-watching evidence, reviewing photos and discussing all of the details. How long was the car parked before the bottle was thrown? Can we see if the window is rolled down? Did he already have his gun out before the car door opened? How many people were with him on the side of the street before the incident?
By mid-afternoon, we’ve made good progress. All of the first degree murder people are now fully planted at second degree, and all but the one holdout juror is ready to have a verdict. The IT guy turns his attention to her, gently prodding and reframing — trying to understand her hang-ups and softly guide her toward the rest of us. There is a reluctance to put too much pressure on, but as the day progresses, the more outspoken jurors slowly begin adding in their thoughts as well.
The bailiff returns at 4:00pm, and still without a verdict, we have to return again at 9:30am the following day. I'm feeling frustrated, but also moved by the experience — fourteen strangers from all walks of life, coming together to self-organize and move in a respectful and ordered way. It’s a beautiful thing to witness.
I pull out my phone as I walk into the parking garage. My Photos app is filled with repetitive pictures of colored concrete columns with numbers and letters painted on them. A record of all of my days in the labyrinthian garage — my only hope for remembering where I happened to park each time. I pull out onto Grand Avenue as another juror crosses the street, her number and badge still affixed to her silk blouse. We are a part of some marked community now, the partakers and witnesses of a particular trauma, forming a unique albeit unnatural bond.