Day 2, Part 2: My Day In Court

Upon being called we were told to line up in rows on the brick walkway which separates the two wings in the jury pool room. A stout bailiff then issued an edict that our cell phones were to be “Not silent…Off!”.

And at that we were off to the 3rd floor. All 15 of us.

Lugging 15 irritated people up several flights may sound like a logistical nightmare, but this bailiff had it down to a science. We were even allowed to take the stairs or the elevators.

As women old enough to be my grandmother defiantly scaled up the steep stairs, this 20-year-old chose the elevator. It was a little embarrassing, but I quickly got over it.

Somehow most of the walkers made it up there before I did, just piling onto my shame.
The bailiff then gave us another quick run-through of what we could and couldn’t do. And at that we entered the courtroom.

If I was expecting a big, Hollywood-style courtroom with vaunted ceilings being held up by gargantuan pillars, with statues of lady justice everywhere, then I would’ve been disappointed.
Fortunately I wasn’t expecting that.

The courtroom wasn’t tiny by any measure, but it was certainly cozy. I’d describe it as practical.

The jury box was to your right as you entered, and the judge’s seat was situated towards the back. A barrier separated this area, which also had two tables, from 6 rows of seats designated for viewers. The only person occupying these several empty rows was a young blonde woman protectively cradling a baby.

At the table furthest from us there sat a burr-haired, baby-faced man, looking all grown-up in a suit and tie.

At the other table sat a gray-haired, olive-skinned man in a brown suit. Sitting next to him was a man around 35 with long hair. He sat there holding his head aloft with his hands. He had the same quiet desperation in his eyes as the blonde.

“Please rise for the honorable Judge Kellough”.

Everyone stood up as a tan haired middle aged man in glasses and gown entered the room. He sat down and instructed us to do the same.

We were then given some more instructions, a running theme.

The way this process worked, 12 of us would first be selected randomly. Then we would be instructed separately by the D.A. and the Defense regarding what this trial would involve.

This part is called “Voir Dire”, because lawyers love foreign languages.

If either the Prosecutor or the Defense found that we were unfit to serve, (say, for example, we were, I don’t know, a Priest in a murder trial) then we would be “challenged for cause” and excused.

If a person was fit enough to pass this part he still wasn’t home-free. Both sides were then allowed to dismiss three jurors, with no questions asked. They could kick you off for no other reason then you looked funny.

Clearly I was in trouble.

Now, while I had to wait a whole day and a half to be called for a jury, I only had to wait 30 seconds to be called to sit. I was lucky number 7.

After all 12 of us were up there, we got more instructions. The judge then started asking us questions. They werr mostly mundane “Who are you? Where do you live?”-type stuff. As far as I can remember I got those correct.
Then it was the D.A.’s turn.

I’ll start off by saying what I found most interesting about this process was the competing strategies performed by both attorneys. Both of them, even the baby-faced D.A., clearly knew their stuff, and was more then capable of making a convincing argument.

I’m a little ashamed to admit that after hearing the D.A. speak, absent any evidence, I was confident the Defendant was guilty. Either that’s some good lawyer-ing, or I’m a sheep. Baaah….

The D.A.’s questions were mostly focused on whether or not we were biased against the system. He asked whether we had served on a jury before (some had), whether we were displeased with the verdict (some were) and whether some held resentments about previous experiences (some did).

I must say I felt a little sheltered given I was one of only a handful up there who hadn’t had some brush with criminality, either as victim or victimizer. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with being sheltered.

The questions continued on like this for awhile and I was feeling pretty secure in my spot. But then the D.A. asked a most inconvenient question: Do any of you believe marijuana should be legalized?

Homina, homina, homina...

It’s always awkward to answer yes to a question when everyone else is answering no. It’s even more so when you’re the only college student in the room, surrounded by a bunch of adults no doubt saying to themselves “It figures”.

I was fully expecting the D.A. to ask me to pack up my gear and head out. But instead he asked me if I understood that Legislators make the laws, not jurors.

“Yes”, I meekly responded.

And after a few more questions along those lines, we moved on. Phew. I guess I made it.

The first person to be dismissed for cause was a heavyset guy who I would only put at 5 years my senior. And he basically dismissed himself.

The D.A. told us the law: In Oklahoma, if you are convicted of trafficking narcotics, then you can be sentenced to life in prison without parole. Not Trafficking with Intent to Distribute, mind you, just trafficking.

So if you have a broom closet filled with enough snow to kill an elephant, but you’re just “watching it for a friend”, then you could get life.

This man thought that was too harsh. So he was dismissed.

Truth be told, I agreed with him. I thought it was too harsh a sentence and I knew I would have trouble enforcing it. But I wanted to serve on the jury, and knowing I was already walking on eggshells, I bit my lip.

I realize now that was a cowardly thing to do and I am somewhat ashamed of myself for it. I knew what I felt was the right thing to do, but I let my ambition to serve on a jury, to tell a good story, stand in the way of my judgment.

After the first man was dismissed on cause, another fellow, this one in his forties, was also dismissed for the same reason. And I sat there, feeling I should say something.

Someone else did say something, the “Bingo!” guy from earlier. He expressed his reservation out-loud, but he never quite brought himself to admitting he flat-out couldn’t commit that sentence.

I suspect everyone up there felt the same way. I know I certainly did.

It was an unspoken feeling, an insipient belief, silently coursing through all of our veins, begging us to act. Tension mounting, consciences’ cracking under the strain, there was but one source of salvation.

Lunch break!