Answering truthfully makes passing judgment difficult

Walking into the courthouse makes my heart pound unreasonably. I check my pockets for change, phone or keys, throwing them into the plastic tub proffered by the deputy waving people through the metal detector. Another deputy barks at me to move and I jump. I hope nobody watching thinks I’m a criminal, or even a traffic offender.

I am a prospective juror.

I enter the courtroom with 48 other potential jurors. Despite panic at the possibility of missing work for a month-long trial, I want to hear the case. Attempted murder topped off by a plea of “not guilty by reason of insanity” is a curious person’s paradise. I like the gritty details, the attorneys posturing like roosters in a barnyard, the judge’s facial expressions flashing from interest to boredom to frustration. I settle in, adopting my new identity as juror number 30.
Midway through the morning, the judge asks if anyone has experience with substance abuse, either personally or through a loved one. Half the occupants of the room raise their hands. The judge leads each person through a series of probing questions. She is gentle but my heart tears for these people, bound by oath and law to share intimate details in a room full of strangers.

A man in my row mumbles about his arrest for DUI a decade ago. A young lady speaks in a clear voice, slightly accented, about growing up in Columbia where drugs were part of the fabric of daily life.

Several people talk about alcoholic ex-wives, a man denigrates his addicted stepson, a woman proudly claims decades of sobriety. Suddenly this is isn’t gossipy fun anymore. It’s human wreckage, tangible pain, and we haven’t even begun the trial yet.

The next question deals with mental illness. A dozen people raise their hands, acknowledging that their lives have been touched by either their own mental illness or that of a loved one.

A petite woman talks of struggling to keep track of a perpetually homeless aunt with paranoid schizophrenia. People confess to taking medication for depression or anxiety. More than one voice quavers; people choke back tears as they speak. One by one, they are broken publicly in the name of justice.

The judge is kind in her questioning but she ends each interview with a query that is almost an admonition, “But you are able to separate your own experience from the details of this case, right?” A few people admit that they cannot set aside their pain and bias to hear the case fairly. They are dismissed.

I watch the defendant. He is wearing an oversized shirt and no necktie. His clothes look borrowed and I am briefly saddened for him, alone except for his attorney, with no one to tell him how to dress for court, battling demons only he can see.

He scribbles continuously in a notebook. The page is full of doodles: winged creatures, horned animals with sharp teeth, tornadoes.

I remember a line from child psychology class decades ago, “Heavy shading indicates anxiety.” I try not to judge his mental state before hearing the facts of the case. I can’t help it though; now that I have heard his sanity questioned, he looks crazy. He looks like a man I would cross the street to avoid.

The attorneys speak and my mood shifts to annoyance. They ask the same questions repeatedly, sometimes rhetorically and sometimes to specific jurors.

Do we agree that the defendant is innocent until proven guilty? Do we understand that the burden of proof lies with the state? Do we comprehend the concept of reasonable doubt? I shake my head; it’s late in the afternoon and I am antsy and tired of listening to them drone on. Suddenly the prosecutor bellows at me, “Juror number 30, do you disagree with me?”

“No.”

“Then why were you shaking your head?”

I blurt, “Because you just said the same thing 27 times in 27 different ways!” I cover my mouth almost before the words are out, then add, “I’m sorry. But we swore to tell the truth when we walked in today and that’s the truth.”

When the time comes for jury selection, I am dismissed. I am disappointed and relieved. I don’t know if I am wise enough to make a decision about this man’s future.

As I leave the courtroom I look over my shoulder at the defendant. He is nothing to me but a name in the newspaper.

Maybe he is a danger on my street, maybe a man capable of redemption, maybe a hopeless case. Still, I find myself hoping the people in charge of his fate will be able to balance justice and mercy, to choose the path of least damage for him and for us.