Trial by Jury

      The young lady stifled a scream.  She struggled to remain seated. The spider rappelled down the single filament.  Everything in the courtroom came to a halt.

     It came in the mail, the oversized postcard with the perforated tabs on the end that you tear off before you can unfold the triple-flapped card.  “SUMMONS FOR TRIAL JUROR SERVICE Larimer County” it said.

     My first action was to groan.  Then I thought of John Adams and the biography by David McCullough that I read a few years ago.  He left Abigail and family home alone while he spent years making dangerous trips across the Atlantic to lobby in England and France on behalf of his nascent country.  If he could give up years of his life away from home, business, and family, I guess I can devote one day in service to the country.

      Among the items of jury service outlined in the contents of the card were methods of being excused or postponing jury duty.  I read them, but I never seriously considered trying one of them.

      The card came in November, about a month before the date I was to report in December.  I put it on the calendar.  Soon, the date rolled around and I pulled the post card down and reread it.

      I had filled out all the requested information.  I had to phone a certain number on the afternoon prior to the date of service to see if the trial was still on.  I called about 3 p.m.  The canned voice informed me that juror numbers seventy-something through 125 should report between 8:00 and 8:20 a.m.  I was number 79.

      Other numbers were instructed not to report.  So I scheduled my day.  The alarm rarely gets set any more.  I set it for 6 a.m.  I checked out the route and the weather.  Rain-turning to snow likely.  Better give it an extra fifteen minutes, with weather and early morning traffic.

      I left at 7:15.  I walked into the building at 7:48 a.m.  I joined the line in front of the courtroom door.  Eventually I got to two gals manning ticket office-like windows.  She looked for my name.  She couldn’t find it.  I pushed my juror card through the slot beneath the glass.

      “Oh, jury duty,” she said.  “Go back out these doors and go straight down the hall.”  When I stepped out into the hall, I saw the big sign that said, “Report for Jury Duty” with an arrow pointing down the hall.  I never have figured out how I can miss big signs like that, but I frequently do.

      I turned into a doorway where the arrow pointed.  A lady at a desk amid file cabinets and other impedimenta that made the office seem crowded took my post card and removed a third of it.  She checked her list and checked a name, presumably mine.  She thanked me for coming in and directed me around another corner to the waiting room, a room full of chairs arranged roughly into two bunches, facing away from the doorway I entered.

     On the wall were two televisions showing all kinds of information, one tv for each side of the room.  It looked familiar.  When we went to license the new car, we sat in front of a television informing us how to speed up our visit and other information.  It must be the county way, I thought.

       The television was advising me about where to park, and where NOT to park, and ask the clerk if I need to go out to repark.  The telephone instructions, which I listened to twice the day before said I could bring a book, but electronic devices had to be shut off in the courtroom, so I opened my book and began to read.

      The tv had gone through three or four reps when I decided to watch beginning to end.  I was supposed to pick up a “jury badge” at the table just outside the door.  I looked around and some of my peers were indeed sporting big sticky tags on their breasts that said “JUROR”.

    Out the door I went and grabbed two or three tags, sorted them down to one, returned to my seat and tried to separate the slick back from the sticky side of the tag.  Eventually succeeding, I applied the badge to my shirt.  Back to my book for another ten minutes.

     The lady who checked off my name and took my card came in to address us, informing us we now should watch a 20-minute video on jury service.  It explained that the badge was necessary so that any witnesses, lawyers, or even the judge should avoid discussing the case with, or in front, of us.

     The flick presented several people who had served on juries, including a judge who was called and served.  The drawing is random, names taken from such places as the state income tax forms and other records the county maintains such as driver’s licenses.

      About fifteen minutes before nine, the lady who had been our instructor up to this point, the jury commissioner she was called, introduced two people, a man and a woman, who would be the courtroom bailiffs or some such title.  They would stick with us until the end of our service when we would be dismissed. 

     The man called the roll to be sure we were all there.  We were, all thirty of us.

      In sheepdog fashion, they herded us up and took us to the elevators, the lady leading and the man following.  It took a couple of the elevators to handle all of us.  When we landed on the third floor, we waited outside the courtroom door until all of us had arrived. 

     At about five of nine, the lady opened the courtroom doors and we were instructed to sit in the wooden pews where observers sit.  They weren’t very comfortable.  There were three rows of wooden benches on either side of the aisle, not a very big room, really.

     Promptly at nine, we were instructed, “All rise!” which we did and his honor entered, sat, and instructed us to sit.  He said we were subject to some repetition because his instructions were repeats of the twenty minute tv show.

     Then he told us to look at the person on our left, then our right, then in front of us, then behind us.  This was seeming an awfully lot like church, the pews, the greeting one another.  We were to ask each of those four persons if they had heard what the judge said.  I was  in the front row on the defendant’s side, so I asked the defense attorney if he had heard the judge.  He did.

     Two or three people asked for and got headphones tied to a little radio very much similar to the ones we wore in Italy.  With everyone able to hear clearly, the judge went on.  He asked if there was any reason why anyone should not or could not serve on the jury.  One lady, a retired lawyer said she had prosecuted a case in which the defense lawyer had been on the other side.

  The judge asked her if that would prejudice her against, or for, the defendant.  She said no and she didn’t get dismissed.  The guy sitting next to me on the hard bench said he had had back surgery a few months ago and was unable to sit for long.  The judge said we would take breaks about every two hours, and if the guy was selected to serve, he would be assigned and end seat where he could stand as needed.  He didn’t get dismissed.  A couple of other people were involved with attorney’s dealings, but none of them got dismissed.

     The judge said we probably had watched court proceedings on tv, but we should listen closely to his instructions, because this was real and may differ from the dramatic interpretations of television. Then the judge entered into the case.  It was a criminal case.  The defendant was charged with DUI, lane violations, and some third thing related to operating a vehicle while under the influence of alcohol.

     Several times we were admonished that the defendant was to be presumed innocent.  It was up to the prosecution to prove its case.  The defense need take no action.  The judge said they could play cards if they desired and offer no defense because it was up to the prosecution to prove their case.

     The judge also said the defendant need not testify, and that if he chose that option, we must not consider that a sign of his guilt.  It was  his right not to testify in his own behalf.  Hmmm.  We would hear all these admonishments again from the prosecutor and the defense attorney.

     When the judge figured he had covered all the ground rules, the male bailiff brought a clipboard from his seat to the right and behind the judge up to the potential jurors.  He had a seating chart and one by one, twelve of us were called up and assigned a seat in the jury box.  I was one of the twelve.  

     The judge called the two attorneys to his bench.  The speaker in front of me started hissing.  The folks wearing headphones were instructed to remove them.  I waited for an announcement to come over the speaker, but none ever did.  The “white sound” continued as the judge and the attorneys conferred at the bench.  After a while, I figured out that the speaker hissing was to keep us jurors from hearing the conference.  It worked.  It was much faster than having judge and attorneys retire to chambers, or whatever they say.                   

     The attorneys returned to their tables, the hissing stopped, and the judge singled out a couple of people to question first, ones who were involved with somebody close to the case I think.  Both were dismissed and replaced by two more names from the pool of folks still sitting on the benches.  Then the voir dire began.  The judge took the first crack at us.  He had eight questions for us to answer, most of which we had answered once or twice already.

    Question 8 was a trick, he said.  It was really eight questions.  He asked the bailiff to turn the mobile post board around and each of us twelve must answer the eight questions on the back side.  1. Name, age, city of residence (really 3 questions)  2. Occupation  3. Marital status  4. Children and their occupations  5. Parents and their occupation  6. Number of years living in Larimer county and Colorado 7.  Can’t remember  and 8.  Relationship with law enforcement officer, relative, or friend.

    When my turn came, I could only think of one thing when it came to number 8.—the retired Fort Collins police officer.  The judge asked for a name and I gave it.  Then he asked if that retired officer would hold it against me if we found the defendant not guilty, to which I replied, “Not in the least.”  I didn’t get dismissed.

      Everybody got their turn, and a few got asked questions by the judge, mainly, would the person be prejudiced by whatever detail they mentioned.  In the end, the judge pronounced us all suitable, qualified jurors.

    Next, the prosecutor took his turn at us, fifteen minutes as timed by the judge.  The prosecutor was a young man, maybe late twenties or early thirties.  He seemed a bit nervous.  He repeated what the judge had said about the defense playing cards, that it was up to him, the prosecutor, to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant was guilty of the charged crimes. 

    He then told us a story about coming home to find all the clocks in house flashing 12:00 a.m.  What could we conclude from that?  The power went out.  Yup.  Did we need other evidence or understand the details of how or why the power went out, or were we able to conclude on the basis of the flashing clocks that the power had gone out and come back on?  We were.

     Then he asked some random questions about things I don’t remember, picking one of us to answer.  I don’t think he asked me anything.

     The prosecutor was addressing someone on the other end of the jury box when I looked up to see the spider descending in front of me, to my left, right in front of the young lady next to me.  She saw the spider, stifled a gasp, tried to push her chair back and stand, decided she shouldn’t, couldn’t do anything.  Everyone turned to look at the young lady.  Most, I suspect, were too far away to see the spider.  Everyone could see her discomfort.

      For a moment, no one moved or said anything, not the prosecutor who stopped to watch, not the judge, not the bailiffs, not me.  A young man seated in front of the young lady and the spider turned, saw the spider, without rising reached and grabbed the spider.  He turned back around and first made a fist with the spider inside.  Then he clapped his hands, wadded the spider remnants with thumb and finger, brushed his hands a couple of times to discard the deceased’s body on the floor.

     Everyone snickered or chuckled.  The prosecutor picked up where he left off questioning us.

 After fifteen minutes, the judge interrupted him to tell him his time was up.  Then it was the defense  attorney’s time.

     The defense attorney was a an older man, I believe he said he was in his early 60’s.  He went down the list we had all had to answer.  He had been a criminal defense attorney for X number of years, etc.  He also told us a story, one that happened a few years ago.  It was during the Fort Collins flood.  He was dressed ready to go to work when his wife told him he couldn’t leave yet, the cows were out.  It was still raining but he went out and got the cows back in.  When he was done, he was soaked and he had manure on his boots.  He had to choose between changing clothes and being late, or going to work soaked and smelly.

     He went smelly.  The guys who guard the entrance to the courthouse made fun of him and one held his nose.  Then the attorney asked if the guard knew he had been around cows.  Yes.  Could he tell how many cows he owned, based on the manure on his boots?  Well, no. 

     Then he launched into a series of questions, directing them at random jurors.  He asked me why a bar had a parking lot.  For the customers to park their cars.  I felt like a steak being tenderized before hitting frying pan or grill.  If there is a parking lot, then bar customers must be expected to drive away after having a drink or two.

     Did we think that policemen or law enforcers were more honest than ordinary people?  Well, no.  The man to whom the question was directed related an experience of being beaten by a policeman and then charged with assaulting the policeman.

      The defense’s 15 minutes was up.  The judge explained, for a second time, that at this point, each lawyer would be asked to strike three people form the 12 assembled in the jury box. the result would be the six person jury this case required.  The bailiff brought his seating chart first to the prosecutor who studied it for a moment, then made a mark. 

     The bailiff took the chart to the defense table and the attorney studied it for a moment and made his mark.  Back to the prosecutor went the bailiff, and the process was repeated four more times.  At that point, each attorney had selected his three people to be removed from the panel.  The bailiff took the seating chart to the judge and retired to his place.

      At this point, it was like the “reality” tv shows, the moment of suspense before the loser gets his notice to depart.  Only we didn’t have to sit through five minutes of commercials.  The judge asked these people to stand.  I was asked to stand, and I did.  But were I and my fellow standers the losers or the winners?

      “You are now dismissed, and all of you in the gallery.  You have completed your jury service,” the judge announced.  Sighs of relief, the sound of those seated on the hard benches rising and moving to the aisle, one or two sighs of disappointment (the young lady next to me, Little Miss Muffet, as it were, wanted to sit on the jury) filled the courtroom for a minute as we dismissed ones made for the door.

      I must admit that I had a slight bit of regret, as I would have liked to see how the thing came out.  I had studied the defendant and wondered why he would have chosen to hire a high-priced lawyer to defend him.  What was at stake if he lost the case?  Was he headed for jail?  Had he lost a job as a result of his arrest?

     He was a stocky fellow, maybe in his 20’s or 30’s, dressed in suit and tie, sporting a short haircut and neatly trimmed beard.  I figured he had been well-schooled by his attorney on proper dress and demeanor for his day in court.  I figure that, given the prosecutor’s youth and the defense attorney’s experience and manner, the defendant would probably be found not guilty, but I will probably never know the outcome.

       Since curiosity killed the cat, and the spider demonstrated that in this courtroom, anyway, presumption of innocence is not a universal right for everyone, I happily exited the courtroom.  The retired lady lawyer and I shared the elevator ride down to the main floor.  She said she had been called two or three times to serve on juries, but had never had to serve, had been dismissed in all cases.  I told her I suspected the two witness slated to testify were probably cops.  She said, “Definitely.”

      In retrospect, I think I got struck by the defense because of my stated friendship with a retired police officer.  I must write and thank Denny. 

      I thought even as I still sat in the  jury box, that I hadn’t answered question number 8, the one about acquaintance with law officers, fully.  We were good friends with the sheriff of Rawlins County, Kansas and my son-in-law is a game warden.  As it turned out, it didn’t matter.

     I walked out of the justice center and strolled through the rain to my pickup.  I was home by 11 a.m., having completed my civic duty for at least one year.  We would be able to attend “Holiday Inn” at the dinner theatre as planned without rush or bother.