Jury Duty

 

Penguin in the juror parking garage

First of all, feel free to continue reading this without fear that either you or me will be in trouble. No one will be reading this until after the case is finished. The jury was instructed not to discuss the case with anyone until after the trial. Not with friends, neighbors, or spouses. I have neighbors and a few friends I don’t have to pay to be so. And you. What you are about to read is my blog about being seated on a criminal court case jury. So please, read on without fear of trouble. (Also, I’ve left out details of the crime and names.)

With all the legal news of late being such a huge cluster-fuq, I was feeling left out. The last time I was on a jury was about thirty years ago. It was a civil case where a dude was suing his ex lady because his corvette got keyed. We in the jury knew she did it—no questions. But there simply was not enough proof to find her guilty. 

The next time I had jury duty was again in Houston. I say again, because the dude who’s ex “supposedly” keyed his car was in Houston. That was prior to my moving to Annapolis in 1995. I was never selected for jury duty until I moved back to Houston in 2014. Five years in Maryland and fourteen in California and nada as far as jury duty. That second time, shortly after I moved back, I was not needed, and I was released around lunch time. I remember it well because on the freeway going back home was a Pancho’s all you can eat Mexican restaurant. Time to raise that little flag—the manner in which you indicated wanting more food.

 

Houston's old courthouse

I hadn’t been to Pancho’s since I was kid and I was surprised they were still in existence. It was imperative that I stop and give them a try for old memory’s sake. Either my memory was way off, my taste in food has drastically changed, or they have gone so far down hill that I thought I was in the shadow of Mount Shasta, but it wasn’t very good. I even noticed that their beloved sopapias I used to drown in honey now used honey-flavored syrup instead. But I digress.

The third time I was summoned to jury duty was just a few years back. This was a federal case, and dealt with a couple who were split up. The Mom and kids went to visit the grandparents down in Santiago, Chile, where the family had moved from. But they never made it back home, so the father was suing for custody. At that time I was flying to Santiago often, which may have been why I was not selected. I was let down. It was looking like the case could last over a week, and my job paid for any trips missed due to jury duty, so I would have made boo-coo bucks on top of being part of a real-life soap opera.

Fast forward to about six weeks back. Everyone and their ex-president was getting sued and going to court. I felt left out and was wishing I could get jury duty, so I actually stated aloud, “Gee. I sure hope I DON’T get jury duty.” Imagine my shock when about two weeks later, there it was in my mailbox: jury duty.

One thing I’m not keen on is driving downtown with rush hour traffic on a weekday, but there I was, listening to Duran Duran, Stevie Nicks, and The Pretenders, sipping on hot coffee, meandering down the interstate with the gorgeous Houston skyline looming up ahead. I was excited.

I’ll fast forward a few hours to me sitting in a court room with sixty-three other individuals. I answered only the questions I had to: three, B; I agree with you; and no. I made no comments. I added no discourse. I actually didn’t want to be selected for this trial. Well, seventy-five percent of me didn’t want to be. And certainly no one I spoke to that day wanted it. We were told the trial was expected to last five days: Monday through Friday of the following week. It took two hours reschedule all my appointments. The case was a gruesome murder with witnesses and a punishment phase if found guilty.

Fourteen juror numbers were eventually called. (There were twelve jurors and two alternates.) Mine was not. Just when the judge was about to set us free, and my feet planted to rise to leave the court room, there was some commotion up front. It would seem the clerk misread one of the numbers. That number was asked to return to the group and MY number was called to join the other thirteen in the jury box.

As I walked forward, I passed the judge, who had been keeping us laughing as much as possible. He made a comment about how close I was to being dismissed with the rest, and I replied, Yeah, I had just wiped my brow dry thinking I was saved. The whole room laughed. 

 

Downtown Houston

We got Friday off and were not expected back until Monday. In the mean time, we were not to divulge any information on this case, not even the nature of it, to anyone we knew. They said, you never know who may know someone who knows someone who knows something about this case and could say something about anything or anyone involving anyone or someone connected with this case; and we would not want to be influenced outside the court room. No looking things up, either.

 

The Testimony:

We didn’t need to be at court until 9:00/9:30AM, but the garage fills up by 8:15, so unless you want to pay for your own parking, it’s best to show up before then. Good thing I had just started a new book. I preferred arriving early for free downtown parking and could read my book.

Monday, we were warned not to discuss the case in the jury room. We could take notes, but they were not allowed to leave the jury room, and would not be allowed to be used during deliberation. We were not to leave the jury room. In fact, it was locked when we were left alone. I wondered how we would get out should there be a fire or explosion. When I brought this up, someone said, “Leave it to the flight attendant...”

The day was tedious, listening to witnesses and specialists. They fed us fairly good sub sandwiches for lunch. They went through the day’s witnesses faster than expected after lunch, so we were released around 3:30. The judge stated we would normally be there until five, so enjoy beating rush hour traffic. I did, getting home in about twenty minutes, which is fast. Really fast.

Day two was more of what we had during day one, except for lunch we were served personal pizzas. We also laughed a lot during our first break in the room together. There were a lot of side bars, where the lawyers approached the bench. The judge always held up a legal pad so we couldn’t read her lips, as if I could to save my life. At one point, the defense had an objection. The judge over ruled it, and he immediately replied to her, “Motion for mistrial.” She said, “Denied,” without batting an eye or even looking in his direction, almost as if she knew it were coming. It was soon afterwards that the defense had some things to say and asked that the jury be dismissed. So back to our room we went.

We were in good spirits. I admitted that I had almost chuckled to myself the prior day when I thought of the movie, “My Cousin Vinny,” and hoped the judge would say, “yutes.” Most of the room laughed and agreed that they had thought of the same movie. “Eye-dentical!: exclaimed someone. We were talkative and the mood was light. Some had a fear of a mistrial because of the defense calling for one, meaning we’d endured our three days up to that point for naught. But the bailiff returned and we took our seats n the jury box for the proceedings to continue.

The heavy stuff happened just before lunch, however: photos. Photos of the victim. The fourteen bullet holes. The entrance points and when there were some, the exit points. Photos of probes showing the path through the body of the bullets. We got to hear from the widow, who spoke of their four kids, ranging from adult to third grade. We got to see a photo of the decedent, smiling behind wide sunglasses, full of life, his youngest named after dad.

 

We returned to the jury room for lunch. We ate in silence. The light mood that we shared previously had fallen to the street, fourteen floors below. (Actual fourteen, as this building was one of the rare ones that had a thirteenth floor.) Of course, we were reminded not to speak about the case, but no one even wanted to. No one mentioned the difference from the last time we left that room with smiles, and jokes that were flying even in the hallway as we were about to enter the court room. The difference was night and day. Each of us bore a heavy weight in the reality of murder. This was not TV, and murder’s more than just a word when you’re on a jury.

 

Then, around 3:30, the state rested. I was shocked, mainly in that the state was presenting their case in such a way that I was totally leaning towards them. I assumed that when we went in after lunch, that the defense had something up their sleeve. The defendant had been so confident, even during the jury selection procedure. He smiled, looked us in the eyes, took many notes, was animated, conferred with his lawyers often, and did not in the least appear concerned that his future would be decided by twelve of his peers.

It was obvious, to me at any rate, that the fun was about to begin. It had taken the prosecutors two days to present their case. The defense was about to do the same, if not longer. If things went into the next week, they would start on Tuesday. Ugh!

We walked in and sat down. The judge asked the defense for any witnesses. They had none. She asked if the defense would rest. “Yes, your honor. The defense rests.” WHAAA??? 

That was it. We’d heard all there was to hear. The only thing left was the closing statements from both sides. There were two attorneys for each side. The young man for the state spoke first. Then the lawyer for the defense paced before us. He seemed to look at me quite a bit. I wore my best poker face. I listened to his closing statement closely. He came close to selling it. Then the other lawyer for the state got up. She had me moving closer to her side once more. 

 

Our courtroom was up on 14

The final nail in the coffin was the judge reading our charge, which essentially was this: If we found that the charged was guilty of causing, or creating to cause, bodily harm or death from the use of firearms, and there was no doubt, we were to find him guilty. I had no doubt. The man charged was placed at the scene by two parties, neither of whom entirely got along. Three eyewitnesses saw the shooting. They saw him run to hide, and the victim attempt to escape, but in failing to do so, the charged returned and emptied yet more bullets into the dead body. The forensics, the witnesses, the 911 recording that was played for us. There was no doubt.

 

 

 

The Verdict:

After receiving our charge as a jury, we returned to the jury room. As we left, there was a photo of the deceased showing on the screen next to the exit door into the private hallway. When I returned to my seat in the jury room, it was all I could do to keep the tears inside. We were again quiet. I broke the silence, stating, that was intense. Agreement all around. And a few other puffy eyes.

We chose a foreman and agreed to take a secret vote just to see where we all stood. If we were already unanimous, there was little need to drag it out. It came back ten guilty, two not. That was OK. Let’s hear them out. But what transpired was half an hour of debate as to where one of the witnesses stood, and was she credible, and how shell casings got to where they wound up. The next topic was about the bullet holes in the victim. Did he say fourteen holes, as in seven in and seven out...or fourteen entry holes? In my confusion, I read our charge again, given to us by the judge.

There was still some debate, so I broke in. Excuse me, but there was no denying the fact that the defendant was present at the scene, that the defendant had a firearm, that he disappeared for four days after the shooting...correct? We all agreed that he did the firing of the weapon. So it didn’t matter if there were three bullet holes or eighty. It didn’t matter if she was in the bedroom when it started, or at the door. Were we not charged to determine if the man sitting in that court room shot the deceased? It didn’t matter where the witnesses stood. I reminded them that the two parties didn’t get along, yet they both agreed who did the shooting. It wasn’t as if they had conspired against an innocent man.

When we agreed to take another vote, we were unanimous. I didn’t take careful note of the time, but we deliberated shy of an hour. When we returned to the court room, I tried to return in the exact fashion that I had each of the previous times I walked in. My face was stone. My posture erect. My attention towards the judge. As I sat, I quickly looked into the gallery. 

As during the previous two days, the family sat behind the prosecution, in honor of a murdered man. He had tattoos. He had been drinking. There were drugs in his system. None of that mattered. None of that played into the reason he was now dead with twenty-five new holes (three bullets never left his body). Seated behind the defense were others that represented the defense team. The charged had no friends or family of support. That struck me as I drove home that afternoon.

The judge silently read the verdict and asked that the foreman read it aloud. She then called each of us by our number and asked if we agreed with the verdict. Where most answered yes, or a few yes ma’am, I answered yes, your honor. We were thanked and informed that we would return the following day for sentencing.

We arrived on Wednesday quite optimistic that we would finish that day. We should have. We lined up at one point, the bailiff announced, “All rise for the jury,” but then we were stopped. The door closed and we stood in silence for a few minutes before the bailiff came out and opened the jury room door for us to return. 

We were used to spending a lot of time in the jury room. Most of us read. A few brought laptops and did some work. Nearly everyone spent time on their phones. The man next to me had nothing: no phone, no book, no laptop. He simply sat for hours on end, watching out the windows, looking at his hands, staring at the wall.

Just over an hour later, we were told to go home. We were free to await lunch, due in fifteen minutes, or leave, but we would not be back until Friday at 915AM. Of course, we were not told what was going on in the courtroom, but we were told not to look into anything or to discuss the trial. That wasn’t difficult for me. I couldn’t remember the name of the judge, had no idea the name of the prosecutors or the defending attorneys, and wanted to forget the name of man we found guilty.

Thursday, I was preparing for the next day when we received a text advising us to report no later than 11:45AM. We expected that we were going to be given bad news, such as a mistrial. All that work for naught. But we later found out that on Wednesday, the defendant was trying to play the card of insanity, so they had to call in experts to test him, which was supposed to happen Thursday, but they didn’t show up and were not rescheduled until 9AM Friday, which is why we were asked to arrive late. Of course he didn’t pass that test, but the court was obligated to play it all out, in the event of an appeal.

 

Sentencing:

Thinking that the hardest part was over was a huge mistake. After we were allowed back into the court room on Friday, we began to hear more testimony. It was past noon. We heard testimony from a fingerprint expert to verify that the prints were checked and matched against other prior arrests. Our man we found guilty had been busy committing other crimes. He was in prison four other times. His defense took issue with allowing some of the state exhibits into the record because the expert was not able to verify the fingerprint on some of the documents from the fingerprints taken after being found guilty. This was as if to say that these documents showing his past records of being incarcerated in the state of Texas could somehow be from other people with the same name, even though the inmate numbers all aligned.

We were asked to leave the court room and when we returned to our jury room, we found that pizza had been delivered...the same order we had placed on Tuesday. This was a most welcome development, being that most of us arrived just prior to 11AM, meaning when we left home, it was too late for breakfast and too early for lunch. We didn’t think they would provide lunch.

 

 

 

We next heard from individuals who had previously been assaulted by the guilty man. There were new difficult photos of stab wounds and bruised heads. One man had not only been stabbed, but also beaten by the blunt end of a knife. Another man, when trying to defend himself, cut the defendant and managed to kick his hunting knife from his hands, only to be hit on the head by an eighteen pound pipe. He nearly bled to death waiting forty-five minutes for an ambulance, and didn’t come to for three days. He has permanent disabilities now. He was in his late sixties when this occurred.

Each witness testified about, and identified the man, charged with murder. Again, with each witness, the defense did their job well in trying to poke holes in the two cases. Before the first beating, the defendant had been in an argument, so he may have been defending himself. In the second, again, he had previously entered into a verbal fight, and it was unclear who first drew their knife, the defendant with the hunting knife, or the sixty something ex-Army dude with his Swiss Army knife. There were crazed glances happening in the jury box.

Finally, we heard once more from the widow. Her husband had been murdered on the day before his daughter’s birthday. She was at the store getting her cake when she got the call from the victim's mother to come to the hospital. The cake never made it out of the store. She was taken into a room and had to wait for a while before being told they tried to save her husband, but his wounds were too much. He had been shot fourteen times. She is constantly on the ready for calls from the school when the children can’t cope. She stated that adults know how to navigate the pain of loss. Children have not learned that skill. Hers is getting a crash course. The murder was four years ago, but now, each birthday is marred by the memory of a murdered father.

After her testimony, we were read our charge and released back to the jury room. It was 5PM. There was some hemming and hawing. If we believed the two stories of the beatings, we were to consider twenty-five years the minimum and up to ninety-nine years or life. If we believed one of the two, fifteen years was the minimum. If neither, we could consider five.

The defense, in their closing statement, suggested twenty-five. That spoke volumes.

I was the first to say that from what we heard a few days prior, when I arrived that morning, I was thinking of a floor of sixty years. But with the new testimony, I thought that was a low number. Others agreed with me. I pointed out that each time he had an altercation, he came back for more. The first witness had testified that they argued, but then he came back to beat them. The second witness was the same. The defendant could have left the scene of any of his crimes, but he always returned and caused bodily harm. The crime we found him guilty of was more of the same: he shot the man nearly dead, then came back and shot him more to finish the job.

The prosecutor said it best, they always hope a lesson is learned, so they tend to be lenient, hoping for the best. But their worst fear is when someone who gets a light sentence then goes out and does something worse. And there is no worse than murder. This man had a history. Four times in prison. Each crime got worse. Do not, he implored, let this man back out on the streets. The prosecution suggested life.

There was no dissent. We were unanimous in our jury voice. We agreed with the prosecutors.

Just to make sure, our foreman went around the room to hear from each of us if we agreed. When my turn, it was difficult to find my voice. Yes, I thought he deserved life. Yes, I thought about the victim and his grieving family. Yes, I thought of the others he had harmed and sent to the hospital. And yes, I thought about sending a man to spend the rest of his life behind bars. But to verbalize that yes was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever said. Three letters, which typically is something positive, on that afternoon, was sentencing a man to life behind bars. I could barely speak it, so gave two thumbs up, so there was no question.

One of the jurors asked if I was OK. Yes. I was. They all agreed that it wasn’t easy. It was a huge weight. I mentioned that when I was general manager of a business, and found times when I had to fire people, that I would tell them, “I am not firing you. You have fired yourself.” “Did that actually work?” I was asked. You bet it did. I’m sure not so much in this case, but my point was that  sentencing him was not done lightly. He had brought this sentence upon himself.

Back in the courtroom, the judge polled us one by one, asking if the charge read by our foreman was our vote. There was no hesitation from any of us. A resounding and firm YES.

I didn’t want to look at him, and I didn’t look into his eyes. But I did see that he was standing (he had to be asked) and that the bailiff had positioned himself directly behind him, just in case—and we wondered if he might not react. There was no emotion that I could perceive. The victim’s family was in the gallery. There was no celebration. There was really nothing to celebrate. Justice was served, but it was a heavy task.

Back in the jury room, we found that once again, our two alternates agreed with us wholly. After some time, the judge came in to explain why we were delayed until late that morning. She was forward with answering all of our questions. She asked if we would like to meet the lawyers, so they came in next, and we asked them questions and heard more about why certain elements were left out. They were happy that we caught on to how the proceedings went down. Even the defense attorneys knew he was guilty, but still had to defend him. And I loved hearing the defense attorney say he would never want to play cards with some of us for the poker face we showed him, as he looked right at me. He also told us that we found him guilty fifteen minutes faster than they anticipated, but we went over by ten in sentencing him to life. How interesting.

It was barely after 630PM when we finally filed outside the building and into the heat of a Houston evening. A few blocks away was the stadium where the Astros were about to play, so there were folks all around wearing Astros garb. The court case and our jury duty prevented a few from leaving town as planned. One young man was going to be late for his girlfriend’s birthday dinner celebration. Me? I saw a margarita in my future, but discovered that once I was home and fed, the last thing I wanted to do was to make or go out for a rita. Maybe later. 

 

A view where the Houston Astros play ball

Finding a man guilty was not fun, but an easy choice given the testimony. Sentencing him to life is not what I expected, and was one of the most difficult decisions I’d ever made. Thank goodness the death penalty wasn’t on the table. But in this situation, had it been, with the testimony provided, I think I could have said yes. Even to the death penalty. 

 

 

 

 

 

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