What is the one thing universally understood to ruin anybody’s day? Jury Duty. I can now relate to the millions of Americans who have gone to the mailbox with high expectations, only to find an envelope inscribed with the words: JURY DUTY: YOUR CIVIC OBLIGATION. Nnnnnnnnooooooooooooo.
Although going down to Chelsea (which I envisioned as similar to East Roxbury) was not what this blond Atlanta girl planned on doing Jan. 15, I went with the highest hopes, and the reality of the situation did not fully hit me until I handed my cab driver the $25 fare and he drove away, leaving me all alone in front of the Chelsea Court House. As a first-timer, I had no idea this day would bring a long wait, a mortifying situation and a disheartening end.
Walking into the room and finding the other jurors patiently waiting, I became acutely aware of how out of place I was. I looked around the mix, identifying the ‘old pros,’ those so accustomed to the routine that they had fallen asleep with their faces smushed against the walls, the ‘I am way too important to be here’ people, who had legal documents spilling out of their briefcases and cell phones sewn to their ears and the ‘I am way too dependent on my man’ women, who had dragged their significant others along.
Finally a young girl who looked like she shared my confusion walked in. She sat next to me, and it turned out she also went to Boston University. We struck up a conversation covering all the typical gripes about jury duty and missing classes. As the conversation came to an end, we took out books and prepared to wait it out, and wait we did.
Four hours, three bottles of water and four bathroom trips later, a man came in and summoned us into the court room.
First the judge explained to us the case, a basic assault and battery. The judge then introduced us to the lawyers, the defendant and the witnesses before asking a series of yes or no questions to see whether we knew the defendant or stood to gain any money out of the whole ordeal.
At one point, I leaned over to my BU friend and said, ‘I cannot even believe this is happening.’ As soon as I said it, a hush fell over the courtroom and the judge stopped mid-sentence, and asked ‘Am I interrupting anything?’ All eyes turned to wait for our response. Every ounce of blood in my body rushed to my face as I looked around desperately, praying he was not talking to me. When I realized he was, I could only violently shake my head. He looked at me for what seemed like hours, and when I thought I could not stand it another minute, he said, ‘Good. If you keep your mouth shut, we will get along just fine.’
He resumed the series of questions, but I paid little attention because I was so fixated on finding the fastest way out of the courtroom. I had almost completed my plan when he called out the first juror, ‘Elizabeth Beacham.’ No possible way!
After seven jurors had been selected, I waved goodbye to my friend and cursed my parents for giving me a last name that started with a letter so close to the beginning of the alphabet. Even though I was annoyed, I will admit I did feel a certain amount of excitement about witnessing a real court case. That excitement quickly gave way to disappointment and confusion.
The lawyers began stammering through their opening statements. They were so bad that I, armed only with knowledge attained from a brief participation in mock trial during high school and several speeding tickets, was assured I could do a better job than their random smattering of facts between painfully long ‘uuuhhhs.’
The prosecutor called his first witness, the defendant’s wife. Through the lawyer’s stupidity, the Spanish translated into broken English and the occasional sobs coming from the witness stand, I began, somewhat unsuccessfully, to piece the story together as the clock ticked slowly toward 4:00.
The court closed for the day, leaving my fellow jurors and me tired and perplexed. We all stumbled out of the courtroom searching for a bus stop. The nearest one was, of course, about eight blocks away, the sun was setting on this shady part of town, and it was about 12 degrees. We arrived, half frozen, only to be greeted by what I assumed to be about half the population of Chelsea.
I dragged myself into Hamilton House happy to be home. As I climbed in bed that night, I felt relieved that it was over, but dreaded having to return in the morning.
The judge had warned us not to arrive any later than 9:00 a.m., so when my cab driver got lost for the third time, I began to get a little nervous. I ran into the juror’s room out of breath and praying the judge wouldn’t single me out again. It turned out that the trial did not resume until 9:45 because the wife and children had neglected to show up. How does that happen; did they just forget?
The only witness remaining was the defendant himself. He took the stand, translator in tow, and denied every charge made against him. As we walked in the room to make our decision, I was convinced that there was no possible way we could convict him. Unfortunately, two people completely agreed with me and three people were adamant about convicting him. They said that they had no trouble believing the wife beyond a reasonable doubt.
As the bailiff ordered us lunch, I was ready to do anything to get out of that room. With a lot of begging and arguing, we were ultimately able to reach a consensus.
As we filed back into the court room, we all watched the defendant’s face. As I looked at him and I thought ‘Oh no, we made a mistake!’ I wished we could have given him a guilty verdict, but it was too late. The foreman got up and announced ‘not guilty.’
We were all standing outside the courtroom when he walked out. He smirked and thanked us. I felt sick to my stomach, but what else could we have done? If the lawyers had given us any evidence, we would have decided upon a different verdict, but because neither lawyer did their job, there is a man walking around the streets of Chelsea right now who probably beats his wife and children.
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