July 11, 2019
Yesterday I dodged a bullet. I was called for jury duty and got a last-minute stay of execution the night before; I did my happy dance.
I have an aversion to jury duty since getting caught up in the process and hope never to experience that again. I’ve seen what the legal dogs do when they get a tasty bone. Try to take a bone from a dog and see what happens.
A friend told me that only 15% of those summoned actually show up; they just don’t report! My luck, they would come after me, so being given a legitimate open door suits me just fine.
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I’ve been told it is a civic “privilege” when called to jury duty but it felt like anything but. Reluctantly, I reported for jury duty after being assured, over the phone, that it would take three to five days, at the most. I envisioned being sequestered for months while my life went on without me. Irrational perhaps, but still these thoughts made me uneasy and uncooperative. I told myself, It’ll be fine.
After the first uneventful day, I reported a second time and was presented with a questionnaire, giving a brief overview of a case. My first clue to the gravity of my situation came when it is implied that the trial could last up to six weeks. Filled with dread, I answered the questions and waited for the next step.
I became one of a jury pool of 120 people necessary to sift out twelve jurors and four alternates. A handful of us answered the questionnaire in such a way that sent up a red flag for the legal eagles involved. We small few will have to account for our answers, individually, and alone.
When my turn comes I am ushered into the courtroom to sit alone in the jury box, confronted by two lawyers from the prosecution, two from the defense, the judge and her staff, and most unsettling of all, the defendant, himself.
I made it clear from my answers that I was not a willing party. “If you are called to serve on this jury, can you give it your best effort? Will you be able to be impartial and totally fair-minded?” Trying to keep my voice from shaking, I speak the truth. “I don’t know.”
The Assistant DA’s voice raised a notch as he grew impatient with me, “This is going to be a very big case. Aren’t you at all interested in being a part of it?” The big case was going to include pictures of the badly decomposed bodies of two murdered women.
We glare at each other; he shakes his head in frustration and sends me home for the day.
On day three, I am called for a second reaconing, again before the entire tribunal. One of the questions referred to reports on TV and in the newspapers. Had I remembered hearing of the murders when they first arrested the defendant and what, exactly, did I remember?
I did remember something but struggled with recall and became undecided. Did I remember everything correctly? Perhaps I am confusing this situation with another murder I had heard about. At this point, I have nothing to loose by being totally honest.
My honesty didn’t buy my freedom; I report on day four for the Voir dire.
Voir dire: a process of speaking the truth to determine competency to be a witness or juror.
This part of the process required all those remaining from the jury pool, approximately 80 of us, to be in the courtroom together. We filled the jury box as well as the entire section designated for the spectators.
The lawyers take turns, one hour each, expounding on one element of the case, then questioning various potential jurors on their perspective. Speaking in vague and general terms, I recognize the game of cat-and-mouse. It is up to us to decipher the lawyer’s intent, to read between the lines.
“You’ve all had problems with relatives before, haven’t you? Ever had an argument? Possibly in the heat of anger, said things you didn’t mean, made threats?”
The defendant, Gary Wayne, a machinist from Snohomish County, despised the mother of the woman he lived with. The feeling was mutual and she had threatened to go to court for custody of the couple’s children. One night, in a drug-induced rage, Gary allegedly had gone to the woman’s apartment, they argued and he killed her. Two months go by before passengers from the Spirit of Seattle Dinner Train spot her body lying near the tracks.
“Anyone here have any problems with drugs or alcohol? How do you feel about someone who does use drugs or alcohol?”
The Assistant DA took his turn as I tried to sink lower in my chair, to dissolve from his field of vision. No such luck; he calls on me. Oh, well, why change his opinion of me now?
I explain, “Yes, I do have a problem with drugs and alcohol. There are alcoholics on both sides of my family so I might be genetically predisposed to addiction. I am a teetotaler.”
If only he knew how much of a square peg I really am, raised a Southern Baptist, where dancing was once frowned upon and alcohol has no redeeming value. I am a square peg in a round hole in this group.
These questions referred to the second accusation against Gary Wayne. A few weeks after the murder of his partner’s mother, Gary and a female childhood friend went off for a weekend of camping. They drank too much and, in a slip of the tongue, he admitted the deed.
Days later, sobering recollection sends him a jolt. She was, after all, his good friend but could she be trusted? Apparently, not enough to save her life. His friend’s body was found weeks later deep in the woods of the same campground where he’d made his untimely confession.
Confession is supposed to be good for the soul, right? What will it do for mine?
The defense attorney began, “Our system is based on the belief that 99 guilty men should go free rather than one innocent man convicted. How do you feel about that?”
As with much of America at that time, I am soured on our system of justice after such debacles as the OJ Simpson trial and the nanny who was freed after shaking an infant to death. Where is the justice in that? We have all heard of work-release programs in which the criminal is allowed small freedoms, enough freedom to go back and take revenge on the person who put him in prison. Our justice system, it seems, bends over backward to protect the criminal with secondary consideration for the safety of the general public.
The ax falls on me again and I speak my piece. What was that? Did I just hear a pin drop?
Weary and worn, we are called to a recess and ushered down the hall to be locked in another room. Great precautions are made to insure that the potential jurors do not see the accused man walking the halls in handcuffs; it wouldn’t look good for him, you know. As we are moving along, one of the men in the group leans over my shoulder from behind and chuckling, whispers in my ear, “You don’t need to worry, they won’t want you!” I feel backward and stupid. Somewhere in the evolution of my life I have missed a link and failed to become an enlightened, liberal thinker.
The sixth day into the process, we were confronted with the final subtle, but frightening, implication. “This is a very serious crime. We may need to seek the maximum penalty. Can you accept this burden and carry out your duty, if required?”
There is no doubt about this one; the prosecution would be seeking the death penalty.
Ouch! My square edges bang into that round hole again. I am a conservative contradiction of terms: pro-life in abortion, pro-death penalty in crime. It’s easy to talk of the death penalty until confronted with the possibility of enforcing it. This is a chilling reality and, thankfully, I am not asked to air my position.
Finally, all parties exhausted, the voir dire ends. Now began the actual selection of the jury. We were given numbers as identification through this whole ordeal and mine is #58. At last, I was called. “#58, you are excused from duty.”
There. It has been declared. I am unacceptable for this civic duty; persona non grata. The desirable juror is liberal and fair to a fault, with no biases, no moral high ground. It now comes to me, in glaring clarity, how far from the middle ground I stand.
Epilogue: A mistrial was declared on the opening day of the trial after the prosecution blundered, implying that the accused would not testify due to his guilt, violating his right not to testify. The jury was excused and the whole exhausting process repeated. After an eight-week trial, Gary Wayne was found guilty and sentenced to life in prison without parole.
Belonging 