The Trial: The Fall of the First Star

Why the hell was a 37 year old man at a college party? Doesn’t that seem odd? Maybe he fingered Poke because he wanted to be a hero for once, not a loser again.

And let's talk about his state of mind. His age and his presence at the party make it pretty clear that he's a little weird under the best of circumstances. Plus, he admitted he’d had a couple of beers before the party, and another one or two at the party.

He also said he'd smoked “a little crack” that night. What the heck is "a little crack?"

His clear-cut story suddenly seemed a bit jagged. Sure, he’d known Poke for years and could recognize his voice, but being drunk and high messes with your mind. Surround it all with dozens of running, scared, screaming college kids and who knows what was fact and what was illusion.

Continue: Star Witness #2

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The Trial: Star Witness #2

He took the stand, nervous and alone, and admitted to starting the whole thing. When Joe jostled him by the keg and didn't apologize enough, this guy called his buds from Mission Park and asked for help. “Some guy is steppin’ to me."

With his posse he hunted Joe down near the kitchen. "I pulled out my knife and backed him up against the wall to let him know I was serious."

"But I never really meant to hurt him" – he wanted respect, not blood – "so I put my knife back in my pocket. Suddenly Poke jumped in and started stabbing. I freaked out and ran like everybody else."

It sounded improbable and even inexcusable. It also sounded like the truth. By the time of the trial he’d moved to Florida because he feared for his life in Boston. He no longer spoke to his friends — he had become their enemy. 

Continue: The Second Star Falls

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The Trial: The Second Star Falls

Poke’s attorney attacked.

Why had he called his friends for back-up if he had no intention of hurting Joe? Why hunt Joe like an animal? Why not just walk away? All he did was bump into you by mistake.

And you pulled a knife? Are we really supposed to believe you put it back in your pocket — amazingly!  — right before my client stabbed Joe? Why didn't you tell the police the truth when you spoke to them the first time? Or the second time? How about under oath to the grand jury? Which version should we believe? Are you lying right now?

You’re crying because you’re scared? Of what, the truth? Are you afraid your friends won't like the truth, or because they don't like your lies?

If it wasn’t my client, aren’t you the most logical suspect?

The prosecutor never asked anyone if they had seen this guy stab Joe.

Continue: A Letter from Prison

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The Trial: A Letter from Prison

The police finally searched Poke's apartment 6 months after the murder, an outrageous delay considering eyewitnesses had told them that night he was the killer.

From prison, Poke heard they were coming and wrote a letter begging his younger brother to "get everything out of my room." The prosecutor presented this plea as an admission of guilt. If Poke had nothing to hide, why ask his brother to hide everything?

We deliberated about it for hours. I was not the only one who agreed with the prosecutor. My conviction grew stronger when we learned the police had, in fact, found a red bandana like the one the murderer had worn in Poke's room.

But there was another, reasonable perspective: when you're 18, innocent, and facing life without parole, you do everything possible to suppress evidence that could be spun against you.

As for that bandana, well, teenage me had bandanas, too.

Continue: We the Jury

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The Trial: We, The Jury

I stared at Poke, hoping for some sign that we had done the right thing. I found some comfort in the way he collapsed into his chair and began crying when the foreperson said, "Not Guilty," and his friends and family in the tense courtroom erupted with joy.

Then, "Nooooooo!"

The wail of Joe's mother tore through all their hugs, high fives and triumph.

As the twelve of us jurors shuffled towards the exit and Poke whispered, "Thank you," her torment turned to rage.

 

"Don't you dare say thank you! You killed my baby you murderer. This jury is lying. This is not justice. You killed my baby!"

Back in the deliberation room, two jurors sobbed, one prayed the Our Father aloud, and the rest of us were stunned and speechless. The judge assured us trials don't get any harder and juries don't get any better. We had done our job.

Continue: Echoes of a Scream

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The Trial: Echoes of a Scream

Joe's mother's screams were still searing themselves into our memories when the bailiff escorted us down the freight elevator, past the loading dock, and out the back of the courthouse. "Just in case," the judge had said.

We the jury found our way through the brick streets of Beacon Hill and headed home, or to work, or to wherever else you go when you know that "Not Guilty" does not change the horrible facts.

A young man was dead, killed for nothing. Another young man had avoided life without parole for a crime he probably committed. "Probably" is not "beyond a reasonable doubt."

We did not lie. We worked as honestly as we could to find the truth. We followed the rules of the court. Those two weeks made me proud to serve on a jury.

Was it justice?

What does justice even mean when a mother has lost her son?

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