Let Freedom Ring

There are many perks of being a nurse, and down through the years I have enjoyed them all. One of these was always being excused from jury duty. In my career, I was probably called no less than five times to serve on jury duty, but each time I was excused because I am a nurse. Twice I had to appear before the judge and ask in person, and the other times I only had to submit a letter with my request; it was always granted, and I always breathed a big sigh of relief. It was never that I didn’t want to fulfill my civic duty, but it was the fact that my absence would put an undue strain on my co-workers, and indirectly on my patients. I always promised myself that I would make it up when I retired. Well, this past week I was afforded that opportunity.

I have been on the potential juror list since May, and each time I have called the instruction line I have always gotten the same message: no trials scheduled, thank you for calling. So when I dialed the number on Wednesday night, I had no reason to expect anything different. After all, I had plans. I was scheduled to pick up Emmi the next morning and keep her overnight; Taylor and his band had a musical engagement an hour and a half away, and he expected to be gone until the wee hours of the morning. My mind was already racing ahead with my plans, so truly I was only half listening when I dialed.

I actually had to re-dial and listen again. "Please report to Courtroom A at 9:00 tomorrow morning for jury selection." I was stunned, to say the least. I texted Summer and Tay, telling them the situation, but also thinking I’d never be chosen and would pick up Emmi by the afternoon.

Thursday morning dawned hot and clear; I tried on three different outfits before deciding on khaki pants and a conservative blue blouse. I ditched my usual sandals, in favor of dark blue mary janes, and pulled my long hair back into a bun. I wanted to look like I took this new role seriously (which I did.)

Picking the shadiest parking spot I could find at the courthouse, I left my phone in the car, along with the tiny Swiss army knife I carry in my wallet. As I walked into the busy-ness of the courthouse, I was already thinking ahead that I would be out before noon, and on my way to pick up my Emmi.

I took a left turn, and up the stairs to Courtroom A. Passing through security, I was given a badge that said "Juror" and shown to the jury deliberation room in the back, where several other people were already sitting. Soon, the little room was filled beyond capacity, and we were escorted out into the courtroom to wait.

A handsome young black male, wearing a blue button-down shirt and striped tie, was sitting at the defense table; I presumed him to be the defendant. Sitting behind him was an older woman wearing a blonde wig and a teenaged girl with bright red hair extensions pulled into a knot on her head. ?Mother and sister? ?Mother and girlfriend? I could only guess. His lawyer was a short, round 50-something woman with gray hair. The two prosecutors were young and buff, both of them wearing sharp gray suits.

The courtroom continued to fill up, as more and more potential jurors arrived. I am a people-watcher and I never tire of observing those around me; all ages, all sizes, all stations in life. The attire ranged from suits and ties, through jeans in all their various forms, and even down to the grandmotherly woman wearing gym shorts, a T-shirt and flip-flops, and no bra. I vaguely wondered where she thought she was going when she got dressed that morning.

By the time the clerk arrived to call the roll, there must have been at least 50 people in that cramped courtroom, answering "here" as their names were called. I kept thinking my chances for getting picked were so slim, because they would only need 12, plus a couple of alternates. I was already thinking about how much fun Emmi and I were going to have.

We all stood as the judge entered, then were instructed to sit while he asked a few questions. He introduced the defendant, the attorneys, and the remainder of his staff. He then asked if anyone knew any of those people; a few did, and after a few more questions to assure there was no conflict of interest, he then turned us over to the attorneys for what is called voir dire; that is questioning of potential jurors by both sets of lawyers, to assure that the jury chosen will be unbiased. I was only half-listening as the clerk called the first set of 20 names; she had to call my name twice before I realized I had been picked.

I sat in the jury box with 19 others, while the lawyers repeatedly called on us individually for answers to their questions; first the prosecutors, then the defender. One question after another, calling on specific people and asking them for their input. I was asked maybe four questions, all having to do with my ability to be fair. I don’t remember the specific questions, or my answers, other than at one point telling them that I was a woman of integrity and could usually spot that characteristic in other people.

After an hour and a half of non-stop questioning, finally it was over. Seven of the twenty potential jurors were excused, including the grandmother wearing the gym shorts; she had told them she was indecisive and hated making decisions. (I remember thinking she should have asked someone else to decide what she wore that day.) Another 60-something woman had a son who was a detective; she was excused, along with the 40-something man who works for the local sheriff’s office. When the dust settled, there were 13 of us left, and the judge proclaimed we were the jury, plus one alternate. Everyone else was excused from the courtroom, and the 13 of us were escorted to the back room, where we were told that from this moment forward we would stay together until the trial was over.

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le=”font-size: medium”>The bailiff offered us his cellphone, for those of us that needed to make a call. I stood in line with the others, not really believing that I had actually been picked. When my turn came, the only number I could remember was Summer’s, so I dialed it, knowing she had worked all night and I would probably be waking her up at what was, in effect, the middle of the night to her. I also knew she wouldn’t recognize the number and I silently prayed that she would answer anyway. She did.

She wasn’t asleep, and I could hear Emmi fussing in the background. My voice almost broke when I told her that I had been picked for this jury, and the judge had said we wouldn’t be finished until 5:00 or 5:30 that evening; also there was a possibility that we would have to come back and finish up the next morning. I told her to call Sissy to fill in for me, and I would come to her house the minute I was finished, and keep Emmi there overnight.

She knew I was upset, but she told me not to worry; she would call her Aunt Sis, and everything would be fine.  The next person in line for the phone was clearing his throat and shuffling his feet, so I reluctantly told her goodbye, and asked her to call her daddy and let him know where I was. She promised she would.

I had never been part of a trial before, except as a witness once many years ago, when I had responded to a Code Blue on a patient who had drowned. I had never sat in a jury box, and I really didn’t know what to expect. I had truly hoped to be part of a trial at some point, just not on this day.

The defendant was charged with robbing a video game store at gunpoint, taking money from the cash registers and stealing video games. It was hard for me to believe, looking at the clean-cut young man in the blue shirt and tie. He was younger than my daughter, and had the demeanor of a choir-boy.  By now, the woman in the blonde wig had left, leaving only the teenager with the hair extensions.

The first thing the prosecutor showed us was a picture taken from the store’s surveillance camera. The face was the same, but gone was the clean-cut choirboy; in his place in the picture, stood a snarling gangsta-type wearing sagging pants, and holding a gun in the face of the two teenaged clerks. "Remember me," he had told the terrified clerks. "I spared your life." "Remember me, I let you live."

One by one, the witnesses were called; the store owner and  the two clerks who were working that day.  We took a break for lunch, then returned at 12:30 to continue hearing the evidence. I noticed that the girl in the red hair extensions didn’t return. After lunch, we heard from the police officers at the scene, and from the detective assigned to the case; then began the lengthy testimonies from the State Crime Lab.

The fingerprint expert took a long time explaining the fingerprint evidence that had been submitted. The bottom line was: there were no suitable prints that could be identified as the defendant’s. The defense lawyer took particular pleasure in pointing this out. I was beginning to wonder how the state could nail this case shut, when the DNA expert took the stand shortly after 4pm.  It seems as if this defendant wasn’t exactly a Rhodes Scholar; it seems as if he left his backpack at the scene, and his backpack contained a bottle of Crest ProHealth mouthwash. And tucked into the cap of that mouthwash bottle, and scattered around the rim of that bottle was DNA that belonged to this choirboy. The chances of that DNA belonging to someone else was stated as 1 in 350 trillion.  

It took us less than 30 minutes of deliberation to find him guilty of aggravated robbery and theft of property; our very first vote was unanimous. Most of that time was spent in filling out the forms we had to present to the judge. It was 5:10 pm when we filed back into the courtroom for the reading of the verdict; I noticed the defendant put his head down on his folded arms. Some of the jurors said he had tears in his eyes.

As the judge instructed us in the penalty phase of the trial, only then were we allowed to know that this choirboy had 4 previous felony convictions. Only then were we allowed to know that 2 of those 4 were considered "terroristic acts," and under Arkansas’ "three strikes and you’re out" law, this young man had just earned himself a life sentence with no possibility of parole. It was a very somber jury that filed out to deliberate the rest of his sentence. It wouldn’t be until the next morning, when the story was front page news in the local paper, that we would also learn that he has other charges still pending, of aggravated robbery and theft stemming from another holdup at a service station. I’m glad we didn’t know that.

It took a little longer to agree on an appropriate sentence, but we finally settled on a total of 55 years: 15 each for aggravated robbery, and use of a firearm, and 25 for theft of property using a firearm. This 55 years was in addition to the mandatory life sentence that he had earned. We finished up just before 7pm, and were excused from our duties.

It seemed like a different world, as I stepped out into the warm summer night and walked to my car. I thought about the differences between the lives of this handsome young man of 26, and my own beloved daughter of 27. I thought about the different choices they had made, and how their lives had ended up on opposite sides of the spectrum. "Remember me," he had told the clerks. I will remember him for a long time to come, and I suspect they will too.

I thought about the woman in the blonde wig, and I wondered at what point she had given up.

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le=”font-size: medium”>uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu

My blue-eyed Emmi

 

Me, with Lydia and Emmi