He Is Me
On being a juror
Recently, I received a summons for jury duty. Most of us groan when we get the envelope, but this time I felt curious. I was fortunate to have the time to participate without stress, and I thought it would be an interesting experience, especially in our small, rural county. It proved much more than I anticipated.
I showed up on a Tuesday morning at the county courthouse, fifty miles away over curvy mountain roads, the last twenty miles paralleling our nearby Wild and Scenic River, full to the brim and then some.
About sixty of us were summoned. Everyone was outside on the court steps, chatting away in the sunshine. It seemed more like a summer barbecue than an official proceeding. In a county of three-thousand people, the pool of eligible adults is small and most everyone knew most everyone else. A few families even had multiple representatives.
We were soon ushered into the upstairs courtroom to begin the selection process and that’s when the experience started to shift for me. The visiting judge was firm, friendly, and generous with the jury. It was clear we were entering a ritual space, where the archetypal Law was our guide, a Law established on the values of fairness, due process, and a presumption of innocence. As these values shown through, I felt touched and transported into a broader realm, which contained but was not confined to our small courtroom.
Though I would come to see imperfections in the system, opportunities for abuse, and exit ways for those with means, I was profoundly struck by the living integrity and nobility of the underlying intentions. Our country often claims that our military actions abroad are to deliver the same opportunities for a fair hearing by one’s peers that our justice system provides. While I am skeptical of this as the ultimate intent of such actions, I could see why this could also be true. Thinking of the sacrifices that unwitting young people make in the name of such aims, I pledged to participate completely and sincerely.
Eventually I was selected for the jury. Sort of. I served as “Alternate Juror Number 1.” This meant I listened to all the testimony, but when the jury went into deliberations, I did not attend, nor did I cast a vote. As often happens for me, it seemed the Universe’s request of me was simply to witness, to be fully present without outward action.
The proceedings were gripping. The case was not complex – a man was accused of stealing from his neighbors, he said he hadn’t. Prosecution, defense, and witnesses moved in a highly choreographed dance, overseen by the judge, assisted by the bailiff and court recorder. The jury served exceptionally – punctual, attentive at each juncture, asking insightful and clarifying questions. The judge kindly noted our performance. Everyone was doing their best.
Finally came the time to discuss and decide. I sat outside in the hallway alongside the other alternate juror, chatting with the local deputy and the many folks visiting the various county offices. Most everyone was on a first name basis, asking about kids and post-winter land cleanup and cattle. And then it was decided. A piece of paper passed from the jury, upstairs to the judge, who called us back into the courtroom. The lawyers and defendant stood as we entered and for a moment we were all standing in each other’s presence, something weighty and important – sacred even – about to transpire.
For all of us but one – the defendant – tonight would be a night like any other, tomorrow would be a day like any other. For the defendant it could be like that too, or it could be entirely different, and the start of an entirely different time. I was glad I hadn’t had to vote, it wasn’t clear enough to me in either direction (though conversation with my peers may have helped). I felt I was being asked to hold all possibilities.
The judge read the verdict. The courtroom froze. My heart convulsed. Guilty.
I wanted to cry. Not because it wasn’t true, it may well have been. But because of the weight of it all. A man’s life in our hands, the life of his children and their mother, how could we not feel it? All of us had participated, all of us had been touched. I felt the room flooded with tension and relief, with sincerity and heartbreak. Everyone in that room, including the accused, had all been doing the best they could, at every moment along the way. And yet, it was also a tragedy that played out in those few days, even if it was also what we call justice.
I cried in my car, cried on the drive home, cried as I shared the experience with my wife. Why? Not because the jury made the improper decision. But because in some way we never should have been there at all. No one should feel they have to steal, no one should be without better options, no one should be without the capacity to consider other possibilities and ask for help. None of us should feel that the World is not here for us, with its spirits and peoples and natural abundance.
It could just as easily have been me heading to jail that night. What was the difference between the accused and me? Being born into different circumstances, having different abilities and different opportunities. These feel randomly given. There is no true reason that I should have been given things that he was not. “There but for the grace of God go I.” It was also me that entered the jail cell that evening, who is there still.
“Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me” (Matthew 25:40). It is also true that what we do to the least of us – which is each of us - we do to ourselves. Ultimately the words “me” and “you” disappear into the great “us” and so his fate is also my fate, our fate.
The memory of this experience starts to recede, the events of the intervening and current moments intercede and obscure.
May I not forget
May I be with him in his cell
May I be with him in our shared heart
May he receive what he needs to become more whole
May I as well
May we all
Postscript – This experience included an unexpected and delightful encounter. The defendant was represented by two attorneys from San Francisco. The younger of the two deftly handled many of the proceedings during the trial, including kindly and clearly guiding his nervous client through his time on the stand. The older attorney – early on announcing his age of 89 – held forth during the opening and closing remarks, drawing our hearts and minds to the greater energies at work in our task of determining guilt and innocence. Listening to his orations was like experiencing a great Shakespearean actor at the height of his powers. I looked him up afterwards – J. Tony Serra – an attorney for over fifty years, defending the likes of the Black Panthers, Hells Angels and Symbionese Liberation Army. He took a personal vow of poverty decades ago, living in radical modesty, and he’s gone to prison twice for not paying taxes as a protest against unjust wars. The film True Believer (1989) is loosely based on him and one of his cases. What a privilege and inspiration to be in his presence.
You allowed yourself to be fully engaged in the courtroom and were able to put yourself in the defendants shoes. I’m glad that your compassionate nature came through.
Thank you 🙏