Recently, I was one of 22 people sitting in an Arizona courtroom waiting to see who would be chosen for a six-person jury.
I was #3.
I got to the courthouse early on a Friday morning, arriving with all the enthusiasm you’d expect from someone who had absolutely not volunteered to be there (especially when it meant getting up early-early on that Friday morning).
When I’d found out the night before that my group number was slotted to show up, I’d entertained myself thinking of different ways to make me sound like a very unattractive juror.
And, as I sat in the waiting area with the other 21, the women holding the #1 and #2 and I all joked about what we were planning to say.
Then the questioning started. And things actually got real.
We learned this was about a DUI and saw the young defendant, along with her spiffed-up male attorney, as well as two prosecutors (one obviously more seasoned than the other). The judge exuded warmth and professionalism.
And, somewhere between answering inquiries as a group and being asked to come back to provide additional “private” answers, I actually realized I wanted to be selected. #1, #2 and I sat together waiting while others were pulled in for more detailed information, commenting that we wanted our buddies with us, if we got picked.
After #9 came out of the “interrogations”, the announcement was made: #1, #2, #3 (me!), #4, #6, #7, and #8 were the cast (one of us would eventually be an alternate).
We were all women. And, as I randomly noticed during one long waiting period in our jury room, not one of us had brown eyes. Yes, I do pick up on weird things, and yet, the other day, I couldn’t find my sunglasses (spoiler: they were on my head).
Before we were officially “the jury”, I’d stated to #1 that if we got selected, I anticipated them ordering us lunch (my stomach was already grumbling by 10 a.m. when this conversation took place), and specifically pizza.
“They don’t do that,” she told me.
But as we settled into the jury box at 11 a.m., the judge announced that we’d break in an hour, and that she’d ordered us pizza.
I side-eyed Juror #1. I’m glad I wasn’t overtly gloat-y about it though because it turns out the entire building’s vending machines were out of Coke Zero.
Actually no diet cola to be found anywhere. And they expected me to work under these conditions! But, Juror #1 pulled a Diet Coke out of her purse during our pizza extravaganza, and generously shared with me.
After rules were explained and bellies were filled, it was time to really get into the case. And time to start watching people try to convince us of things.
The junior prosecutor did all the talking for the opening and closing, and with the witnesses. She paused a lot, turning her microphone off to consult her more experienced colleague, but she was unmistakably being positioned to run with things – even when it was clear that she needed ample coaching. She even repeated questions to witnesses – one police officer gently reminded her that he’d already responded. But to her credit, she didn’t get frazzled, she just kept going.
Having mentored a lot of people in my career, I know how tempting it is to take over to do it ‘better’ or more efficiently.
But, ‘teach a junior prosecutor to fish’ is a better way to train her. It did lead me to wonder if the state felt that their proof was so airtight, even a novice couldn’t hurt things, or if it was simply that it was time to let her fly semi-solo.
Across the aisle, I was watching something completely different.
The defense attorney was confident.
Very confident.
Which was intriguing because the prosecution’s case looked strong.
I had no horse in this race. I truly wanted both sides to be good.
I was anticipating the defense countering the state’s case, to show that things weren’t as black and white as his opponents were laying out.
One of his techniques became increasingly recognizable.
“Would you agree with A…?”
(The witness would agree.)
Then he’d move the thought slightly.
“Well, ok so now would you agree with B…?”
Yes.
“Well if you agree with B, you agree with C, right?”
And, I was thinking “wait, that witness did not say C happened at all…”
One of his biggest plotlines was to slowly turn a “headache” into a “head injury” although that had not been reported. He just kept using “head injury” again and again. Ahhh the old ‘repetition’ technique – marketers definitely use it to build brand recognition and trust.
I’d made a note on my pad of paper and was glad the junior prosecutor caught it during closing arguments on rebuttal, asking us to keep in mind what had been established versus not.
There were other misdirections, and not much shown as fact from their side which was surprising.
After a day and a half, the two sides stopped talking.
And our work began.
Until then, none of us knew what the others thought about the case. We hadn’t been allowed to discuss any of it, and the ladies had been very careful about the topics we touched on during our jury-room time.
I definitely had a point of view but was very curious where the others were landing.
But first, we needed a foreperson. I did NOT volunteer. I tend to lead so much in other situations, I was looking forward to just being a participant. It was not meant to be. With the alternate sent packing, that left 5 pairs of non-brown eyes that shifted my way when we discussed who would take the role.
Fine :).
The first thing I wanted to do was to make sure we all understood the two charges (which sounded almost identical at first) and what had to be true for us to decide on each.
Next, as I did not want to bias anyone, I held my opinions and went around the table to hear where people stood. After a few questions and a look through some of the filed record. I polled the room.
We were unanimous.
Guilty on both counts.
One of the women said that while she agreed with our decision, she felt bad for the young defendant and her father, who would hear the verdict in a few minutes.
I could understand the sympathy but I was comfortable with the decision we’d reached. The prosecution had proved its case, and this story includes another human being – the woman who had been hit. She was injured. It could have been much worse. We remained in consensus.
The verdict was delivered and most of the jurors left. Juror #1 and I stayed for sentencing – I was curious about the final chapter in this story – and was rewarded by a plot twist.
The woman who was hit gave her victim-impact statement. It was heart-tugging to hear about her injuries. And jarring to hear about how the defendant’s father (who was now sitting one row in front of me) verbally accosted her when they were both at the impound lot after the incident.
As she walked back to her seat in the gallery, the father turned to her and said some rude and colorful things (loudly) under his breath. I guess the sacredness of a court of law didn’t matter to him. He must be very entertaining at church on Sundays.
And that was the moment I did feel bad for the defendant – just not about the verdict.
If this was the influence she’d grown up around, there was certainly more to her story than the decision she’d made to drink that day. It didn’t make her any less responsible for it.
I walked out of the courtroom with Juror #1, and the senior prosecutor approached us. She asked if we would provide feedback.
Not about our discussions during deliberations, not about the verdict.
But about their performance.
What had worked? What hadn’t? What could they have done differently?
I’d been conscious throughout that while I was watching them, they were watching us. I even tried to keep my face neutral (with varying degrees of success) so I wasn’t broadcasting when something landed (or sometimes didn’t).
Now, suddenly, they were asking us to tell them.
After intently observing the proceedings on Friday and Monday, I was thrilled to talk about some opportunities for growth as well as share where the newer lawyer shined. And ‘new’ she was – turns out it was her first trial!
As Juror #1 and I walked out of the building, it felt weird to know we were done. Such a short experience but so immersive it felt fairly deep. At least our little jury group didn’t disband at the bang of a gavel.
Someone started a group text.
I took one juror’s suggestions and went pumpkin picking at Mortimer Farms – sending a message to the ladies with a picture of the property’s signage.
“Guess where I am? I suppose the evidence speaks for itself.” (yes, I am a nerd).
But they wrote back, and I was reminded to try the roast beef sandwich.
And about 10 days after we performed our civic duty, I went to vote.
I was working my way through my ballot when I saw a familiar name.
Our judge.
She ran her courtroom well. She seemed to care about the people in it. Plus she bought us pizza (ok that had zero influence on my decision – frankly the pie wasn’t great – I’m spoiled by Ranalli’s back in Chicago). But there was something satisfying about being asked whether she should keep her job when I’d actually had the opportunity to see her do it.
Almost two weeks ago, I had walked into the courthouse because the government told me it was required.
Within the next ten days, I’d voted to keep our judge, met 6 strangers who were now part of my group chat, driven an hour and a half on their recommendation, watched pig races and became the new owner of some apple butter and three tiny pumpkins.
Jury duty really has a strange benefits package.