We, the Jury

by Robert Rotstein

  “Dillon had no witness training, and he’s not nearly as articulate as Lacey,” the Jury Consultant says.

  “That’s for sure,” the Architect says.

  “Let’s focus on the words,” the Jury Consultant continues. “Substance, not perception. Lacey testified that her mother was the devil and her father was a saint. Black and white. Dillon testified in shades of gray. He agreed that his mother was overbearing and critical and often cold, that she made no secret about the fact that she was bitterly disappointed in David, and that she was afraid that Dillon would grow up to be just like his father. He admitted that his mother had a temper. While Dillon testified that his father was unpredictable and full of rage and physically abusive, he also said he understood his father’s frustrations. Dillon gave the evenhanded, forthright testimony. People who are telling the truth concede weaknesses in their position. Dillon did that; Lacey didn’t. He was telling the truth when he said that David was the abusive one. If it weren’t true, if Amanda abused Dillon, why would he support her and testify against his father? It makes no sense.”

  “It does if he’s mentally ill,” the Housewife says.

  “Nothing anyone says can make me believe Dillon,” the Foreperson says. “I’ve got a druggie brother, and he couldn’t recognize the truth if it slapped him in the face.”

  “What if we don’t know who’s telling the truth?” I ask. “Isn’t that reasonable doubt?”

  “Bingo,” the Housewife says.

  “It’s not that simple,” the Jury Consultant says, looking at me. I hate to be singled out, but her eyes are kind. “We have an obligation as jurors to decide which witness is telling the truth. That’s why we had the long instruction on witness credibility. If jurors shirked their responsibility to make credibility determinations, every criminal defendant would be acquitted, innocent or guilty.”

  I feel my cheeks flush, and the Jury Consultant detects my unease, because she reaches over and touches my arm. “I didn’t mean to imply that you or anyone else in this room is shirking their responsibility,” she says. “Far from it. We’re all trying to do the best job we can. It’s hard to decide, especially in a case like this, when a person’s very future is at stake. And it should be hard. Be that as it may, we have a responsibility to decide.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more,” the Housewife says. “It’s also our responsibility to use common sense. Common sense dictates that a poised, articulate, consistent witness like Lacey is far more likely to be telling the truth than a demonstrable delinquent like Dillon.”

  I glance at the Clergyman. He’s looking down, picking at his fingernails. He’s been unreadable as a slab of slate so far, but now he looks upset about something. He won’t talk. Why won’t he talk?

  “Dillon sure didn’t sound like a liar on the nine-one-one recording,” the Express Messenger says.

  “What was there to lie about?” the Architect asks. “He came home, found his mother dead, and called.”

  “That recording humanized him,” the Express Messenger says. “I don’t know why I didn’t feel that when it was played during the trial, but it humanized him. The kid found his mother dead, which sucks. Jesus Christ.” He visibly shudders.

  “No one’s saying he’s not a human being,” the Housewife says. “Don’t get me wrong. He’s as much of a victim as anyone. He’s like an abused dog who craves its owner’s attention and approval. That’s why he’s still protecting his mother even after everything that’s happened. He still seeks her approval, even after her death.”

  “I don’t see it that way,” the Jury Consultant says. “I know that I’m dissing my profession in a sense, but sometimes, the untrained witness shows credibility through his or her flaws.”

  “I don’t believe that druggie for a moment,” the Foreperson says. “Now, I think we should take a break so we can eat our lunch. I got dibs on a tuna sandwich.”

  JUROR NO. 1

  THE FOREPERSON

  Just as I’m about to call the jurors to order, I see the Housewife checking her cell phone. Again. I should report her to the bailiff. I really should. But I’m not that kind of Foreperson.

  “Let’s get going, people,” I say. “Times a-wastin’.”

  Everyone sits down but the Housewife and the Architect, who ignore me like I’m air. The bitches are standing in the corner drinking their expensive bottled water. I wish I could afford water like that, but I’m stuck with drinking contaminated county tap water.

  “Let’s get going, people!” I repeat.

  The Housewife checks her cell phone, looks up at the Architect, and rolls her eyes.

  “Another snarky text from Jared?” asks the Architect, talking loud enough for all of us except the Grandmother to hear. It’s like none of us exist except the two mean girls.

  The Housewife nods.

  “We’re in the home stretch,” says the Architect. Is it my imagination, or does she sound impatient with her buddy?

  “God, I hope so,” says the Housewife. “But at this rate …”

  “We’re making progress,” says the Jury Consultant. “But even if we’re here for another week, you don’t rush justice.” Good for her—she refuses to be ignored, just like I do.

  “You have a daughter as I recall, living in Oregon?” the Housewife asks. “A sixteen-year-old?”

  “Good memory,” says the Jury Consultant.

  “I’m sure you haven’t forgotten how needy small children are. I have three little ones. The baby is seven months old. My husband has a full-time job managing twelve people on four different projects, and since this trial started, he’s been working from home because we can’t afford a nanny. He’s overtaxed with his job and with taking care of the children. I need to be with my husband and children.” She sighs. “I still can’t believe the judge wouldn’t excuse me. My husband thought I should make up a lie to get off the jury, but I just couldn’t do it. So don’t you worry, I’m definitely here because I care about justice.”

  Interesting. As I remember it, the Housewife did lie to try to get off the jury. Or was that the Architect? Anyway, why does the Housewife think she’s so special? We all have our issues. I’ve missed work for a month, and I told my bosses I’d be out two weeks. The law says they can’t fire me for going on jury duty, but they’re pissed that I’m not there. They’ll probably find some other excuse to let me go if they want to, but if that happens, I’ll sue them, maybe even hire Jenna Blaylock on a contingency. Anyway, you don’t hear me complaining about the time this trial has taken.

  “I’ve been thinking,” I say. “Let’s take a vote to see where we are. Any objection?” I wait. “Hearing none, let’s vote.”

  “Absolutely not guilty,” says the Housewife, although I didn’t call on her.

  “Not guilty,” says the Architect.

  “Not guilty,” grunts the Clergyman.

  “Not guilty,” says the Student. “I’m not sure which sibling to believe anymore, but I guess I have reasonable doubt.”

  “Not guilty,” says the Express Messenger.

  “Guilty,” says the Jury Consultant.

  “Guilty,” says the Grandmother.

  “Not guilty,” I say. “Which makes it six to two, and we have a ton to talk about.” I pause. “That’s right, six to two?”

  “You get a gold star for arithmetic,” says the Architect. Says the bitch.

  “Here’s why I’ve changed my vote,” says the Grandmother. “As you all know, I was going to vote ‘not guilty’ when I walked in here, but changed my mind because Lacey’s testimony wasn’t nearly as strong as I thought it was at first. That letter and that immature promise she made to David—immature promises foster lies. When Dillon’s testimony was reread, if you just consider his words, he sounds credible. Unrehearsed. The pathetic, tortured child we heard on the nine-one-one tape—he was not the smirking kid we saw in
court. That was the real person, someone traumatized yet able to take necessary action.

  “I just can’t agree,” says the Housewife. “If you compare Lacey and Dillon, we—”

  “We’ve been through all that,” says the Express Messenger.

  “Please don’t interrupt me,” says the Housewife. “If you compare Lacey and—”

  “It’s a waste of time to talk about the siblings,” says the Express Messenger. “Let’s talk about another witness. Let’s talk about the cop.”

  “Yeah, the cop,” I say.

  The Housewife shuts up. Finally.

  THE HONORABLE

  NATALIE QUINN-GILBERT

  My husband, Jonathan, once called a jury trial the legal equivalent of an M. C. Escher drawing: the impossible intersection of a judge sworn to remain fair and unbiased; a prosecutor whose job it is to ensure punishment for lawbreakers; a defense attorney who must protect both the innocent and the guilty; and a group of jurors with no expertise in law, forensics, abnormal psychology, or much of anything else important in a trial. Wouldn’t you know? The uninformed jury gets to decide. It’s enough to drive a lawyer or a judge batty.

  I can’t bring myself to come down too hard on Jonathan’s father. My father-in-law might not have approved of our “mixed” marriage, but he’s always been civil, even warm in recent years. He wasn’t the executor of Jonathan’s estate; I was. What else could I do but carry out Jonathan’s wishes regarding burial? Refusing to do so would have violated my moral duty, would have dishonored Jonathan’s memory. My decision won’t matter in the end; I know it won’t. If, by some divine miracle, Jonathan and I are reunited in the afterlife—if there is an afterlife—he’ll respect me for doing what he asked, for not being selfish.

  My father described Jonathan as a “conniving Jew lawyer,” and my mother didn’t reproach him for it. Mother’s reticence was not a case of the traditional, subservient housewife reluctant to defy her husband. My mother stood up to my father on many occasions. But not on this one, and that’s what I found galling. She never said it aloud, but she believed no good Catholic girl marries a Jew, much less a Jew who doesn’t want children. What my family didn’t know is that I was the one who didn’t want kids.

  Because of the tension with my parents, I became estranged from my siblings. Well, not estranged, but formal and distant. Jonathan’s friends became my friends. As the years passed, my parents offered an olive branch. Hell, they offered an entire tree. But I’m a bullheaded Taurus. Olive tree rebuffed, and now my parents are dead.

  When he had that damned aneurysm, we were alone, watching a baseball game. I had to call 911 (I’m glad they never played that recording in court); I had to watch him die; I had to keep a stiff upper lip; I had to bury him in a place where I’m considered a trespasser. It’s hard to reach out to others for support, because I’m an introvert at heart who took on a public role only because I fervently believe that a world without justice is a world without God.

  JUROR NO. 6

  THE ARCHITECT

  “I’m not a fan of Deputy Beckermann,” the Student says, sounding more confident than she has at any time during these deliberations.

  Beckermann is the detective from the sheriff’s department who first arrived at the scene of the killing, led the investigation, and eventually arrested David Sullinger.

  “It’s one reason I’m voting not guilty,” the Student continues. “I feel like he arrested David to get publicity. I feel like Beckermann railroaded David.”

  “I don’t know if ‘railroaded’ is the right word,” the Express Messenger says. “But I agree. I didn’t like the guy. He’s an arrogant prick.”

  Like you’re not, Mr. Express Messenger / “Actor”? Still, despite the source of the comment, I, too, found Beckermann to be an arrogant prick. He’s one of those people who try to act like a good guy but don’t know how. Smiling at us as if we’re his buddies; pleading nervousness when he clearly wasn’t; calling Jenna Blaylock “ma’am.” Bragging about shooting a homeless man to death, which was awkward, because this is a small county, and we all—well, those of us who read or watch the local news—realized that he and the bailiff had been partners on that day, holy shit. I don’t like Beckermann, and I like the bailiff. Of course I like the bailiff—I wouldn’t want to fuck a man I didn’t like.

  “Beckermann botched the investigation,” the Housewife says. “The patrol officers were very careful not to handle evidence, not to contaminate the crime scene, and then Beckermann shows up and moves the pickax with his shoe. He moved the murder weapon with his shoe! He says it was an accident, but who knows? Only God knows what else he moved or stepped in. Just like Blaylock argued in closing, moving that pickax contaminated the crime scene. Worse, he has the bad sense to move the pickax back to where he thought it had been. Without wearing gloves. Then he gets distracted with whatever and lets Dillon stay in the house unsupervised while David sits in the patrol car. Who knows what Dillon tried to do with the evidence? Not even the crime-scene investigator could cover up for Beckermann. She was embarrassed to be on that witness stand.”

  “Poor Cranston,” the Jury Consultant says. “Did you see the look on his face when all that came out? Beckermann blindsided him.”

  “The guy’s a moron,” the Express Messenger says.

  “Which one?” the Housewife asks.

  “I was talking about the cop, but both,” the Express Mess-

  enger says.

  “I’m not okay with that word,” the Student says.

  “What word, ‘cop’?” the Express Messenger says.

  “No, I meant …” The Student exhales. “You know very well what word I meant. It’s offensive. You’re not clever or funny.” The Student is finally showing some balls.

  The Express Messenger’s smirk and dark-circled eyes make him look like a half-man, half-raccoon video game character.

  “You are a smart-ass,” I say to him. “Not only are you not funny, but your behavior is unattractive. You’ve made some good points, but you fuck yourself with the attitude.”

  “Hear, hear,” the Grandmother says.

  He holds up his hands in submission. The smirk remains on the lips, but the sting of our insults has caused his eyes to glaze over. So the wisecracker is sensitive. Aren’t they always.

  “Let’s all calm down,” the Foreperson says.

  “Who’s not calm?” the Express Messenger says.

  “Some of us,” the Foreperson says. “Including you.”

  If one more person criticizes him, I bet he’ll cry. I’m ambivalent about whether I want that to happen.

  “How could Cranston not have known about Beckermann’s mistake?” the Housewife asks. “Just another example of the prosecution’s ineptitude.”

  “Ditto that,” I say. I’m impatient today. I want to get out of here and see if I can resuscitate my drowning architectural-design practice. We’re almost done. Why am I so impatient?

  “No disagreement from this end of the table,” the Foreperson says. “I don’t like Beckermann, because of what he did to our bailiff.”

  “What did he do?” the Express Messenger asks, and surprisingly, the Housewife also looks puzzled. The Clergyman comes out of hibernation for a moment and nods.

  “We’re not supposed to discuss that,” the Jury Consultant says. “It’s not evidence.”

  The Foreperson puts a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry, you’re right. I instruct the jury to disregard that. Well, I can’t instruct, but … You know what I mean. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. It’s just that if you live in this county, you—”

  “Or if you surf the internet looking for info on the cast of characters,” I say, making the Foreperson recoil. Why do I do things like that? My ex, putting it kindly, would say I don’t suffer fools gladly. It turns out that his words weren’t so kind, because the full verse from the Bible is “For ye
suffer fools gladly, seeing ye yourselves are wise.” Which means, according to my ex, that I see myself as unwise. Maybe, maybe not. Maybe it’s simpler. Maybe I’m just a bitch.

  I don’t know which book of the Bible that quotation comes from. I’m not one for the scriptures. I’d much rather look at paintings by Raphael or Velázquez for my spiritual sustenance. El Greco’s The Tears of Saint Peter brings me to tears. The mystical, communicative silence that is visual art—that’s what I aspire to create in my own painting. My paintings are just noise, the grating shriek of the untalented.

  “So, what do you think of Deputy Beckermann’s testimony?” the Housewife asks the Grandmother. “You’ve changed your vote to guilty, so I assume either you don’t think he was so bad or you don’t care.”

  “I see the problems with his investigation, and I certainly care,” the Grandmother says. “Which doesn’t change the fact that David brutally killed Amanda.” She writhes as if in pain and then points an index finger at the Express Messenger. “I want to add this. I respect the police and what they do for us, how they protect us, and it’s disgraceful for anyone to call an officer of the law a moron.”

  Interesting. The Grandmother is a law-and-order freak. I didn’t see that, especially with her early “not guilty” vote. But it stands to reason. She was a high school vice principal—a cop in her own way. This is a bad development. I thought the old woman would be easy to flip back to “not guilty” once we all talked this through and the Jury Consultant got off her high horse. Now I’m thinking we’ll be here until April.

  “I’m tired of all your insults,” the Express Messenger says, springing up out of his chair. He points at the Grandmother. “Especially from you. This isn’t high school, and you’re not the vice principal anymore. Do you know what us students called you? ‘The Warden.’ Well, I’m not your prisoner anymore. I’m entitled to my opinion just as much as you are. At least, I haven’t flip-flopped. Beckermann is a moron, whether you like the word or not.”