How can you find innocent a man caught just five minutes after an armed robbery who fits the description provided by witnesses, has in his possession the weapon and money, and is identified by one of his victims?
You can’t.
After we all filed back into the deliberation room we sat in silence. We had been instructed not to begin discussing the trial until the bailiff had an opportunity to bring all the evidence back to our room. The rules of a courtroom are very strict and taken quite seriously. As the bailiff came in to drop off the evidence he warned us not to say a word until he had left the room and closed the door.
“If you need anything,” he explained, “there’s a notepad right here on the wall next to the door. The foreman needs to write your request on a single sheet of paper, knock on the door, and wait for me to come in and take the sheet to the judge. Please do not include any names of jurors on the sheet. Rather, identify yourselves by your juror number only.”
The evidence consisted of the gun (the rounds were kept in the courtroom as we were not allowed to have both the gun and the rounds with us at the same time), the defendant’s clothing, stacks of photographs, poster-sized maps showing the area of the robbery and attempted get-away, and a video. The video was from the dashboard camera of the police officers who pulled the gray truck over.
“I’d like to see the video one more time,” requested the woman next to me. She was a newly retired teacher from the same district I teach in as well as a former English-as-a-Second-Language teacher of our oldest son. “Could you ask the judge to send in the DVD player so we can see the video again.”
There was a silence. Everyone was thinking the same thing but only Bill spoke up.
“Why?”
“I just think a man’s life is at stake here and we should make sure we are going to make the right decision,” she explained.
“What are you hoping to see in the video that you don’t already know?” asked Marcus.
She had no answer. I think, like many of us, she felt that coming right back in after only a minute and a half would make it seem as though we hadn’t really kept an open mind about anything. She felt we needed to be thorough and discuss this in earnest.
The foreman, another teacher from my district, ripped off a half sheet of paper, scribbled out the request, and knocked on the door. Within seconds the bailiff entered, took the sheet, and began shaking his head.
“No, no, no,” he said. “This won’t do. You need to write it on a FULL sheet of paper.”
We all laughed. He did not.
So the foreman went about getting a full sheet of paper and rewriting the request for the DVD player while we all sat and discussed what difference a full sheet of paper could possibly make. We were confused but certainly not surprised. Over the past few days we had come to learn that there is a rule or procedure for everything that happens in the courtroom - from the defense attorney beginning every cross examination with “As it pleases the court, Your Honor” to the order in which the attorneys were allowed to ask their questions.
A few minutes later a woman came into the room with a laptop. She opened up Windows Media Player and warned us not to watch any other videos on the DVD. As curious as we may have been, the sun was sinking lower in the sky and we were anxious to get this thing over with.
We all huddled around the small screen and squinted as the video played. The defendant had stated he was picked up by the truck just a block before it was pulled over and we were looking to see if the truck did in fact come to a rolling stop to pick someone up. The problem was that the police car was a block and a half behind the truck and it was awfully hard to see with any detail. I don’t think anyone saw whether or not the truck’s brake lights came on but we were all content to believe we had. It didn’t matter because the defendant’s story of what happened after he was picked up involved him doing about five minutes worth of work and talking in the time it took the truck to travel half a block, pull into a parking lot, and get trapped in by police cars. Nothing of his story added up or even made sense.
I was excited because after four long days we were finally getting ready to return to our lives. I was excited because I knew there was no doubt that we were getting ready to make the right decision. Assuming we were ready to take our one and only vote, I began packing up my few belongings. That’s when I heard…
“I think we’re all certain he’s guilty of armed robbery but if you’re going to try to stick these three counts of kidnapping on him we’re all in for a LONG night.”
It was Bill. For about the hundredth time over the past four days there was an awkward silence in the room. This time, however, the silence was different. There were looks of befuddlement all around the table and a quickly growing sense of tension.
“I mean he robbed that restaurant,” said Bill. “But to add three counts of kidnapping just seems like we’re trying to pile it on him.”
As relatively quiet as I had been up to this point I could no longer contain myself.
“Piling on has nothing to do with it,” I argued. “Our job is to decide if he’s guilty of the charges brought against him.”
“We’ve already got him for armed robbery,” he said. “What’s the point of adding these other charges? I mean, I’m probably the most conservative person in this room but this wasn’t kidnapping. I think we oughta convict him of the robbery and leave the rest be.”
The room erupted. I sat and listened as he argued back and forth with a number of the other jurors. His mind was set.
“They didn’t even spend any time proving kidnapping," he argued.
“They did,” I said, probably a bit too loudly. “The prosecutor explained that kidnapping is not just taking someone but also confining them by force or threat of harm to commit a subsequent crime. That is exactly what this guy did.”
“I just don’t by it,” he said. “She spent zero time proving it.”
I was beside myself.
“Every single victim,” I argued, “All four victims, they were all asked ‘Did you feel free to leave the restaurant at any time’ and they all answered ‘No.’ What other evidence do you need? That’s confinement.”
“I don’t buy it,” he said again. “They were only in there a few minutes. That’s not kidnapping.”
“But time doesn’t matter,” I said. “The judge and prosecution both explained that confinement begins the very moment that the victim’s freedom to leave is taken from them and ends only when that freedom is restored. There’s no time limit, no magical line in the sand. Confinement is confinement.”
“I just don’t buy it.”
It was dead silent. We couldn’t even begin to imagine what we were going to do. The law was clear, the defendant had clearly broken it, and this guy was going to sit there and say “I don’t buy it” all night long.
The foreman decided that perhaps we should take a vote. I supposed that he was hoping that the pressure of being the only one to raise his hand for an innocent verdict on kidnapping would help loosen Bill up a bit. On the count of armed robbery we all raised our hands for a guilty verdict. Then the three counts of kidnapping were read separately. For the first count of kidnapping Bill was the only person to vote innocent. But on the other two another juror joined his ranks. Tempers flared.
“Why did you vote guilty on one but innocent on two others?” asked Marcus.
Juror number 56 looked up and said “Well…I think maybe since he held a gun to the one guy and forced him to put the money in the bag that was kidnapping. But the others were kind of off to the side so we could just find him guilty of one count.“ She looked over at Bill. “Doesn’t that make sense?”
I was furious. She was trying to cut a deal.
“No,” I said. “You can’t do that. He can’t be guilty of one count of kidnapping but not the others. All three victims were confined in that restaurant by gunpoint. None of them could leave.”
“How do you know that?” asked Bill. “How do you know they couldn’t leave? He never said that to them.”
“Really?” I asked. “Armed men now have to vocally tell their victims that they can’t leave in order to prove their wrongdoing? Someone sticks a gun in my face I think it’s implied I can’t leave.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “It just doesn’t seem like kidnapping to me.”
There was yet another long silence in the room. No one knew what to say. No one knew how to fix this. What seemed an hour ago to be the easiest verdict in the world had now become a stalemate that threatened to keep us there late into the night and possibly even into the next day.
Then it occurred to me that maybe Bill felt cornered. Maybe a small piece of him might consider changing his mind but that all the yelling that had taken place up to this point had left him feeling cornered and too proud to back down. Speaking into the silence, I tried a calmer approach.
“I understand your problem with this,” I said to him. “The very first thing I wrote on my notepad Tuesday as ‘What does kidnapping have to do with this case?’. I’ve always thought of kidnapping as someone abducting a person, usually a kid or a woman, and taking them off to another place. I was really surprised to hear that in South Carolina confinement counts as kidnapping. And I’m not 100% sure I agree with it, to tell you the truth. However, that’s the way the law is written and our job isn’t to interpret the law but to read the law and determine if the defendant has broken it. Broken it as it’s written. I think it’s clear he has, even it what he did doesn’t fit the definition you and I, and probably most of us here, had for kidnapping.”
He sat and thought. More silence.
“Yeah, well…” he said. “I can see where he confined them with a gun but I just don’t believe that’s kidnapping.”
“But that’s not our job here,” said another juror. “We just need to follow the laws that are in the books, the way they’ve been written.”
“I guess you’re right,” he said. “I just don’t like it.”
We took another vote and he begrudgingly raised his hand for a guilty verdict on all counts. Everyone remained quiet as the foreman filled out the indictments and signed his name.
“Well look it this way,” I finally said to Bill. “You won’t have to come back for at least another three years.”
“Oh no, “ he said, “I’m turning 65 so this is my last time in a courtroom.”
“Unless you come back as a defendant,” joked Marcus.
“Ha,” laughed Bill. “If I do I hope you bunch aren’t my jury. You’ll hang me for sure!”
Epilogue
After the verdicts were read the defense attorney requested that the judge poll the jury. We each had our number called out and had to tell the court that we did, in fact, agree with the verdicts and had not changed our minds. Bill stayed firm with a “Yes, your honor.” In a rare moment of bold behavior, I looked over at the defendant and exclaimed “Absolutely I do.”
We were invited by the judge to come back around to the gallery after our dismissal from the courtroom so that we could see the sentencing. He was of the experience that this helped to provide a sense of closure for juries. Eight of us took him up on this offer but four others felt uncomfortable seeing a man sentenced to prison based on a decision we had made for him. Even if that decision was the correct one.
Sitting in the gallery we learned that Mr. Broadnax had a long history of gun related crimes that dated back to 1979. He had spent more time in prison over the past two decades than he had outside of them. The prosecution told the judge the defendant currently had four other armed robbery indictments pending in her office. He was a bad guy.
The judge had no choice as to the sentence. Life in prison without parole. Christopher Broadnax had finally run out of strikes.
The next morning I received an e-mail from the jury foreman asking me what the sentence was. He was curious to know but couldn’t bring himself to sit in the courtroom and watch it happen. He feared he was already going to have enough problems getting to sleep that night.
I told him of the long rap sheet, the pending indictments, and the strong sentence. His e-mail back was short and simple. It simply read “Thanks.” There was no more reason to discuss, or even think about, all we had heard.
It’s sad what people in this world will do for $211.47.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Law and Order - Part Three
It only takes one. One bobblehead to spoil an otherwise good group of jurors. One pompous know-it-all that makes you cringe each time the judge sends you back to the deliberation room so that he can meet with the lawyers. Just one.
And we had him.
The bobblehead's name was Marcus. Marcus looked every bit like actor Mark Walhberg if Mark Wahlberg were ever to shave his head completely bald, wear an oversized gold watch, and sport brightly colored Polo shirts. Marcus was a car salesman. It killed him, or so he stated a hundred times over the three days we were together, that he was away from the car lot.
"In sales you gotta be there to make any money!" he stated.
He was sure to let us know that after the first day alone he had more than forty phone messages on his cell phone. I wasn't aware that cell phones were quite so important to car sales.
"I called in last night and they've got three guys running all around trying to do what I normally do in a day," he boasted.
It was becoming more and more apparent, what with the phone calls and extra staff, that Marcus was the glue that held this dealership together.
But Marcus wasn't a slave to his trade. No, he liked to party and was sure to let us know all about it. Most mornings he came into the deliberation room (late, of course) and set his head down on the table. Someone would ask, "Are you alright Marcus?"
"Yeah," he'd respond. "I'm just beat. I just went to bed a few hours ago."
"Wow, that's a late night," someone would respond. I was never quite sure if they were just being nice and making small talk or if somehow Marcus was the "cool" guy they wanted to befriend. I kept my nose in a book as much as I could.
"We were all over the place last night," he explained. "It wasn't me, though. My girlfriend was dragging me around."
There were times when our courtroom schedule really cramped his plans: "I gotta get out of here. There's a new restaurant I have to try out tonight."
Any momentary silence in the room was an opportunity for him to think out loud, thus inviting others to pull him into a conversation so that he could enlighten us with yet more details about his life.
"I need to find a paper and see what time my buddy is teeing off at the US Open," he said to no one in particular.
After a few awkward seconds of silence there is a taker.
"Oh, you know Dustin Johnson?"
"Yeah, I used to party with him up at Coastal."
"Do you play golf?"
"Yeah. I played all four years in high school and had some big scholarship offers but I decided not to take them," answers Marcus.
I want to ask him how that worked out for him but, instead, I bite my tongue.
Our final day of hearings included a lot of downtime in the deliberation room while we waited for a police officer to come back to the courthouse for some follow-up questioning. We sat and sat and sat with little to do. By this point all small talk had been exhausted and we wanted this to be over. After about ten minutes of silence, of which he rested his partied-out head, Marcus shot up like rocket. Asking someone for a piece of paper, he proceeded to make a paper football.
"I'm really good at making these," he said. "I didn't pay too much attention in class when I was in high school but I could sure make a tight paper football."
I smirk and wonder if anyone saw me.
Once he finished the football the old mustached guy next to him jumped into action.
"I haven't played this in years but I'll give it a shot," he said. He got up out of his chair and moved around the table so that he could sit across from Marcus. Two other people had to stop reading their books to slide over and make room for him.
It took only a few moments to realize that Marcus was quite the expert at this game. He consistently flicked field goals right down the middle while the old guy, Bill, shanked them left and right.
"I used to never lose," bragged Marcus. "We played all the time in detention. I was in there all the time!"
I feigned a look of shock.
Marcus, at best, was a character who made this adventure a little more interesting. I'm not saying I enjoyed him but, in retrospect, he added a little flavor to what was, at times, a mind-numbing experience filled with sitting and waiting.
I would have expected that if anyone was going to provide some fireworks during our final deliberations it would have been him. I wouldn't have been surprised to see him take this final opportunity to grab just a little more stage before our final farewell. But he didn't. In the end Marcus was ready to go quietly. So, as fate would have it, someone else stepped up to take his place. Someone we would grow to disdain much more than a young, pompous car salesman.
It was Bill and he would prove to have, in addition to the mustache, quite a willingness to stand alone against us all.
And we had him.
The bobblehead's name was Marcus. Marcus looked every bit like actor Mark Walhberg if Mark Wahlberg were ever to shave his head completely bald, wear an oversized gold watch, and sport brightly colored Polo shirts. Marcus was a car salesman. It killed him, or so he stated a hundred times over the three days we were together, that he was away from the car lot.
"In sales you gotta be there to make any money!" he stated.
He was sure to let us know that after the first day alone he had more than forty phone messages on his cell phone. I wasn't aware that cell phones were quite so important to car sales.
"I called in last night and they've got three guys running all around trying to do what I normally do in a day," he boasted.
It was becoming more and more apparent, what with the phone calls and extra staff, that Marcus was the glue that held this dealership together.
But Marcus wasn't a slave to his trade. No, he liked to party and was sure to let us know all about it. Most mornings he came into the deliberation room (late, of course) and set his head down on the table. Someone would ask, "Are you alright Marcus?"
"Yeah," he'd respond. "I'm just beat. I just went to bed a few hours ago."
"Wow, that's a late night," someone would respond. I was never quite sure if they were just being nice and making small talk or if somehow Marcus was the "cool" guy they wanted to befriend. I kept my nose in a book as much as I could.
"We were all over the place last night," he explained. "It wasn't me, though. My girlfriend was dragging me around."
There were times when our courtroom schedule really cramped his plans: "I gotta get out of here. There's a new restaurant I have to try out tonight."
Any momentary silence in the room was an opportunity for him to think out loud, thus inviting others to pull him into a conversation so that he could enlighten us with yet more details about his life.
"I need to find a paper and see what time my buddy is teeing off at the US Open," he said to no one in particular.
After a few awkward seconds of silence there is a taker.
"Oh, you know Dustin Johnson?"
"Yeah, I used to party with him up at Coastal."
"Do you play golf?"
"Yeah. I played all four years in high school and had some big scholarship offers but I decided not to take them," answers Marcus.
I want to ask him how that worked out for him but, instead, I bite my tongue.
Our final day of hearings included a lot of downtime in the deliberation room while we waited for a police officer to come back to the courthouse for some follow-up questioning. We sat and sat and sat with little to do. By this point all small talk had been exhausted and we wanted this to be over. After about ten minutes of silence, of which he rested his partied-out head, Marcus shot up like rocket. Asking someone for a piece of paper, he proceeded to make a paper football.
"I'm really good at making these," he said. "I didn't pay too much attention in class when I was in high school but I could sure make a tight paper football."
I smirk and wonder if anyone saw me.
Once he finished the football the old mustached guy next to him jumped into action.
"I haven't played this in years but I'll give it a shot," he said. He got up out of his chair and moved around the table so that he could sit across from Marcus. Two other people had to stop reading their books to slide over and make room for him.
It took only a few moments to realize that Marcus was quite the expert at this game. He consistently flicked field goals right down the middle while the old guy, Bill, shanked them left and right.
"I used to never lose," bragged Marcus. "We played all the time in detention. I was in there all the time!"
I feigned a look of shock.
Marcus, at best, was a character who made this adventure a little more interesting. I'm not saying I enjoyed him but, in retrospect, he added a little flavor to what was, at times, a mind-numbing experience filled with sitting and waiting.
I would have expected that if anyone was going to provide some fireworks during our final deliberations it would have been him. I wouldn't have been surprised to see him take this final opportunity to grab just a little more stage before our final farewell. But he didn't. In the end Marcus was ready to go quietly. So, as fate would have it, someone else stepped up to take his place. Someone we would grow to disdain much more than a young, pompous car salesman.
It was Bill and he would prove to have, in addition to the mustache, quite a willingness to stand alone against us all.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Law and Order - Part Two
Trials are boring. Seldom to be found are the anxious television moments where a witness sits on the stand crying or yelling or, really, showing any emotion what-so-ever. Instead, trials consist of many witnesses coming up and telling pretty much the same story you’ve already heard a handful of times from the others.
Prosecution: Can you tell the court where you are currently employed?
Witness: Church’s Chicken.
Prosecution: And is this where you were employed on May 24th of 2009?
Witness: Yes.
Prosecution: What are your duties at Church’s Chicken?
Witness: I cook chicken and wait on customers.
Prosecution: Which were you doing on May 24th of 2009?
Witness: Waiting on customers.
Prosecution: And which shift were you working that night?
Witness: The second shift.
Prosecution: And what hours are those?
Witness: I start at 4:30 and get off at 10:00.
Prosecution: Can you tell us where you were, in Church’s, when Christopher Broadnax walked in…
Defense: (standing) Objection, your honor.
Judge: Sustained.
Prosecution: Can you tell us where you were, in the Church’s, when the robber came in?
Witness: I was sitting in the lobby with Danny and Gracious.
Prosecution: (Goes through a stack of photos that are in no particular order and lying in a big messy stack on the table in front of the witness stand) What do you see in this photo?
Witness: The lobby in Church’s Chicken.
Prosecution: And is this how the lobby would have looked on the afternoon of May 24th, 2009?
Witness: Yes.
Prosecution: Can you point to where you were sitting when the robber came in?
Witness: (pointing to photo) Right there, near the small wall separating the registers from the lobby.
Prosecution: Can you walk us through what happened?
Slowly and meticulously the questions kept coming and coming. There were four people, all employees,
in Church’s Chicken on the intersection of Taylor Street and Two Notch Road the night it was robbed at gunpoint. Each of the four employees came up to the stand and answered, for the most part, the exact same questions. A man came in around 5:30 wearing a black, white, and green striped shirt. He pulled a gun and forced one of the employees to empty the registers into a plastic grocery bag. Although wearing a mask, they all noticed that he had a lazy eye. After he had the money from the registers he calmly said “Have a great night” and cooly walked out the door.
As soon as he made his way around the side of the building one of the employees ran out the door to follow him. As he made his way to the back of the building he saw an old gray pick-up truck start its engine. The driver looked directly at him and pulled away. The employee then ran back to the front of the store where one of the other employees was already on the phone with 911. He passed along the description of the truck and which way it headed.
Within three minutes the police were at Church’s. Just a few minutes later they had already pulled over a gray truck on Two Notch Road fitting the description that had been put out on the radio. The employee who had chased the robber around the building was escorted to the scene and immediately stuck his finger out the window saying “That’s the driver and that’s the guy who robbed us!”
Before he had been escorted to the truck the police had pulled it over and found a man in the passenger side floor board hiding. He was wearing a striped shirt, had a lazy eye, and was sitting on a bag containing a gun, a mask, and an assortment of bills.
The first thing they tell you when you begin jury duty is that you need to keep an open mind and listen to all the facts of the case. The defendant is innocent until proven guilty and it is the burden of the prosecution to prove this guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. The defense has no obligation to prove anything.
Well, they didn’t. I spent three days wondering what in the world we were doing in that courtroom. The defense spent three days pointing out there were no fingerprints taken from the scene and no DNA samples taken from the gun, mask, or money. They tried to imply that the driver of the truck had committed the robbery and that the defendant had been picked up from the roadside, after having just bought some crack cocaine, before the police pulled them over. The crack cocaine, they argued, was why he was hidden in the floorboard. He was supposedly trying to chew it all down before being caught with it.
Yeah, except that the shirt, the lazy eye, and the bag were all awfully hard to look past. While the trial seemed to drag on forever I was certain that our deliberations would be fast and easy.
I was wrong.
Prosecution: Can you tell the court where you are currently employed?
Witness: Church’s Chicken.
Prosecution: And is this where you were employed on May 24th of 2009?
Witness: Yes.
Prosecution: What are your duties at Church’s Chicken?
Witness: I cook chicken and wait on customers.
Prosecution: Which were you doing on May 24th of 2009?
Witness: Waiting on customers.
Prosecution: And which shift were you working that night?
Witness: The second shift.
Prosecution: And what hours are those?
Witness: I start at 4:30 and get off at 10:00.
Prosecution: Can you tell us where you were, in Church’s, when Christopher Broadnax walked in…
Defense: (standing) Objection, your honor.
Judge: Sustained.
Prosecution: Can you tell us where you were, in the Church’s, when the robber came in?
Witness: I was sitting in the lobby with Danny and Gracious.
Prosecution: (Goes through a stack of photos that are in no particular order and lying in a big messy stack on the table in front of the witness stand) What do you see in this photo?
Witness: The lobby in Church’s Chicken.
Prosecution: And is this how the lobby would have looked on the afternoon of May 24th, 2009?
Witness: Yes.
Prosecution: Can you point to where you were sitting when the robber came in?
Witness: (pointing to photo) Right there, near the small wall separating the registers from the lobby.
Prosecution: Can you walk us through what happened?
Slowly and meticulously the questions kept coming and coming. There were four people, all employees,
in Church’s Chicken on the intersection of Taylor Street and Two Notch Road the night it was robbed at gunpoint. Each of the four employees came up to the stand and answered, for the most part, the exact same questions. A man came in around 5:30 wearing a black, white, and green striped shirt. He pulled a gun and forced one of the employees to empty the registers into a plastic grocery bag. Although wearing a mask, they all noticed that he had a lazy eye. After he had the money from the registers he calmly said “Have a great night” and cooly walked out the door.
As soon as he made his way around the side of the building one of the employees ran out the door to follow him. As he made his way to the back of the building he saw an old gray pick-up truck start its engine. The driver looked directly at him and pulled away. The employee then ran back to the front of the store where one of the other employees was already on the phone with 911. He passed along the description of the truck and which way it headed.
Within three minutes the police were at Church’s. Just a few minutes later they had already pulled over a gray truck on Two Notch Road fitting the description that had been put out on the radio. The employee who had chased the robber around the building was escorted to the scene and immediately stuck his finger out the window saying “That’s the driver and that’s the guy who robbed us!”
Before he had been escorted to the truck the police had pulled it over and found a man in the passenger side floor board hiding. He was wearing a striped shirt, had a lazy eye, and was sitting on a bag containing a gun, a mask, and an assortment of bills.
The first thing they tell you when you begin jury duty is that you need to keep an open mind and listen to all the facts of the case. The defendant is innocent until proven guilty and it is the burden of the prosecution to prove this guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. The defense has no obligation to prove anything.
Well, they didn’t. I spent three days wondering what in the world we were doing in that courtroom. The defense spent three days pointing out there were no fingerprints taken from the scene and no DNA samples taken from the gun, mask, or money. They tried to imply that the driver of the truck had committed the robbery and that the defendant had been picked up from the roadside, after having just bought some crack cocaine, before the police pulled them over. The crack cocaine, they argued, was why he was hidden in the floorboard. He was supposedly trying to chew it all down before being caught with it.
Yeah, except that the shirt, the lazy eye, and the bag were all awfully hard to look past. While the trial seemed to drag on forever I was certain that our deliberations would be fast and easy.
I was wrong.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Law and Order - Part One
Some guys have all the luck.
Take me for instance. I recently turned thirty-six years old. In the days leading up to my birthday, I received a few cards and e-mails. Some were from friends and family while others were from the likes of our insurance agent and our financial adviser in St. Louis. The one we haven’t seen in four years and only met once.
There were gifts, too. My mom bought me a pair of black Crocs to use as camp shoes on camping and backpacking trips. Tricia bought me a backpacking stove. The Jetboil, as it’s called, can boil a liter of water in just over two minutes while weighing in at less than a pound. Tricia’s parents sent me some money which I used to get a rain cover for my backpack.
But my biggest gift came from Richland County. I really wasn’t even expecting anything from them. They hadn’t sent me anything last year. But lo and behold, there it was sitting in the mailbox.
A summons to report for jury duty.
Some people go their whole lives without being called for jury duty. I, on the other hand, have been called five times.
Being called for jury duty does not mean you will necessarily sit on a jury. In fact, chances are you won’t. What happens is you are assigned a juror number and then sit in a big room with all the other potential jurors. Every so often a lady comes to the front of the room and reads out thirty or forty juror numbers. If you don’t hear your number you just keep on sitting. Some people read books or magazines. Most, however, play with their phones. Others, still, shift around uncomfortably in their chairs and stare at the clock.
By the end of the first or second day, if your number does not get called, you are generally sent home with instructions to call back at certain intervals to see if you need to come back in. In essence, you’re free.
But if your number is called you then get up and follow a bailiff to a courtroom. Go home or file into a courtroom. Guess how my week worked out.
That’s right, I was called to a courtroom. This was a gift that promised to keep on giving.
When I first entered the courtroom I was instructed to walk down to the end of the second bench in the gallery. There were a number of people already in the courtroom with their heads turned to watch us come in. As I sat down I looked around the courtroom trying to figure out who was who. The judge was obvious but the others were not.
It’s safe to say, at this point, that most of what I believe to be true about our justice system and courtrooms themselves has come from years of watching Law & Order as well as a number of court related movies. Courtrooms, for me, are places where red-faced witnesses shout out lines such as “You want the truth? You want the truth? You can’t handle the truth!” They are magical places where handsome attorneys such as Kevin Costner craft long speeches and deliver them with an abundance of grace and power.
It makes sense, doesn’t it? Many people have never been in a court of law yet know what one looks like. We read about them in books or watch those investigative television shows that document tantalizing cases. Whether these are fully accurate pictures we are receiving, being that they come from either the mind of a writer or a small sampling offered by a television network, makes little difference. We, at least, get the gist.
Once we were all in and seated the first thing the judge did was welcome us and thank us for our time. He reminded us how important it was that we all showed up even if we never wound up serving on an actual jury. It was our presence, he assured us, that often times led to plea bargains and settlements. The next thing he told us was that out of our group of potential jurors, totaling around thirty-five, the court would select twelve jurors and two alternates to serve on this trial.
Please be a civil case! Please be a civil case! kept running through my head.
“This is a criminal case,” said the judge, almost as though he were reading my mind. “There are four indictments. The defendant is charged with armed robbery and three counts of kidnapping.”
I may have audibly cursed at this point.
Still, there were more than thirty potential jurors in the courtroom and they were only going to keep fourteen. My odds of winding up on this jury were maybe one in three. While not a longshot, the odds were definitely in my favor.
But then the judge started weeding us out.
“Stand up if you know anyone sitting here at any of the tables in front of me.”
Two people stand.
“Stand up if a close family member has ever been accused or convicted of a major crime.”
Seven people stand.
“Stand up if you or a family member has ever been the victim of a violent crime.”
Eight more.
At this point I’m almost sure people are just making stuff up. Somewhere in the back of my mind I’m going through the more questionable members of my own family and wondering how in the world they managed to avoid significant jail time.
Suddenly the odds didn’t seem to be in my favor any longer.
The judge proceeded to call out juror numbers. If your number was called you were to walk to the microphone in front of the courtroom, state your name, and declare your occupation. Afterward, the prosecution would have an opportunity to give you a “yes” or dismiss you back to the gallery. If they approved of you then the defense attorneys would do the same. Each juror called would stand up there in front of us all listening for either “Dismiss this juror” or the dreaded “Please seat this juror.” Not surprisingly, each juror who stood for any reason during the judge’s questioning was dismissed. My palms were sweating. I didn’t mind doing jury duty so much but I definitely didn’t want any part of a trial dealing with armed robbery and kidnapping.
Yet, after only ten numbers or so I heard the judge call out “Juror 121.” That, of course, was me. I walked up to the front of the courtroom, leaned into the microphone, and stated my name. Here was my chance. I considered, for my profession, stating exotic dancer. I figured that even if it didn’t get me off this case it would at least elicit a laugh or two from the other jurors. The judge, though, I wasn’t so sure about. I didn’t want to end up in a cell of my own.
So I truthfully answered “teacher” and looked up at the attorneys. If selected I would have to sit and hear the disturbing details of a crime involving a gun and kidnapping. If selected I was going to have to decide whether someone went to prison. I offered the best puppy dog eyes I could muster. The prosecution gave me a yes. I looked over at the defense table hoping for a miracle. Hoping for a true birthday gift. Instead, he looked me squarely in the eyes and called out “Please seat this juror.”
Take me for instance. I recently turned thirty-six years old. In the days leading up to my birthday, I received a few cards and e-mails. Some were from friends and family while others were from the likes of our insurance agent and our financial adviser in St. Louis. The one we haven’t seen in four years and only met once.
There were gifts, too. My mom bought me a pair of black Crocs to use as camp shoes on camping and backpacking trips. Tricia bought me a backpacking stove. The Jetboil, as it’s called, can boil a liter of water in just over two minutes while weighing in at less than a pound. Tricia’s parents sent me some money which I used to get a rain cover for my backpack.
But my biggest gift came from Richland County. I really wasn’t even expecting anything from them. They hadn’t sent me anything last year. But lo and behold, there it was sitting in the mailbox.
A summons to report for jury duty.
Some people go their whole lives without being called for jury duty. I, on the other hand, have been called five times.
Being called for jury duty does not mean you will necessarily sit on a jury. In fact, chances are you won’t. What happens is you are assigned a juror number and then sit in a big room with all the other potential jurors. Every so often a lady comes to the front of the room and reads out thirty or forty juror numbers. If you don’t hear your number you just keep on sitting. Some people read books or magazines. Most, however, play with their phones. Others, still, shift around uncomfortably in their chairs and stare at the clock.
By the end of the first or second day, if your number does not get called, you are generally sent home with instructions to call back at certain intervals to see if you need to come back in. In essence, you’re free.
But if your number is called you then get up and follow a bailiff to a courtroom. Go home or file into a courtroom. Guess how my week worked out.
That’s right, I was called to a courtroom. This was a gift that promised to keep on giving.
When I first entered the courtroom I was instructed to walk down to the end of the second bench in the gallery. There were a number of people already in the courtroom with their heads turned to watch us come in. As I sat down I looked around the courtroom trying to figure out who was who. The judge was obvious but the others were not.
It’s safe to say, at this point, that most of what I believe to be true about our justice system and courtrooms themselves has come from years of watching Law & Order as well as a number of court related movies. Courtrooms, for me, are places where red-faced witnesses shout out lines such as “You want the truth? You want the truth? You can’t handle the truth!” They are magical places where handsome attorneys such as Kevin Costner craft long speeches and deliver them with an abundance of grace and power.
It makes sense, doesn’t it? Many people have never been in a court of law yet know what one looks like. We read about them in books or watch those investigative television shows that document tantalizing cases. Whether these are fully accurate pictures we are receiving, being that they come from either the mind of a writer or a small sampling offered by a television network, makes little difference. We, at least, get the gist.
Once we were all in and seated the first thing the judge did was welcome us and thank us for our time. He reminded us how important it was that we all showed up even if we never wound up serving on an actual jury. It was our presence, he assured us, that often times led to plea bargains and settlements. The next thing he told us was that out of our group of potential jurors, totaling around thirty-five, the court would select twelve jurors and two alternates to serve on this trial.
Please be a civil case! Please be a civil case! kept running through my head.
“This is a criminal case,” said the judge, almost as though he were reading my mind. “There are four indictments. The defendant is charged with armed robbery and three counts of kidnapping.”
I may have audibly cursed at this point.
Still, there were more than thirty potential jurors in the courtroom and they were only going to keep fourteen. My odds of winding up on this jury were maybe one in three. While not a longshot, the odds were definitely in my favor.
But then the judge started weeding us out.
“Stand up if you know anyone sitting here at any of the tables in front of me.”
Two people stand.
“Stand up if a close family member has ever been accused or convicted of a major crime.”
Seven people stand.
“Stand up if you or a family member has ever been the victim of a violent crime.”
Eight more.
At this point I’m almost sure people are just making stuff up. Somewhere in the back of my mind I’m going through the more questionable members of my own family and wondering how in the world they managed to avoid significant jail time.
Suddenly the odds didn’t seem to be in my favor any longer.
The judge proceeded to call out juror numbers. If your number was called you were to walk to the microphone in front of the courtroom, state your name, and declare your occupation. Afterward, the prosecution would have an opportunity to give you a “yes” or dismiss you back to the gallery. If they approved of you then the defense attorneys would do the same. Each juror called would stand up there in front of us all listening for either “Dismiss this juror” or the dreaded “Please seat this juror.” Not surprisingly, each juror who stood for any reason during the judge’s questioning was dismissed. My palms were sweating. I didn’t mind doing jury duty so much but I definitely didn’t want any part of a trial dealing with armed robbery and kidnapping.
Yet, after only ten numbers or so I heard the judge call out “Juror 121.” That, of course, was me. I walked up to the front of the courtroom, leaned into the microphone, and stated my name. Here was my chance. I considered, for my profession, stating exotic dancer. I figured that even if it didn’t get me off this case it would at least elicit a laugh or two from the other jurors. The judge, though, I wasn’t so sure about. I didn’t want to end up in a cell of my own.
So I truthfully answered “teacher” and looked up at the attorneys. If selected I would have to sit and hear the disturbing details of a crime involving a gun and kidnapping. If selected I was going to have to decide whether someone went to prison. I offered the best puppy dog eyes I could muster. The prosecution gave me a yes. I looked over at the defense table hoping for a miracle. Hoping for a true birthday gift. Instead, he looked me squarely in the eyes and called out “Please seat this juror.”
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
What's in a Name?
We recently made a trip up to Devil’s Fork State Park for some camping and kayaking. Like nearly all our trips out of town we headed up Interstate 26 for about three hours. When we chose to move to Columbia one of things that drew us to the area was that it was centrally located – just a few hours to the beach or a few hours to the mountains. We now find that while there are many things to love about Columbia one of the problems is that it is a few hours to the beach and a few hours to the mountains. While the distances have remained the same, our perspectives have changed.
The kids pass the time on the road in a variety of ways. They enjoy listening to their i-pods, drawing, writing stories, or making up games. This past trip they decided to keep a tally of the different license plates they saw along the interstate. There were a collection of plates from Kentucky, Tennessee, Florida, and Georgia. There was even one all the way from Wisconsin.
I pass the time differently. I find that I break up the monotony of the road by reading all the signs along the way. When we lived in Missouri there were highway signs littering most of the roadways. You couldn’t go more than a half a mile before you’d be bombarded by a series of over-sized advertisements. It seems by the sheer number of billboards advertising them that every rural Missouri town must have built their economy, in part, on the sale of walnut bowls and antiques.
South Carolina is a bit different. Better really. There are not nearly so many signs. In fact, you can go for tens of miles and see nothing but the interstate and an endless stream of tall green pine trees. So in place of the missing billboards I find myself reading the exit signs instead. Every few miles you find the names of the nearby towns that are hidden behind the curtain of trees lining the roadway.
My favorite town name in Missouri was Knob Lick. You could barely say it without some juvenile snickering. I always wondered if the people there were embarrassed to live in a town with such a ridiculous name. Knob Lick. How does a name like that even come to exist?
I once played for a little league baseball team that was named for our sponsor – Miller’s Meats. It was printed in large letters across our chests. The guys on the other teams had a field day with this. It seems the word meat, with its double meaning, is extremely funny to ten year old boys. I can only imagine what the wrestlers for the Knob Lick wrestling team must have to endure.
My favorite town name here in South Carolina can be found along I-26. The name is much better: Prosperity. Here’s a town that was obviously, at some point, looking to drum up some new residents. Or maybe the town’s founders were just that optimistic.
We’ve never stopped to see Prosperity. I’d like to believe it’s a small oasis with a quaint downtown area that is still perfectly intact. The deputy probably even carries a single bullet in his pocket just in case he ever needs it.
I imagine there are no deserted gas stations hidden amidst a forest of overgrown weeds, rusted out trailer homes sliding off their foundations, or crumbling buildings- all of which are very common in small town South Carolina. I imagine it must be very nice there.
And for that reason I’ll never allow myself to pull off the interstate to find out. If I did, and it was a dump, I'd be so disappointed. It would just serve to prove that names mean nothing. And if this were true then I'd be far less excited to one day visit places like Crapstone, England, Shag Harbor, Nova Scotia, or even Hell, Michigan.
The kids pass the time on the road in a variety of ways. They enjoy listening to their i-pods, drawing, writing stories, or making up games. This past trip they decided to keep a tally of the different license plates they saw along the interstate. There were a collection of plates from Kentucky, Tennessee, Florida, and Georgia. There was even one all the way from Wisconsin.
I pass the time differently. I find that I break up the monotony of the road by reading all the signs along the way. When we lived in Missouri there were highway signs littering most of the roadways. You couldn’t go more than a half a mile before you’d be bombarded by a series of over-sized advertisements. It seems by the sheer number of billboards advertising them that every rural Missouri town must have built their economy, in part, on the sale of walnut bowls and antiques.
South Carolina is a bit different. Better really. There are not nearly so many signs. In fact, you can go for tens of miles and see nothing but the interstate and an endless stream of tall green pine trees. So in place of the missing billboards I find myself reading the exit signs instead. Every few miles you find the names of the nearby towns that are hidden behind the curtain of trees lining the roadway.
My favorite town name in Missouri was Knob Lick. You could barely say it without some juvenile snickering. I always wondered if the people there were embarrassed to live in a town with such a ridiculous name. Knob Lick. How does a name like that even come to exist?
I once played for a little league baseball team that was named for our sponsor – Miller’s Meats. It was printed in large letters across our chests. The guys on the other teams had a field day with this. It seems the word meat, with its double meaning, is extremely funny to ten year old boys. I can only imagine what the wrestlers for the Knob Lick wrestling team must have to endure.
My favorite town name here in South Carolina can be found along I-26. The name is much better: Prosperity. Here’s a town that was obviously, at some point, looking to drum up some new residents. Or maybe the town’s founders were just that optimistic.
We’ve never stopped to see Prosperity. I’d like to believe it’s a small oasis with a quaint downtown area that is still perfectly intact. The deputy probably even carries a single bullet in his pocket just in case he ever needs it.
I imagine there are no deserted gas stations hidden amidst a forest of overgrown weeds, rusted out trailer homes sliding off their foundations, or crumbling buildings- all of which are very common in small town South Carolina. I imagine it must be very nice there.
And for that reason I’ll never allow myself to pull off the interstate to find out. If I did, and it was a dump, I'd be so disappointed. It would just serve to prove that names mean nothing. And if this were true then I'd be far less excited to one day visit places like Crapstone, England, Shag Harbor, Nova Scotia, or even Hell, Michigan.
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