“I just want out, man . . . I just want out.”
This three-hundred-pound-gorilla of a man was sobbing to the detective.
“I don’t want any of this,” he continued. “I don’t want this kind of life.”
It was a recording of a police interrogation, played in the courtroom while the detective was on the witness stand.
The defendant, the gorilla, sat expressionless at the defense table.
It was an interesting twist to an already fascinating experience.
Jury duty.
Of course, nobody wants to do jury duty.
Liz Lemon, Tina Fey’s character on 30 Rock, would dress up as Princess Leia and fake a mental illness to get out of it.
I wasn’t prepared to go that far, but I certainly had no desire to be seated on a jury.
I mean, who wants to spend days, even weeks, listening to some low-life’s sob story?
Not I.
But, alas, I’d been summoned. And I intended to do my civic duty.
It all happened pretty fast.
I showed up at the courthouse, checked in with the clerk, and was directed to a large, silver urn of free coffee sitting in the corner.
So far, so good, I thought.
And I’d brought a book.
The book, plus the coffee, plus the rich people-watching opportunity was plenty to keep me entertained.
Eventually, a group of us was directed into an adjoining courtroom and told to sit in the back.
There, the defense and prosecuting attorneys were busy reviewing our prospective juror questionnaires.
If there were any way to get out of being selected for a jury by answering the questions a particular way, it hadn’t been obvious to me.
Once completed, the page resembled a watered-down version of my resume.
The benches in the courtroom were like church pews.
Not built for comfort.
The lawyers eventually got around to my questionnaire.
The judge asked me to stand.
It made me feel like I was the one in trouble.
Instinctively, I stood at semi-attention.
It’s what you do after thirty years in the military.
The defense attorney, a woman I immediately disliked, noticed.
“Hey, military man . . . look at you,” she said.
“The military’s got nothing to do with it,” I shot back. “I’ve been sitting on this bench for an hour, and my back hurts.”
No way am I taking shit from a lawyer, I thought.
The judge, sensing this, gave me a look that said, Easy, there, tiger . . .
The attorney asked me two softball questions about my background and then let me sit down.
I judged my chances of being selected for the jury as low, for no particular reason.
And then, of course, I was.
Ten minutes later, I was sitting in the jury room with a dozen other people being read instructions by a clerk.
Then something funny happened.
The clerk asked us if we’d selected a jury foreman.
We hadn’t. We didn’t know we were supposed to.
But that didn’t stop everyone in the room from pointing at me in response to the clerk’s question.
“That guy,” one lady said. “The guy in the yellow shirt.”
That stupid yellow shirt.
See, nobody’d told me jury duty was a come-as-you-are affair.
Most people showed up in shorts and flip-flops.
Me? I went with business casual.
Khaki pants, pale-yellow oxford, and a blue blazer.
Which apparently marked me as foreman material.
Even though I hadn’t said a single word to anyone.
Whatever.
We were then led out to the courtroom, and the trial began.
The defendant was charged with possession and distribution of illicit drugs and the illegal possession of firearms.
The story went like this:
Dude with a criminal record leaves his hometown looking for a fresh start. He moves to the city and rents a room from a guy named Frog, paying through a combination of cash and handy work. Eventually, the handy work includes running drugs for Frog, whom the defendant believes will kill him if he refuses. Then re-immersed in the drug culture, he starts using again. The defendant’s downward spiral begins anew, and he eventually sells dope to an undercover cop. The police then raid Frog’s house and, having obtained the necessary warrants, gain access to the defendant’s safe. There, they find drugs, drug paraphernalia, guns, ammo, and, sadly, handwritten letters from his kindergarten-aged daughter.
What a story.
Witness testimony went on for three days.
Most memorable was the showdown between the detective who’d conducted the interrogation and the defense attorney.
The attorney—evil woman she was—tried to paint the detective as a bully.
She wanted us jurors to discount any information gained through the interrogation, because, she argued, her client had been coerced.
She repeatedly attempted to bait the detective. She antagonized him.
She bullied him.
And the detective, in turn, was the very picture of composure.
He spoke evenly, without emotion, and stuck to the facts.
He didn’t seem the least bit bothered by the attorney.
Which only seemed to make her angrier and more antagonistic.
It was beautiful.
But that’s not to say the attorney hadn’t scored a few points with certain jurors.
Throughout the trial, the defense attorney had repeatedly taken various facts of the case, rearranged and packaged them a certain way, and then presented them to advance a certain argument.
Of course, the same facts could have been rearranged a thousand different ways to advance a thousand different arguments.
It was obvious, I thought.
Not so for one guy.
He completely bought the defense attorney’s version of events, and we remained deadlocked in our deliberations as a result.
“She’s trying to manipulate you,” I told the guy. “Yes, that’s her job. But it doesn’t mean you have to believe any of it.”
The more I argued, the more the guy dug in.
“I don’t care how many different ways you try to explain it,” he said. “You’re not changing my mind.”
Wow.
Of course, the very last thing someone who’s been manipulated is going to admit is that he’s been manipulated.
We deliberated for two full days.
And we weren’t getting anywhere.
It was looking like a hung jury.
Which reflected poorly on my foremanship, I thought.
Then, out of nowhere, the clerk informed us the trial was over.
The attorneys had struck a deal.
The defendant had pled guilty to the lesser charges, and the prosecutor dropped the others.
I felt . . . cheated.
By the outcome. But certainly not by the experience.
It had truly been fascinating.
There are indeed bad people in the world who need to be locked up. For a long time.
Like Frog.
And then, there are otherwise good people who repeatedly put themselves in bad situations, from which they cannot escape.
Like the defendant.
And I think that’s sad.
As I was leaving the courtroom, I heard someone calling after me.
“Excuse me . . . Mr. Bozung?”
It was the defense attorney.
“Could I have a word with you?” she asked.
What the hell is this all about? I wondered.
“I’d really appreciate any feedback you’d be willing to give me about the trial,” she said, “and anything you think I could have done better.”
What? Are you kidding me?
This was not the same person I’d observed in the courtroom.
This was person nice. And humble. And considerate.
I was floored. And, I must admit, impressed.
“The detective totally out-classed you,” I said. “The more you antagonized him, the more you turned me against you and your client.”
Fair enough, she said.
She’d actually known the detective for years, and they were apparently friendly outside the courtroom.
I did not share with her how successfully she’d manipulated certain jurors with her tactics.
That was a behavior I did not want to encourage.
I ended on a positive note by telling her how much I admired that she’d sought my feedback.
“Thanks for that,” she said. “I just want to get better.”
So maybe she wasn’t evil.
Maybe she was just a professional.
She had a job to do and intended to do it to the very best of her ability.
Or . . .
Wait a minute . . .
Had she just manipulated me?
Dammit!
Evil woman!
Well, whatever the case,
If ever I’m summoned again,
I hope I get chosen.
Because jury duty, it turns out,
Is a pretty damn cool experience.