Jury Duty

I’ve been called to jury duty several times. Ride the train to downtown Dallas; catch a bus to the courthouse; walk up this long ramped sidewalk to stand in line and go through a metal detector; wait in a huge room full of people for hours at a time; read my book. Once before I was actually called to go upstairs to a jury room, but was not seated on a jury. This time I knew there was a good chance I would be chosen since mine was the fifth name called into the jury room and I was on the first row. But I was hoping not to be selected.

This time we actually spent most of the day in the jury room listening to the attorneys describe procedures, laws, etc. They asked us questions. Me first! “Ms. Gibson, what is murder?” We filled out questionnaires. We went to lunch and came back for more questions. We took a break and came back for the selection. Guess whose name was called first?! I was the first one seated in the jury box.

Back the next morning to begin the trial of a young man accused of murder. The district attorney (who had a remarkable resemblance to Nicholas Cage) and his female assistant began to call witnesses and to enter pieces of evidence. During that day and the next they presented almost twenty witnesses and over a hundred pieces of evidence. Neighbors who identified the defendant as the person fleeing after hearing gunshots; crime scene investigators; forensic experts; detectives; the father of the deceased. The story gradually unfolded: almost like watching CSI or Law and Order, but with real people.

A picture of the victim (entered into evidence) sat in front of us. A young man in a black tuxedo, perhaps dressed for a wedding or his high school graduation. He was two months younger than my son, and had been murdered at age 19 in 2004. In the course of the trial we also saw pictures from the crime scene and autopsy photos. How could I not think of Jeremiah and of this boy’s parents? It was intense. Especially when, toward the end of the second day of the trial, we went back to the jury deliberation room to decide: guilty or not guilty?

The defense attorney had not produced one witness. He’d only entered one piece of evidence: a picture of a man he said the defendant could have been mistaken for. We wondered why he had not done more. The case was discussed; questions were asked; but in the end only one verdict seemed possible: guilty. The evidence clearly pointed to the defendant. Back to the courtroom for the judge to read our verdict. We each had to raise our right hand if we agreed that the defendant was guilty. Court was adjourned until the next day when the jury would set punishment.

After the verdict was returned, the jury was allowed to know that this was not the defendant’s first offence. He had previously served seven years in another state for voluntary manslaughter with a firearm. The victim’s father testified again about the pain his family had suffered. The jury was sent to deliberate on punishment. We decided on the maximum: life in prison plus a $10,000 fine. Back to the courtroom. Again raise our right hands if we agreed. The defendant was led away. The jury went back to the deliberation room where the prosecuting attorneys met us to answer any questions. The victim’s father waited in the hall to thank each of the jury. We hugged him. It was emotional.

Out in the hall, after spending three days together in these circumstances, the jury was hesitant to go our separate ways. We felt a bond between us because the experience had been so intense. But we eventually separated. And now I feel like I’m coming back to earth after spending time on another planet.

It was a surreal experience that I hope I don’t have to repeat anytime soon. But, I am impressed with the judicial system.