On Trial

On Trial Kristyna Moran

“They won’t pick you, you’re 19.” My boss said this to me when I told him I would need a day off at the end of the month to attend my first official summons for jury duty. Nineteen, junior college-seasoned, and now a veteran of the late-teen retail worker life, I brought all of my qualifications with me to the county courthouse, along with a fully charged phone and my latest read. My name was called within the first hour. I followed a line of people up the stairs to the courtroom at the end of the hall. We took our seats in the juror’s box. I peered around at my fellows, trying to make it look like I wasn’t peering around at my fellows. There were about fifteen of us, twelve in the box and another few seated in chairs to the side. The judge sat in her stall, with a guard close by. She was older, black-robed, nondescript. The defense lawyer was a blonde woman, mid-thirties maybe, with a cream-colored, Netflix approved pencil skirt suit and an authoritative voice. The prosecutor was a brunette pot of honey that my nineteen-year-old self latched onto with the voraciousness only one who had never experienced the clumsiness of real sex could have. He was tanned, classic California-surfer height, with high cheekbones and ocean-delving blue eyes. He stared into my essence during the brief two second century our eyes met as he buttoned his suit jacket, cleared his throat, and began speaking. One by one, beginning in the back right corner, the lawyers began to question us. Before the questions even hit my neighbor, Juror #8, who, no, did not have any family in law enforcement, I began to picture the sexcapades I would have with the prosecutor in the judge’s chambers, how our forbidden romance would blossom over the coffee cart outside, and the passionate embraces

we would share in the janitor’s closet during court recess. My Law and Order: SVU education failed to remind me that interaction between the lawyers and the jurors is illegal. My one true love turned his gaze toward me, and for a moment we were there, together, alone, whole. With our four children and my New York Times best-selling YA novel, we reminisced about beloved memories of our janitor closet trysts over a splendid glass of Cabernet. His gaze shifted from mine, and he questioned Juror #10 about his occupational history. I waited for him to come back to me. To ask me what my occupational history was. To ask me if I knew someone in law enforcement. To ask me if I believed in climate change or unicorns or that Stonehenge was built by aliens. But he never came back to me, nor did the defense lawyer, or the judge. I was picked for the jury by means of my silence.

The trial lasted a day and a half. A policeman accused an older man of assault. There were pictures, even a brief but blurry video confirming his accusations. The officer took the stand, gave a play-by-play. The accused took the stand, digging himself an even deeper hole with contradictions and obvious falsehoods. I don’t remember much of the details. I do recall the pitter-patter of my heart when the prosecutor caught my eye, his words lost in the buzz of my mind as we held each other’s gaze, my obvious desire for him reciprocated. This was 2011, before the social media era had truly ushered in, before the Black Lives Matter movement, before this case where a black man assaulted a white police officer would have been purposefully ignored by the media gauntlets. I was nineteen and had been chosen to sit on a jury to determine the fate of a man I had never known, and would never know, because that was what justice meant.

I learned assault is classified as any kind of touch not consented to by the assaulted. An uninvited poke in the forearm could be assault. The hefty senior prankster named Justin I knew in high school, who went around slapping girls’ asses so hard all they could do was yelp and squeal and laugh it off with everyone else, would be considered an assaulter. A man hitting another man with a cane repeatedly while yelling obscenities in a drug-induced fervor is a definite case of assault, especially given the fact that the assaulted was a police officer. The case was a clear decision, but it had to be a unanimous vote. I gave my obligatory “guilty” verdict, ignoring the unease in my stomach and the feeling of disgust in my throat as I judged an event I was not present for. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Like a skipping record, every answer was the same until Juror #12. He was a guy about my age wearing a punk band t-shirt, with greasy blonde hair shoved behind his ears and arms crossed over his chest, his fists clenched tight. “I’ll just vote whatever you guys want. I don’t want to be here and I wasn’t paying attention.” All he had to do was utter, “Guilty.” Two syllables. Half a second. Boom. Freedom...for us at least. Instead, his words echoed through the chamber for a moment, before the older folks in the room chastised Juror #12, ultimately resulting in a note to the judge, and all twelve of us filing back into the courtroom. The judge called up Juror #12 with annoyance in her eyes and disgust in her tone as she threatened to hold him in contempt of court. She ordered an alternate to be brought in, for deliberation to start over, another three hours of duty. I nodded along with the disapproving glances around me, but secretly worried for Juror #12. I could tell you what my beloved prosecutor was wearing, a grey suit with a maroon tie, that his hair reflected even the dullest fluorescents, and how passionate our imagined love life was. I could tell you the annoyance flecked across Juror

#12’s face as he was led from the room by a guard. I could also tell you the defendant was an older black gentleman, angry, greyed and grizzled, guilty no matter which way you looked at it with overwhelming physical evidence against him, and that the corners of his mouth lifted a little at the retreating back of Juror #12. And yet I was unable to look the defendant or Juror #12 in the eye. I was nineteen and knew the bottom of a green apple Smirnoff bottle better than any of the most basic laws of society. I was nineteen and earning $8.25 an hour, working over 40 hours a week and taking 18 units at community college, dreaming of the day I’d get to live alongside skyscrapers, screaming car horns, and something different every night of the week. I was nineteen, from a conservative, Friday-night football small town, and I had the power to change this man’s life for the worse. There was hardly any deliberation back in the juror’s room, and the man was found guilty. I don’t remember the punishment; just the resounding “Guilty” echoing the courtroom, beating against my pounding ears, stretching through the small smile on my beloved prosecutor’s face. Maybe his eyes flicked toward me, searching for a job well done and a secret smile. Maybe he nodded to the judge and the defense attorney, the woman burdened with fighting on the losing side, his hands smoothing down the sides of his fancy lawyer jacket. I don’t know exactly what he did, but I do remember the curving of his full lips, and the steady gaze of the defendant as my satisfied prosecutor packed up his bag and the judge excused us. I remember my dry mouth and clammy hands as I stood up. I remember my sheltered corner of the world expanding as my eye caught the defendant’s, his gaze so black, mine so green or hazel or white or whatever he saw in the 19-year-old who was given the right to punish him for something she had not witnessed, something she was not even a part of.

Afterward I walked out of the room and promptly called my boss to tell him, “Yeah, sure, I can come in to help close the store.” I got in my car and drove the half hour to work thinking about my Italian homework, about getting my measly jury duty pay from the county, about the sticky bottom of the Smirnoff bottle and all the ways I would get to it that weekend. I tried not to think about Juror #12, his words in the deliberation room mirroring my own thoughts, and my sudden distaste for the doe-eyed prosecutor who smiled as Juror #1 proclaimed “Guilty” to the silent courtroom.