The Trial: I, The Juror

The building had a mix of bureaucratic shabbiness and judicial majesty found in courts everywhere. I walked in hoping to be dismissed early, but still curious enough to be truthful.

The judge started with some questions for the room that did nothing to get me off the hook -- when she said celebrating Rosh Hashanah was a legitimate reason to be excused, half the room converted to Judaism.

Before long I was at the bench facing Her Honor, the assistant DA, the defendant, and his lawyer. "Your questionnaire says you've been mugged, robbed, and assaulted," the judge noticed. "Was that all one incident?"

"No, your honor. They were all separate incidents."

"Wow. Unlucky. Would that bias you against the defendant?"

"No. He didn't do it."

She smiled. "Have a seat."

Like that, I was a juror on a murder trial. It took several boring hours for the rest to be chosen.

Continue: His Peers, and Mine

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The Trial: His Peers, and Mine

It took all day to seat 12 plus alternates, and the judge chastised prospects putting self above duty: "I don't believe you. I don't want a liar in my jury or my courtroom. Get out." Others were excused for legitimate reasons.

In the end, Poke got a jury of his peers. There was the retired white teacher who became our forewoman. The black fireman who'd been met with slurs and bricks when his school bus arrived in Charlestown in 1975 (he's never been back). A middle-aged plumber type who'd been arrested as a young man. "That was a long time ago. Have a seat," said the judge.

One woman lived in a project, like Poke. Another walked in Boston's annual March for Peace. I briefly fantasized the youngest woman would make things more interesting. Then she proved to not be that interesting.

Together with the rest, we took our responsibility seriously.

Continue: Witnesses of Various Worth

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The Trial: Witnesses of Various Worth

Only lawyers know why they call the witnesses they do.

Most were at the party when Joe died but didn't see it happen. And...?

One testified he knew he wasn't drunk because he still had some beers left in his Friday night 12-pack. The judge laughed though we couldn't.

An expert showed a knife everyone agreed wasn't used to kill Joe. They'd found it in Poke's home.

A detective provoked an urgent and sustained "Objection!" for saying he worked in the gang unit. It's the, ahem, Youth Violence Strike Force.

Then there was Chris. Chris mattered. He'd been flown in from an Army base in Germany and, wearing his dress uniform, wept as he told a roomful of strangers his First Aid training failed his best friend. Like a movie, he held Joe in his lap and begged him to hang on. The ambulance was too slow, and death too indifferent.

Continue: Joe We'll Never Know

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