Judging Monica. Pts. 1-4

This week was a rather singular week in that for the first time in my 2/3 of a century on earth, I had jury duty. It is only now that I can talk about it; since it is past tense. To have shared the following information, before now, would have placed me in jeopardy of fine or incarceration.

The first day of my tenure represented a juror selection process. My group of 25 were ushered into one of several courtrooms, and provided an exhaustive (and exhausting) briefing by ‘Judge Caruso.’ Following his recurring rendition of the process and rules (recurring since he has done so on a weekly basis for as long as he has tried cases here) the judge allowed the prosecutor, and subsequently, the defense attorney to question the prospective jury.

At the defense table sits a balding middle-aged man. It seems he has been accused of battery. He rarely looks up from the papers strewn across the table before him, as if he is embarrassed by his supposed transgression. As it falls together the interrogation ends, and my compatriots and I are ushered from the room to await the determination of the District 10 Prosecutor and ‘Jim Miller’s’ Defense Attorney.

Ultimately, we are ushered back into the courtroom and Judge Caruso announces the selection of six jurors and one alternate. Yours truly is not selected. With this, we are provided two essential bits of information. We will be allowed an hour for lunch (and) thereafter we will be required to gather in the same courtroom, and submit ourselves to the same judge, but a different prosecutor and defense attorney.

Having exited the courthouse, driven to Burger King, purchased a bacon whopper, found a table, consumed said burger, departed the premises, driven back to the courthouse, made my way through the metal detector, and rejoined my compatriots outside the courtroom suddenly a thin young lady, clothed in a black, sleeveless blouse, and flowing white skirt strode out of the elevator. Her bleach blonde hair hangs loosely about her shoulders.

Pt. 2

Seconds later the elevator reopened, and another female of approximately the same age, also blonde, but more fittingly attired, joined us in the ninth floor lobby. It was readily apparent that I was looking at the next scheduled defendant and defense attorney on the docket. With this, “Ms. Grady” stepped up to the bailiff and informed him that she and her client wished to enter the courtroom. He smiled, opened one of the double doors, and nodded his approval.

Within minutes the 18 of us who had survived the initial jury selection filed into the jury box, and a row of chairs on the floor level of the courtroom. Having taken our seats we were spared the “All Rise” command, as the judge was already seated on his dais, and held his peace as we had found our places. We were also spared the exhaustive rendition to which we had formerly been exposed; in favor of a slightly abbreviated version of the same speech. Prior to “handing the ball” off to the prosecutor and defense attorneys Judge Caruso announced the pending charges against the defendant. Without going into detail here suffice it to say that “Monica M.” had been arrested for possession of a particular illegal substance, and with the assumed intention of distribution.

And, of course, at this point it was the two attorneys’ turns to “do their thing,” and they proceeded to ask the obligatory questions; which, as before, were relatively few in number. I must have an honest face since not only had I been asked one of the few questions asked in the first selection process, but now in the second.

“Mr. McDonald, has your wife ever asked you to hold her purse?”

To which I responded,

“Well, yes. Yes, she has.”

Ms. Grady continued.

“And do you generally avoid opening the purse and itemizing the contents.”

I responded with,

“Yes. It’s never been my habit to do that sort of thing.”

Pt. 3

It was obvious where this was going.

While the prospective jury had already been informed that court would be adjourned until Thursday, Ms. Grady intended to leave us with a “post hypnotic suggestion” of sorts; upon which to ruminate for the next three days. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to understand her implication. She would stake her client’s freedom, (or lack thereof) on the case that whomsoever happened to be with her on the day of her arrest, upon seeing the blue lights, “stashed his stash” in her purse.

Having completed the screening process we were dismissed from the courtroom, with the command that we wait in the lobby ‘til the attorneys had selected the six jurors and one alternate. We did as we were bidden.

After what seemed a particularly long wait, the bailiff stepped outside the courtroom, and began to call the names of “the lucky few.”

“Peter Crenshaw, Laura Daniels, James Segal, Jenny Rider, Ann Peters, Sally Trusoe”

and

(I just knew I had avoided the worst)…

“William McDonald.”

(Well, no. Apparently not).

Filing back into the courtroom we were afforded a few final instructions, including an admonition not to speak to anyone about the details of the trial, and were abjured to present ourselves at the Jury Assembly Area on Thursday.

Pt. 4

Arriving home I did what I could to forget the events of the day, and vowed to enjoy my Tuesday and Wednesday; prior to the advent of my juror duties on Thursday. As it fell together, I was rather successful in my decision to put the matter aside in favor of more convenient pursuits.

Come Thursday, however, I “set an azimuth” for that 9 story monstrosity of a building in the county seat of Bartow, Florida, drove into the jury parking lot, departed the automobile, made my way through the obligatory metal detector, and took the “Blue Elevator” up to the second floor Jury Assembly Area.

After my fellow six jurors and I sat in the Juror Lounge for a quarter hour, and I “coughed up” a ridiculous $1.50 for a bottled coke from a vending machine, “Mrs. Harris” (Polk County Clerk of the Courts) strode in, and notified us that Judge Caruso was on his way down to speak to us. With this, we were summarily ushered into the Assembly Room.

Three minutes later and “here come the judge.”

Judge C. walked through the open portal wearing dress slacks, shirt, tie (and a smile), but minus the black robe of which, by this time, we were so familiar.

Suddenly, he spoke.

“Well folks, it seems Ms. Grady, the defense attorney, has developed the flu, and is in the hospital. The trial for which you have been selected will not be convened this month. I am releasing you to return to your separate homes. Whereas, you were previously bound not to speak about your experiences here, this constraint is now removed; with the exception of the names of the defendants. Thank you for your service.”

Did I mention as a counselor yours truly is a stickler for information and understanding? (Well, I am). Thus, I raised my hand and asked what to me was a rather obvious question.

“Judge Caruso, just to be sure. Does this mean our group of jurors will not recalled for this particular trial?”

Nodding, the kindly judge responded.

“No, your service is completed. We will select an entirely new group of jurors when the trial resumes in April.”

Afterward

I can tell you I wasn’t disappointed with the news.

For you see, having spent approximately ten hours in a courtroom environment, over the course of two days, I had developed a particular bit of insight that has always been obvious, but which had become all too experiential in nature.

And this is…

There are literally thousands of potentially innocent people serving time in our country’s prisons.

(Yes. I assure you, there are).

And as I had prepared to drive to that 9 story monstrosity on Thursday morning this particular consideration was on my mind. Would I and my fellow jurors convict an innocent woman? Would she, as a result, spend several years behind bars? And had my fellow jurors and I convicted a real live person named Monica M., would I be prone to think about her on a recurring basis, and wonder whether she was thinking about our intolerably incorrect verdict; with the realization that she’d done nothing whatever to deserve the judgment we’d imposed upon her?

I will never think about the Monica C.’s of the world in quite the same way again.

Note: All names are fictionalized, though all other information is accurate.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 52. Copyright pending

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