Dury Juty: Day 6
A mind-numbing descent into the American judicial system.
We have finally, possibly reached the last day of the trial. We made good headway in deliberations yesterday and I have a feeling that we’ll be able to get it over the finish line today. As I’m making my way downtown, there is another juror from my case walking to the courthouse via the opposite side of the street. The pedestrian sign lights up, and we saunter along in tandem on parallel sidewalks.
Across from me a woman in tattered dark clothes is screaming, yellow snot pouring out her nose. She glares at me with hollow eyes and mouths something I can't make out. She spins, gazes up into the sky, and continues yelling into the ethers.
There is a police helicopter hovering over the courthouse — a sight and sound I've grown very familiar with since living in LA. There is an app called 'Citizen' that I check whenever I hear a helicopter above our house. It's basically a map of the city with every single violent crime, robbery, accident, fire, etcetera that is happening in real-time. I can look to see if the helicopters are responding to an incident nearby, like the time someone set the Arroyo hillside on fire down the street. It also includes a master list of convicted sexual predators that live in the area.
The first time I downloaded the app was when there was a reported hostage situation at an abandoned building across the street from our neighborhood grocery store. There were dozens of cop cars, police in riot gear, and a helicopter with a surveillance light circling endlessly overhead. I clicked the icon and stumbled into a livestream from someone in the parking lot next door to the scene. His username was 'Chris P. Bacon.' In the video, I noticed another man from the neighborhood monitoring the whole ordeal, his two dogs in tow (poking out of a baby carrier) and a green parrot lurching on his shoulder, affectionately called ‘Pepe.’
My wife and I were glued to the screen for over an hour, nervously awaiting what might happen next. Cops in riot gear carried on, circling and studying every inch of the building’s exterior. Bomb-sniffing dogs were brought out and paramedics stood primed and ready. The cops guided onlookers away from the scene. Undeterred, 'Chris P. Bacon' returned to his house across the street, bringing us with him to film from the roof. It wasn't long before the helicopter noticed his stealthiness and broadcasted over a loudspeaker for him to go inside — the spotlight beaming on him like an alien abduction. Hours passed without much action, and I heard the next day that it was all just a false alarm.
I've only been serving on the trial for six days, but I have the distinct feeling that all of us involved in this case, and the countless others in the building, are simply rearranging furniture on the Titanic. The sheer ocean of crimes ostensibly surpassing the ability of the legal system to keep up, or to make any sort of longstanding impact. I can only imagine what might linger in the minds of those who are encapsulated in this world for years or even decades. The temptation towards nihilism or fatalism is closer than I’d like to admit, and it’s easy to lose sight of what (if any) meaningful difference this all makes.
In the main lobby, there’s a group of bailiffs engaged in conversation. They all look identical, as if they went to the same police barber shop that morning and asked for “the usual,” a classic high and tight cut. They all definitely got the memo. Upstairs, we wait until a freshly shorn bailiff comes to guide us back to the deliberation room.
There's more small talk and chatter as the jurors are getting more comfortable being around each other. A box of Dunkin’ donuts is waiting for us in the center of the table, a gift from the judge, and the candy from yesterday is still out as well. When I was a kid, donuts were often given as a reward for performing well in school, or scoring a goal in soccer. It's hard to disconnect from that childhood memory as we discuss the difference between second degree murder and manslaughter. I think of the juror with diabetes sitting next to me as the sugary cakes are passed around the table.
The one juror is still stuck on the self-defense angle. Having grown up in a similar neighborhood with a similar “street code,” she is sympathetic to the unspoken rules and understandings that linger in these type of situations. The law underneath the law. She reads over the pamphlet clarifying the separate charges another time as our foreperson tries to reason with her. She asks to review the video evidence again, but more zoomed-in. We press the call button to ask the bailiff for it, and he returns and informs us that we will have to wait for both lawyers to be present, so that there are no accusations of manipulating evidence.
In the meantime, the more outspoken jurors start talking and rationalizing with her. Some are (not so) subtly starting to gang up on her, while others work to diffuse the situation, showing empathy toward her. I put myself in her shoes, imagining how it would feel trying to do what I believed was right, all while thirteen other people stare at me and wait for my decision. As much as I’d like to be done with this case, I respect her for wanting to be true to herself and her experience.
While we're waiting for the lawyers to return, one of the more tech-savvy jurors is able to figure out how to zoom in on the existing DVD so that the woman can see more clearly how the scene plays out. Viewing it now in close-up is enough to sway her. If it had only been the first shot after the car door opened, the case for self-defense would have been much stronger, but there was the second shot. The lethal one where the defendant walks up to the car door, rips it open and unloads his gun inside the car at point-blank range. It’s impossible to define it as self-defense. It is an execution.
Finally in agreement, the main foreperson signs the official document declaring our verdict of “guilty of murder in the second degree.” He passes it around the table for us to verify, and I realize it's the first time I've learned anyone's real name on the jury. I scan further down the sheet and catch a typo, the carelessness on such an important piece of paper jarring me into the present moment. One of the jurors stands up to press the buzzer on the wall three times, indicating to the judge that we have reached a verdict. The bailiff returns and asks us to wait while they organize everyone from the trial back into the courtroom.
With the decision made, a new calm settles into the space. We pass around the donuts again and everyone starts to loosen up. One of the more outspoken jurors whips out a Capri-Sun and sips through a bright yellow straw. The juror to my left is talking about how grateful he is to not have to ride the train in from Pasadena everyday, now that we're done. He says he’s been taking it to avoid traffic. "Driving in LA makes me want to murder everyone."
Someone asks if anyone has served as a juror on a trial before. One woman begins detailing how she was a juror for a major lawsuit over the rights to the song “The Bare Necessities” from the Disney movie The Jungle Book. The family of the writer claimed he been paid $1000 for the song originally, but hadn't been paid anything else since. She also served on a second case, which was a public masturbation case. It lasted for days, and when they finally got to the deliberation room, she had to explain to an elderly Catholic woman what masturbation was. Apparently the term “masturbatory actions” had gone over the woman’s head during the trial.
Another juror jumps in, the lawyer. "I was on a masturbation case, too, when I was assisting a DA! They made a ‘Rick and Morty’ episode about it."
We wait for over thirty minutes before the bailiff returns to get us. The one reluctant juror asks if we’re required to be in the room when the verdict is read aloud — something I don’t relish doing either. We exit in a single file line, heading into the courtroom through a new door to the left of the jury box. A wave of nausea is rising again. Coming from this different direction, it makes the most sense for me to walk around the perimeter of the box to get to my specified chair. I feel exposed, like I'm drawing too much attention to myself. I don't want to catch the defendant's eye, but I steal a quick glance before taking my seat. He is still dead-eyed, staring straight ahead at the table in front of him — the same way he's been all trial.
The judge asks for the paperwork from the foreperson and spends a minute or so looking over it. She hands the verdict to her assistant to announce. I look around the room one final time. The gallery is empty, save for a few clerks — no one from either side here to witness its conclusion. As if all of this happened in a nightmarish vacuum, and this one man, the defendant, was the only one who couldn't find his way out of it.
"We, the jury, find the defendant guilty of murder in the second degree.”
I force myself to look. He lifts his head and makes eye contact with his lawyer, who lets a subtle smile form along the edges of her lips. Opposite, the disgruntled look on the DA conveys his upset. Seeing their responses, I have a brief moment of second-guessing before reaffirming myself that we made the right decision.
The judge turns to us and asks the group, "Is this the jury's decision?" There is a delayed, half-hearted “yes," which clearly does not satisfy her. She proceeds to ask us individually, one by one. "Juror Number 1, is this your decision?" "Yes." "Juror Number 2..." The finality of saying it out loud, of publicly embodying the judgement, is the last weight I have to bear for this experience. The judge shares a few last remarks, thanks the jury and advises us to return to the original, main jury room to receive our Certificate of Jury Service.
It's over.
Downstairs, we get back in line at the initial window where this all began. We turn in our juror badges, and are told to wait for our names to be called. The waiting room is now deserted, except for us — a marked difference from the very first day. We scatter about the room, most of us taking an entire row to ourselves. It feels cinematic, like the end of a battle scene in a movie, such an intense and surreal experience. Successionally, they call us up and I hear the remaining juror’s real names for the first and last time. I receive my certificate, and am handed a piece of paper that reminds me of a participation award from summer camp or elementary school. I'm told I'll be paid $15 a day for my time.
I'm ready to be home, but there's also a part of me that feels obligated to sit and linger a bit longer before moving on. To process in real time what I’ve been through. I make my way to the deli counter and order my trusty turkey sandwich with chips. I have the entire cafeteria to myself.
It’s eerie and strange to be alone in a place that is normally bustling with people and noise. I remember it from my childhood — my parents visiting with friends for what felt like hours after church, or waiting each day after school for my mom to pick me up once she had finished work. You can feel it driving in LA or NYC late at night, when the streets are deserted, or in a music venue when the show is over and a janitor is sweeping up the confetti and collecting empty beer cups. So much can happen in one place, and also so little. Where does all that energy go?
My wife jokes that me serving on a murder trial is one of the most interesting things that has ever happened to her. When it comes up in conversation, people are riveted and fascinated by the experience, asking to hear every detail. Objectively, I feel the same way — being an avid watcher of true crime documentaries and shows myself. But, there is a drastic difference between witnessing trauma through a TV or computer screen at home, versus sitting in the same room with a convicted murderer as their crime is laid out in graphic detail for days on end. It's another experience entirely… one that still lingers, and I suspect it always will.