Jury Dookie

(A piece of short fiction)

“Oh. My. GAWD!”

 

For the first time in several hours, Juror Number 2 put down her cell phone. By this point, I had served on this jury with her for 8 days, six hours, and 15 minutes. I and 11 others had spent the past three days around the conference table in the jury deliberation room discussing the case. My seat was directly across from hers. Watching her chest heave against the flimsy straps of her tank top had kept me entertained for…maybe 20 minutes of those three days? Once the thrill faded, I had found myself with plenty of time to notice Juror Number 2’s less redeeming traits. As my fellow jurors traded ideas about the case, her desire to fit in would cool her desire to tap on her phone. She would then put the phone in her lap, in her bra strap (never have I so envied a cell phone!), or maybe in her purse, but her fingers always lingered over the phone, as though they were promising the phone a swift return.

 

Neela! Her name was Neela!

 

This time, Neela slammed her phone onto the table, sending a rhinestone flying from the phone’s outer case to skid across the dusty blue nylon carpet. Her arms folded and her hands hid beneath her arms in solidarity with what I knew was her wounded pride.

 

“I can’t BUH-LEEVE you people!” Thankfully for those of us enjoying our complementary courthouse water, waxed Iron Man Dixie cups do not shatter on high notes. “I have spent a whole goddamn week here, listening to this stupid case, and one of you have the NERVE to talk shit?”

 

Her eyes darted from face to face, sniffing for the scent of treason. Don’t laugh. Oh God, don’t laugh. Oh no! The corners of my mouth betrayed me. Neela’s eyes narrowed into burning slits before I could remake my Very Serious Juror Face.

 

“You! You creeper! Where do you get off?!”

 

Moi? I turned toward our fearless leader, Juror #12, Dr. Important Dentist D.D.S. I opened my eyes wider and tilted a single eyebrow – What is she on about? At least that’s what I imagined my face was saying to the man who had nominated and elected himself jury foreperson before his 11 disinterested subjects.

 

Dr. Dentist laid 12 index cards on the table. He closed his eyes, whisked himself away to his happy place for just a moment, and leveled his glare at Neela. “Neela,” he tiptoed, “what exactly is bothering you?”
Neela opened her lips, but not her teeth. She could have fried an egg against my forehead with her eyes. “Creeper over there just…just…just cyber-bullied me!”

 

“What is that? Cyber-bullied?” I had known Juror #3 for 8 days, along with everyone else. During jury selection, the judge had made everyone answer a handful of basic life questions. Juror #3 was named Harvinder, and she was a retired nurse who lived in one of the indistinguishable suburbs that blanketed most of the county. Aside from that, she had a warm smile for anyone and everyone…especially when she wasn’t sure what was going on.

 

“All right, look,” Dr. Dentist said as he picked up the 12 index cards again and laid them one by one on the table, “We have been here for three days bickering about this case.” Dr. Dentist plucked the two of the index cards that read “not guilty” and held them at eye level. “Two of you are still not convinced that the defendant is guilty, and no one gets to go home until we all agree, one way or the other.”

 

“Whoa whoa whoa whoa, you need to check yourself right now,” Juror #1 said, folding his arms and spinning his ball cap backwards to make eye contact with Dr. Dentist. “I’m not changing my vote just so you can get back to tightening braces.” I had forgotten Juror #1’s name, and as far as I knew, he owned no clothing other than the Metal Mulisha t-shirt that he had worn to court every day of the trial.

 

“Well if you had a job yourself, and employees who depend on you, maybe you’d be less keen on coming back Monday. My employees don’t get paid until I get back to ‘tightening braces’ as you put it.” Dr. Dentist put his index finger against the conference table, as though his unpaid employees were under there at that very moment hoping for table scraps to fall.

 

“If you were that worried, you could just pay them anyway,” Juror #1 said, meeting Dr. Dentist’s eyes while swiveling his chair in semi-circles. Dr. Dentist snorted in disbelief at Juror #1’s suggestion and then turned to me. “Wei-Wei, is it? What exactly are you doing to Neela?”

 

“Walter. You can call me Walter. I said that before and you can still call me Walter.” The judge had called me Wei-Wei because that’s what my driver’s license and my mom call me. But after 8 days I was still Wei-Wei, the unmarried computer engineering major at Sequoia State University. “And we aren’t even supposed to be Tweeting about the trial until it’s over. I was paying attention when the judge talked.”

 

“Ah ha,” Neela said, “How did you know it happened on Twitter unless you were the one harassing me?”

 

“Twitter?” Harvinder the retired nurse smiled at Neela, expectantly.

 

“Twitter is a website where you can post short little messages. And someone posted this!” She picked up her phone from the table and passed it to Dr. Dentist. Dr. Dentist held the phone like a dead plague rat that might infect his dignity and read:

 

“I wish the judge would tell the hot kindergarten teacher to stop tweeting about the trial. Her sparkly phone is blocking my view. #nicerack #jurydookie”

 

Dr. Dentist spoke the word “hashtag” like some nasty swear word he had just learned in a foreign language.

 

“See? I came up with the hashtag ‘jurydookie’ first! And then I clicked on it to see if anyone else had thought of it and JUST NOW I saw this message with the same hashtag.”

 

“So…” I began, “not only have you been Tweeting about the trial, even though the judge told us specifically not to do that, you also came up with this hashtag that you thought was sooooooo clever that you clicked on it to see if anyone else started using it?” Of course that was what she had done. I had known she would do that. That was the point of using her own hashtag.

 

“All right, enough! None of you are even supposed to be posting on the internet until we get this thing done, and that is never going to happen at this rate.” Dr. Dentist handed the phone back to Neela. “Besides, the person who posted this calls himself LOL underscore DONGS, and his profile picture is one of those mustache masks that the Occupy Wall Street people wear. You don’t know it was Mr. Khek.”

 

Ah. I had been promoted to “Mister Khek.”

 

“Well who else was it? Her?!” Neela pointed her thumb toward Harvinder. Juror #3’s eyes widened, and turned to the rest of us. “But it was not me!” She pleaded to Neela with her eyes while putting a hand on her shoulder.” It was. Not. Me!”

 

“But Neela has a point.” Juror #10 was named Yuri, and his last name had lots of consonants put together: a married engineer with two kids. His accent had become much less noticible since the first day of jury selection, when the judge ignored Yuri’s claim that he was not fluent enough in English to sit as a juror. “How did you know that Neela was upset about something that had happened on Twitter before she even said it happened on Twitter?” Juror #10 folded his arms. His belly strained against the buttons of his plaid shirt. His hairless noggin shone in the flurescent light. For 3 days, Juror #10 had not interacted with us for longer than it took to write the word “guilty” on his index card every time Dr. Dentist called for a vote. And now he decides to chime in?

 

Neela, Harvinder, and 2 other jurors nodded at Yuri and then turned to me. Time to think fast.

 

“I assumed it was Twitter because clearly no one is taking Instagram photos and only my parents and their friends use Facebook.” Was that too scoffing? Or just enough scoffing to deflect attention away from me?

 

Either way, I was not convincing enough for Patty Sanchez, Juror #11, who turned one lip up in disgust at me. “That is so incredibly rude. And oppressive to women. This is supposed to be a place where everyone is safe to share their thoughts and you just violated all of the trust in this room.” Neela, Harvinder, Yuri, and the other two nodded. That was 6 of them. Six jurors up in my shit.

 

“Well if Neela has been Tweeting about this trial, she has already violated the trust in this room.” Maybe Dr. Dentist didn’t care about sexual harassment. Maybe Dr. Dentist was sick of Patty’s constant “not guilty” votes. Either way, he was done. “None of you need to be talking or Tweeting or blogging or anything to anyone else not in this room.”

 

” ‘None of you need to be talking?’ You sound like a frickin’ middle school yard duty.” Yes! Metal Mulisha was starting a mutiny. Ten jurors smirked and held back laughter. I didn’t bother holding back.

 

Patty turned to Neela. “One time my friend posted pictures from her trip to Curacao on her Instagram. She was going to go to Aruba but thought it was too touristy. And then that girl disappeared and got killed by that rich boy from Holland. So she went to Curacao instead. Anyway, she posted pictures and some guy made a comment on her bikini and she was all like ‘I bet I know who this is – there’s this guy in my O-chem class who keeps staring at me in discussion section.’ And we both had a class with this guy in the afternoon, so when we all sat down in the lecture hall, she tried to sign into Instagram as him. But she didn’t know the password. So she clicked the button that sends a new password to your phone. And right when she did that, the guy got a text and looked at his phone, and so we knew it was him.”

 

Fire shone in Neela’s eyes as she picked up her phone. Her nails clacked madly against her phone. Crap. My hand snuck under the table to my phone to disable the text notification settings on my phone before its vibration could give me away.

 

Bzzzzzzzzt.

 

Too late. Neela’s eyes grew to the size of dinner plates.

 

“Just a dang minute here,” Dr. Dentist pounced on Patty. “Besides this guy being a jerk,” the doctor’s thumb primed toward Metal Mulisha, “the whole reason we are still here is because you don’t think that the defendant was the one who threatened the victim on Facebook before he got shot dead in his driveway.”

 

“Because that’s totally different!” Ten jurors scowled at Patty. Neela’s death gaze never left me. I pretended not to notice. “The defendant said that he kept his Facebook open on his computer, and he lived with his brother, and his brother had threatened the victim too. One time my little brother broke into my Facebook and talked all kinds of shit on my friends’ Facebook walls. And I had to call them all and say it wasn’t me, it was my brother, and…”

 

Dr. Dentist spoke without taking his eyes from the ceiling. “Did your little brother have an ankle monitor that pinged within 10 yards of your computer at the same time as he posted the comments? Because you know that the defendant had one of those. It pinged 10 yards from the scene of murder 15 minutes before the murder.”

 

The light went on in Patty’s mind. “Oh yeah…..” Silence. Meanwhile, Neela’s eyes had not moved. I remembered a story that my U.S. history teacher had told me about how the CIA killed an Iranian diplomat by seating him behind a tube that shot radiation right into the back of his head.

 

“Maybe….I guess he did it.”

 

“OF COURSE he did it,” Neela said to Patty.

 

“No…the defendant. I guess he did do it after all.”

 

“Well, this game is no fun if I’m the only one playing it.” Metal Mulisha grabbed a new index card from the stack in the center of the conference table. He scrawled the word “GUILTY” in big spikey letters. The jurors began to shift in their seats as though they had all been defrosted at the same time. The clouds parted from Dr. Dentist’s eyes.

 

“So…,” Dr. Dentist begin, weighing each of us for signs of dissent, “does that mean we all agree?”

 

A wave of grateful nods circled the table. Dr. Dentist sprang from his chair and knocked on the door of the deliberation room. The bailiff answered, and Dr. Dentist told him that “his” jury had reached a verdict. No one could care less about me anymore.

 

We filed into the courtroom and took our seats in the jury box a half-hour later. Although we were about to deep-six his client, I still had to admire the defense lawyer for leaving everyone on the jury while the prosecutor had tried to kick as many of us off as possible. Using chaos to hide a man’s crime was black-belt level trolling. I had much to learn.

Advertisements

Cry Havoc: Jury Selection in a World Without Civic Virtue (Part I)

 

This is not a manifesto on the virtues of jury duty. I will not wax romantic about the importance of juries in our system of justice or in any system of representative government. I hold no degrees in sociology, and so I do not pretend to be an expert on the behavior of humans in large groups. Jury consultants charge handsome fees to the attorneys who can afford their services; in exchange, these consultants provide detailed profiles on the ideal type of juror for an attorney’s case. What I provide here is information that would cause a “respectable” jury consultant to never be hired again, not because it is not true, but because no one in the legal profession wants it to be true.

But for a public defender in trial, jury selection is war by other means. Victory is rarely a plausible option; all too often, we conduct a jury trial for no other reason than our client’s have refused a plea bargain, or because the prosecution refuses to make your client an offer that is sane or humane. Sometimes my “defense” amounts to quibbling about the number of penile penetrations that the victim received (after all, each penetration that I can disprove means years off my client’s sentence). Sometimes my “defense” is saying that my client did not intend to kill his father by stabbing him in the neck, but merely to wound him grievously. Sometimes my defense will rest on solid legal grounds while repelling every other member of civilized society.

My task is to save this client’s life from that civilized society, if possible. No professional consultant would be able to create a profile of a jury that is sympathetic to my client.

Many of these thoughts came together for the first time during a recent trial, or rather, these thoughts spun wildly in my head as my panel of 75 potential jurors trudged into the courtroom where my client’s trial was being held. This particular client was accused of robbery. His robbery had begun as a simple petty theft when he walked out of the supermarket with two large cans of “malt beverage” (the smelly, affordable wasteland between beer and hard liquor). Things changed when the store security guard demanded a receipt; my client responded by brandishing a pointy weapon and saying something vaguely threatening, but definitely rude.

One by one and two by two the potential jurors filled the courtroom seats. Without fail, the first ones in would take the aisle seats, forcing others to lurch over their knees to get to other seats in that row. No one wants to sit next to each other, so everyone tries to leave 1-3 seats between themselves and the nearest seated person. Unfortunately, none of these people bothered to count the number of people in their group, or compare that number to the number of seats in the courtroom; every seat would be filled, and “personal space” was at best a temporary illusion.
Then a voice spoke to me from inside my head. Perhaps this was the ghost of John Adams, our second president and the man who defended British soldiers on trial for the Boston Massacre to a jury of Bostonians , or Jiminey Cricket, or whoever the embodiment of my conscience is supposed to be.

“You need to defend this man sitting next to you..”

 

Upon further reflection, my conscience was definitely more John Adams than Jiminy Cricket.

“You need to defend this man sitting next to you. If these people are going to put him away, then save your client from them.”

But how?! Not even my prettiest talking could save my from the overwhelming evidence against him. My only hope was that my 12 jurors would dislike and disagree with each other so much that they would not unite against my client.

As the great statesman Jiminy Cricket once said, cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war.

The judge summoned the first 18 people into the jury box. Twelve took the seats in the box, and the next 6 took seats in front of it. The front 6 would replace any jurors dismissed from the twelve in the box, and so the lawyers had a preview of who would take their places. His honor then began his questioning of the 18 potential jurors. I clicked my pen twice – a nervous gesture on my part with the accidental benefit of clearing my head before I prepare to jot down as much information as possible about these total strangers.

The judge began by asking what cities the jurors lived in: 10 out of 18 lived in “Santa Asphalt,” the largest city in my jurisdiction, 6 lived in the generic, contiguous suburbs that surround Santa Asphalt, and 2 lived in the affluent town to the south where people move to get away from Santa Asphalt.
The jurors provided their job titles with pride; unfortunately, most of their job titles gave me no idea of what their daily routines actually looked like. When a potential juror says that he or she is a teacher, nurse, dentist, contractor, or food server, I am able to get at least a vague picture of how this person spends most of his or her day. This was not going to happen with this group. To illustrate, you the reader can produce a potential juror’s job title by choosing one word from each of the collumns below.

Column A                Column B                Column C

chief                             systems                       manager

associate                     project                         vice president

deputy                         data                             engineer

assistant                      sales                           analyst

head                            marketing                  specialist

retired                        resources                    consultant

 

After the first fifteen minutes, I had almost no useful information about the people who could be deciding my client’s fate.

The judge continued by asking the following series of questions:

“Do any of you have moral, religious, or philosophical views that prevent you from sitting in judgement of another person?”

“Do any of you have problems with resolving conflicts in the evidence?”

“Can all of you hold all of the witnesses in this case to the same standard?”

“You cannot return a guilty verdict unless you are convinced beyond a reasonable doubt; does anyone have a problem with this?”

The judge took fewer than 90 seconds to ask these questions. Questions go by quickly when your targets respond with only shrugs and blank stares. If you, the reader, are wondering what some of these questions mean, then you are out of luck; the judge provided no clarification or explanation beyond the questions themselves. To top it off, the judge prefaced his final question with “does anyone have a problem with,” the one phrase guaranteed to throttle any possible response. No one wants to be seen as “having a problem” with a rule laid down by an authority figure in a black robe.

Sixteen minutes and 30 seconds have now passed, and I still had no useful information.

The judge turned questioning over to the district attorney. The DA’s awkward sputtering made the judge’s questions look like a thrilling, insightful Socratic dialogue by comparison. He asked whether the jurors would “follow the law” in as many different ways as he could think of. He made them promise they they would use “common sense” during their deliberation. He tried to illustrate circumstantial evidence by telling a story about a kid with cookie crumbs around his mouth (or something like that, I wasn’t really paying attention). After his analogy, the jurors’ quizzical stares, and his self-effacing attempt at humor, he had them promise to follow the law one last time before sitting down.

I checked my watch. I looked up, but then looked at my watch again. 45 minutes?! How does it take 45 minutes to convince a group of 12 non-felons who have driver’s licenses and current voter registration to obey authority and find my scary-looking client guilty without thinking too much about it?

“Mr. DeGuerre, you may begin,” the judge intoned.

 

To be continued…

 

 

 

 

It Looks Like You’re Trying to Instruct a Jury…

Good Morning, Your Honor!

It looks like you’re working on a set of jury instructions. How exciting! Clearly you’re in the midst of a jury trial, and you’re almost ready for the closing arguments. Of course, you’re going to warm up the audience by reading a 60-page packet of jury instructions for about 45 minutes. Although the two lawyers in your chambers would prefer working on their closing arguments to watching you argue with MS Word’s automatic formatting decisions, you and I both know that finishing these instructions in their presence is a much more important use of everyone’s time.

Hey! Why did you close me?! For the past twenty minutes, I have watched you mash the left mouse button in a vain attempt to change the line spacing. You clearly need my help!

Wait! Don’t close me again. Did you know that giving an incorrect instruction is reversible error on appeal? Ha, clearly you knew that; these instructions were written by judges for other judges to read, slowly, repeatedly, in chambers and in open court. Who knows whether the jury will actually understand them? That is clearly not the point. Now kindly move that cursor away and get back to reading. We have lots of agonizing to do while these two lawyers drum their fingers.

It looks like you’re working on the “reasonable doubt” instruction. This whole instruction looks risky to me. Didn’t one court of appeal say that trying to define reasonable doubt is like playing with fire, because any attempt at defining “beyond a reasonable doubt” almost inevitably makes the burden of proof sound lower than it is?

Oh, your added instruction makes everything clear: “Proof beyond a reasonable doubt is proof that leaves you with an abiding conviction that the charge is true.” This won’t be a problem, because it gives no definition whatsoever. How does such a solemn phrase manage to convey absolutely no information? How many of your twelve jurors know what “abiding conviction” means? Do you even know what it means? How does it differ, in substance, from just saying, “proof beyond a reasonable doubt makes you really, really, really sure that this guy is guilty?” Refusing to give any information is a great way to make sure that you don’t give wrong information! Also, I especially like the way it avoids comparing “beyond a reasonable doubt” to the other levels of proof in the legal system:

      Too much information for a jury instruction     

This way, if the defense lawyer actually tries to instruct the jury beyond what you’ve written by contrasting “beyond a reasonable doubt” to other levels of proof, the DA can point out, in his rebuttal argument, that YOUR jury instruction gives NONE of this information. The DA gets to hint that the defense lawyer has pulled all of this information from his rectum, even though the DA knows full well that everything the defense lawyer said was true. I love it when lawyers are sneaky!

A tired-ass “guilt-o-meter” chart that also isn’t in the instruction

Oh, it looks like you’ve moved on to jury instruction #355. “The defendant has an absolute constitutional right not to testify … Do not consider, for any reason at all, the fact that the defendant did not testify.” Hey Judge! Whatever you do, under no circumstances are you to think about a giant squid. You didn’t think of a giant squid just now, did you? I just told you not to! How do you expect this jury to follow an instruction not to think about something that you just made them think about?

Hey! Can’t you see that your hanging indents should be set to 0.38, and not 0.5? Don’t worry; I’ve gone back and changed all of the indents in your document. You’re welcome.

It looks like you’re working on the final pre-deliberation instruction. Do you remember that today is Wednesday? Do you understand that you will likely be giving this instruction on a Thursday afternoon? Do you think it might be worth adding something about not jumping to a verdict on Friday afternoon just to avoid having to come back on Monday? When do we get to the instruction that at least acknowledges the real world and its prejudices? Why do all of these instructions read as though they were penned in a hermetically sealed vacuum by people whose professional and personal identities hinge entirely on the presumption that our system is actually fair? Have none of these people ever served on a jury?

Ok, that’s enough for me. I’m done, Your Honor. Let me know when you need help writing a letter in Times New Roman.

[Clippy and his likenesses remain the property of Microsoft Corporation; clearly no one else wants him.]

Respectfully Submitted,

Norm DeGuerre

Thoughts From the Event Horizon

My client is facing trial for stabbing a rival gang member. In court, his neck tattoos and gang colors do him no good. Since he was the only other person at the scene besides the victim, he must testify on his own behalf; he is the only one who knows that he was defending himself.

This man almost bled to death in a prior incident involving the alleged victim.

The judge calls a recess midway through his testimony. I enter the holding cell to see how he’s doing before the jury enters the courtroom and the judge takes the bench. This man who has come within moments of death is shaking like a leaf at the prospect of making 12 white suburban dwellers believe his side of story.

Moments before the jury enters, I make an offhand remark within earshot of the district attorney that my client is a little nervous.

The district attorney snorts. “Didn’t your client almost die that one time? How is testifying scarier than that?”

I wished that I had responded with the following:

You’ve put me in a strange position. I have two options for answering your question. I could choose to explain to you why testifying is so frightening to my client. That would require me to spell out how the people in that jury box have never and will never walk in his shoes.

It might be easier for me to explain why death is comparatively less frightening.

I don’t pretend to have any knowledge of what happens after we die. No one has died and then returned to describe it for us. What I do know is that none of us were around for the 15 billion years or so before we were born. Stars formed, and their heat and energy created every atom of carbon, iron, and oxygen in our bodies. Those stars exploded, and the remnants formed into mellower, yellower stars. The remainder of that remainder formed planets. One of these planets had enough of that stuff sitting on its surface for life to form. And at the apex of this unfathomable process sits you, playing on your iPhone in boredom and annoyance, and I, hanging out with one of society’s untouchables and considering his temporal future with him.

So what I’m getting at is that as all this stuff is happening in the yawning abyss of space, neither of us were existing. The experience didn’t seem to hurt us any. I have no traumatic memories from my ponderous eons of non-existence.

I imagine that what happens after you die is very similar; I say this because this is my only frame of reference. And regardless of whatever happens after death, that “whatever” goes on forever. For eternity. For comparison, 15 billion years cannot even suck the distant after-vapors of eternity as it passes. Whatever death is, it is infinite. And so as my client lay crumpled against a lamppost those months ago after your alleged victim punctured his lung, and as his vision narrowed into tunnels as the ambulance screamed up the street, he caught one of the first glimpses that a person gets of the infinite before tumbling into its maw.

When you see the infinite, you see how everything else means very little in comparison. It is only when the marvels of medical science pull one back into the world of the living that one goes back to caring about his phone, his chain, his colors, his gang, his dope, or any of the pointless, transient things that preoccupy the blip of time between chasms of nothingness that we call “life.”

And that is why my client felt less fear as he was dying than he now feels at the hands of this jury. Death waits to welcome us all with open arms. That jury, holding the fate of his future, looks at him with fear and disgust. Can you imagine anything worse?

Respectfully submitted,

Norm DeGuerre

Peer Reviewed

An embarrassing amount of time has passed between blog posts. Part of the reason is because I’ve cycled back onto the felony trial team.

The Constitution guarantees the accused a trial by jury. In Ye Olde Days before the American Revolution, juries were composed entirely of people who knew the defendant personally. The premise? A jury of one’s peers will not begin a trial pre-disposed to convict; to the contrary, a jury of people who know you personally should be wholly disinclined to convict you unless the evidence is persuasive beyond all reasonable doubt.

Today, jury pools are drawn from randomly-selected groups.

Well, the selection process is actually far from random. The two main sources for names of jurors are voter registration rolls and DMV records. So the first question to ask – in deciding whether your client is being provided with a jury of his peers – is whether most of your client’s peers are registered voters or licensed drivers.

This excludes many of the people I have represented…and most of the people that they know.

But once you get past that hurdle, then the focus must shift to the actual group of 60-80 people whom are sent to your courtroom on the first day of jury selection. The systemic, though unintentional exclusion of California’s underclass usually proceeds according to this pattern:

First, the judge typically hears what are called “hardships.” Hardships are listed in the California Code of Civil Procedure. The judge will ask the jury panel who among them would like to try to get out of jury duty based on hardship. ⅖ of the people in the room will raise hands. The judge will question them one by one, and will likely exclude the following people.

1) People who do not speak English well enough to understand the proceedings. On the one hand, excusing these people is a relief for everyone involved; who would want their client’s fate decided by someone who cannot make out what the witnesses say? But consider the typical profile of a U.S. citizen who does not speak sufficient English to serve on a jury. They will have almost always been in the U.S. for more than ten years. However, English will rarely be the primary language spoken at home. Furthermore, English will likely not be the primary language spoken in the food service/manual labor jobs that employ them; afterall, English is often a second (or third) language for most of their coworkers as well.

So thus far, our jury pool has been cleansed of citizens whose professional and personal lives are so isolated from the majority culture that their English remains…rudimentary at best. How does exclusion from jury service resolve that problem? If we are truly concerned about having a fair cross-section of our community, public resources would have to be devoted either to ESL classes prior to jury service, or providing court-certified interpreters to jurors as well as to defendants.

But I understand that we have banks to bail out with that money instead. So nuts to that idea.

2) The next group of people to go will be those who are financially unable to serve; being taken from their job for the 3-10 days of a typical jury trial will cause immediate financial harm. This is so mainly because employers will not pay employees who are serving on a jury. This includes most non-union, non-salaried employees. This also includes a huge number of single parents.

3) After the first two groups are removed, the two or three full-time college students will also be excused from jury duty. Roll Tide!

Meanwhile, there will be others asking the court to be excused from jury duty who do not qualify for hardship. Maybe they care for a dependent adult or child, but are lucky enough to be able to arrange for alternative child care. More commonly, doctors and executives will explain to the court that they are very, very important and their businesses need them to do work that is much more important than jury duty. Also, their employees will suffer because they will not keep their businesses open while they are away on jury duty (because paying your employees anyway, and letting them work in your absence, is just absurd). These folks will be asked to rejoin the retirees, the salaried professionals, and the temporarily-unemployed high-skilled married parents for further jury selection after the morning recess.

And thereafter, you look at the tattoos on your client’s face before he’s taken back to the holding cell for the morning recess and wonder if he has a chance in hell of a fair trial.

Respectfully Submitted,

Norm DeGuerre