We
the Jury
Barbara
Stanley
We
had received our instructions and were sequestered in the jury room and by
mid-afternoon, were ready to kill juror number three.
The
deliberations room was small, a compact rectangle at the back of the courtroom.
A long oak table spanned the length of the room; 12 plastic folding chairs snugged
neatly below. Three more folding chairs lined the inside wall. A plate-glass
window ran the length of the opposite wall, shaded with yellowing mini-blinds.
Not that anyone could spy on us as we began our deliberations. Our window
looked out to the brick wall of the commons building next door. The only
visitors were pigeons, and even they couldn’t spy on us—-plastic fringe rimmed
the outside ledges, a roosting deterrent.
At
the far end of the room a plastic cart held a coffee maker, water pitcher,
sugar packets, fake creamer, napkins and paper cups. At the close end, the
bathroom.
“Okay,”
said our foreman, juror number six. “Let’s take another vote, just to see where
we are.” He was a stocky man in his mid-fifties, I guessed, with wiry gray hair
and furrowed face. His name was Leonard and he worked in construction.
“In
favor of the county, raise your hand.”
Three
hands went up.
“In
favor of Tommy Masterson, raise your hand.”
Six hands went up, including mine.
Our
foreman frowned. “Undecided?” he said.
Two
hands slowly went up. Juror number four, a redhead sitting to my right, blushed
and raised her hand also.
Leonard
sighed. “Okay, let’s review the
evidence.”
***
We
were deliberating a conservatorship case. Tommy, the defendant, was the local rich
kid who had run amok for years, spending his family’s money and wreaking
general havoc in the area. He’d had a number of diagnoses, and now his family
wanted him to enter a “locked facility” for six months, so he could be put on a
regimen of drugs and therapy to hopefully get his shit straight. Tommy’s lawyer
argued that the twenty-four-year old was perfectly capable of managing his
affairs and his life without being locked-up against his will. He had initiative,
she said, he was lively and colorful but essentially in control of his life.
Some examples of that control were: quitting his job midweek and hitchhiking to
Mexico, smashing his dad’s Mercedes into a phone pole after a family argument,
inviting strangers to stay at his cottage on his parent’s estate, and providing
them with a key to his parent’s home while said parents were on vacation and
his newest friends needed a place to party.
“We’re
not taking away Tommy’s freedom of choice.” The prosecuting attorney said. “We
are giving Tommy a chance to get the care he needs, get him on a regular med
schedule, help him to take control of his life once more. He will be in a
locked facility for six months, after which he is free to leave should he so
choose.”
Three
of us found for the county in our first vote. Three voted for Tommy. Five
wanted more deliberation before committing to a vote. And the last juror?
He
had just used the bathroom.
My
God. The real criminal was the idiot who had designed the deliberations room.
Who puts the bathroom smack in front, then builds paper-thin walls to surround
it? And who doesn’t put in a fan?
Juror
number three was noisy in there, bad enough. It’s pretty horrible to be holding
a fake conversation with ten strangers while all of you pretend not to hear the
explosions behind the door.
Then
the guy opens the bathroom door, keeps it open, and our little room
is enveloped in a noxious sewer-cloud.
Add to
that windows that don’t open and you might understand why juror number nine, a
tall thin guy with glasses, cursed and banged his fist on the table the second
time it happened.
Our
foreman stood up and quietly kicked the door shut, but the damage had already
been done. Juror number four fanned herself and grimaced. I suppressed a glare
at number three, who had taken the seat to my left and showed not a trace of
embarrassment.
“Um,
I’m just not sure Tommy isn’t being railroaded by his family.” Number seven got
us back on track. “They’re a powerful family with a public image to support.”
“Are
you kidding?” said number eight, a jumpy, ferret-faced engineer. “What does he
have to do next, burn the house down?”
“Hold
on.” Leonard said, raising a hand. “Remember our rules—-no sarcasm, no
interrupting. Everyone has a turn, and one person at a time speaks.”
The
afternoon dragged on.
***
He
had been soft-spoken during voir dire-—a tall, narrow man with a slight stoop,
moist eyes, shiny dome with four-strand comb-over.
There
was an awkward charm to him, the way his hands jiggled while being questioned,
the way his adam’s apple bobbed when he gave his answers. No, he’d
never served on a jury before. Yes,
he would be able to be fair and impartial while reviewing evidence. No, he did
not know anyone who had been committed. He swallowed hard and tugged at his
tie. The attorney for the county rustled his papers and the defense attorney
smiled. He was in.
Howard
“call me Howie” Lodge, juror number three.
The
first morning we began deliberations. We compared notes, voiced opinions on the
validity of evidence and witnesses, batted “conservatorship” and “plaintiff”
back and forth. Juror number seven brought us homemade muffins, chewy raison-y
bran things that went down well with coffee.
Then
we took a mid-morning break.
There
was no way to have complete privacy while using the bathroom, not the way the
room was situated. You did your best to muffle the thunder of your pee while
outside people talked a little louder and moved closer to the coffee cart.
But
when Howie used the bathroom he might as well have kept the door open, for all
the privacy he afforded us. And when he finally left, he did not have the
decency or brains to keep the door closed.
That
was the first morning, and in the afternoon, after lunch, it got worse.
“Jeeee—zuz,”
muttered number nine when Howie exited the bathroom a third time. “He’s gonna
kill us all.”
The
rest of the afternoon we debated on Tommy’s rights versus the threat he posed
to himself and his family, all the while struggling not to breathe too deeply.
I
considered writing a note to the judge. But what could I say? “Your Honor, juror
number three takes deadly dumps. Kindly replace with the first alternate. Thank
you.”
By
the next morning break number one, a round grandmotherly type who hadn’t said
much, clapped her hands together and exclaimed “Ooof!” when number three exited
the bathroom yet again. Thirty minutes after that, she changed her vote.
Conservatorship:
two
Tommy
Masterson: eight
Undecided:
two—red-headed number four, and number ten, a glassy-eyed retired accountant,
newly widowed.
The
rest of the morning was several more rounds of conservatorship versus personal
freedom, with no one budging an inch. We were approaching a stalemate.
Just
before lunch, jumpy ferret eight dove in.
“This
guy is out of control. He’s been destructive, he’s put his family at risk. It’s
one six month period out of his entire life. I don’t see the problem here. What
if it was your kid? Yeah, maybe it’s tough love, but wouldn’t you want to do
something, anything to help him?” Though he spoke to all of us, his eyes were
on the two undecideds.
Red-headed
four squirmed in her seat and glassy-eyed ten looked noncommittal. After a
long, uncomfortable silence Leonard looked at the clock and called for a lunch
break. The wave of relief that washed through the room was almost palpable, but
I wondered how many also experienced the dread of deliberations to come.
***
We
slogged back in after lunch. It was time to get things moving forward. I
scanned the table, glanced briefly at juror five—who had hinted at a post-trial
hook-up with me before changing his vote to Tommy—and spoke.
“I’m
for Tommy,” I said. “Yes, he’s wild, but who among us hasn’t done crazy things
when we were young? I’m young, and there’s lots of stuff I’ve done that
I’m not proud of (at this juror five grinned). But locking him up—that seems
like a violation of his rights. And his family has an image to preserve in this
community, even though we all know they’re some of the biggest slumlords in the
county—”
“Hold
on, Alyssa,” Leonard said. “Let’s not fling opinions around as facts.”
“All
right,” I said. “All I’m saying is it’s
a big jump from wanting Tommy to go to therapy to forcing him to stay somewhere
for six months, against his will. We all heard the family’s testimony. They
haven’t tried an intervention, they haven’t tried counselling, they just want
to lock him up. That doesn’t sit right with me.”
I
glanced over at number four, who was nodding her head in agreement. I smiled at
glassy-eyed ten, who had flirted with me at the coffee cart.
I
took a deep breath. “We may not like him, we may think he’s a jerk. But what if
it was your kid? Would you do this to him?”
The
minutes ticked by in silence as we breathed the last of the fetid air. Finally,
number four cleared her throat and spoke, her cheeks as red as her hair.
“I
just can’t do it, not in good conscience—locking Tommy away seems so harsh,
when his family has money and other options. I just can’t find for the county.”
Ten
also nodded in agreement, before giving me a roguish look.
Conservatorship:
one
Tommy:
eleven
We
sat at the table, looking at the walls, looking at the windows, looking out into
deep space, hoping for rescue. Then Howie cleared his throat several times and
shifted in his chair. When he turned towards the bathroom and made a move to
get up from his chair jumpy ferret eight, the conservatorship holdout, held up
his hands in surrender.
“All right, all right,” he said.”
I find for Tommy.”
It
was over, thank God. And not a minute too soon. We all scurried out before
number three used the bathroom again.
***
The
Tiki Room had been around forever, tucked off the main street but with an ample
parking lot to accommodate its many long-time customers. I looked to be the
only person under sixty in the place—even the servers had gray hair. I
practically felt my way to the bar; the chocolate-colored walls, red vinyl
booths, and worn wood tables with their mini electric tiki torches gave the
whole place a cave-like goodfellas vibe, like I had accidentally stepped back
into 1965. The bar was just beyond.
He
sat at the end of the empty bar, nursing a drink—bourbon, from the looks of it,
rolling the tumbler back and forth between his hands. Our eyes met, and he tipped
his head to the empty stool next to him, smiling at me.
“Uncle
Phil,” I said, “Good to see you!”
“Good
to see you too,” “Uncle Phil” said, wrapping me in a bear hug as he slipped an
envelope into my purse. A thousand bucks cash. I’d already concocted the cover
story of a lucky scratcher—not that any of my friends would ask—and there was
no way to connect me with Tommy. “Uncle Phil” would soon be on his way back to
wherever he came from, in the covert employ of Tommy Masterson.
“You
did good,” he said. Unanimous vote. Chances of re-trial—nil. Tommy Masterson
was free to pursue his worthless pursuits, probably tucked away somewhere
exotic, while his family foot the bill and preserved their benevolent local
image.
My
“uncle” bought me a drink—a Manhattan, in keeping with the retro vibe—and went
over my last instructions.
“I
stay here for dinner, you leave by the back entrance and make sure nobody sees
you. Then we forget this ever happened and you go spend your money, but not too
obvious. Easy, right?”
“Easy,”
I nodded.
His
eyes flicked to a distant booth. “Too bad. You two made a good team, but you
shouldn’t be seen together again,” he said.
Huh?
I didn’t know I’d been working in tandem, but after thinking it through…
Uncle
Phil nodded towards the booth and through the murky dark I made out a familiar
figure slurping down a bowl of what was probably extra spicy chili. Howie gave
us an aborted wave that Uncle Phil batted down.
“Now
we all go our separate ways and everybody lives happily ever after,” my fake uncle
said.
Agreed.
With
that, he exited the bar and went into the dining room to join two beefy-looking
guys who had just been seated.
I lingered
long enough to finish my drink, eyes down, avoiding Howie. When I looked up later,
he was gone. The bartender nodded to someone, and next thing I knew a bird-like
waitress appeared at my stool, took my elbow and gently ushered me through a
maze-like hallway to the kitchen and out the back door.
I
was about to round the corner and walk the two blocks to my car when a dark shape
disengaged itself from the shadows of the parking lot. I didn’t scream
though—this was a shape I recognized. Unfortunately.
“Hey
partner,” Howie said, moving towards me. “We should celebrate. Like to go to
dinner sometime?” He tugged at his tie and smiled what I assumed was his most
dazzling smile. A piece of green something or other was stuck between his
teeth.
“Um,
sorry, I’m uh, engaged.” I said. It was
sort of the truth. I was engaged in making a quick exit—from him, from my
“uncle,” from the whole thing.
Howie
paused for a moment—presumably to give me a chance to reconsider—then turned on
his heel and walked back into the night as I walked the opposite way to my car,
a thousand dollars richer.
From
far away a nightingale sang an exuberant song, congratulating me on my good
work. I sat in my car and relished the moment, after deleting the contact info
of jurors five and ten from my phone (sorry, guys). I patted the thick envelope
in my bag, enjoying its heft, thinking about the situations that come up in life.
This job, for instance—easy money, though not that easy when I pictured
Howie’s smile as he exited the bathroom. But it was all over now and I was free
with a fat purse and a rosy future—for a month or two, at least.
I
started the engine to head home. Too bad I couldn’t tell anyone how this all came
together, it was pretty unbelievable really.
Somebody
should write a story about it.
END