Since the perky, smiling tipstaff kept warning us not to talk about the case, we didn’t. The other jurors and I had been filing in and out of the cold courtroom several times over the past day and a half, but every time we sat in the jury room together, waiting for the next court-related thing to happen, we barely spoke or looked at each other. It was as if the unspoken threat of mistrial hung over our heads, warning us that if we spoke too soon or too freely, we would risk failing our civil duty and forcing another pool of jurors to start over simply because we couldn’t keep our mouths shut. So we sat in awkward silence.
Only one more piece of the trial remained. We had already heard the testimony and closing arguments. After lunch, the judge said she would give her final instructions and send us back to the jury room to deliberate. It was almost time to talk.
When I returned to the jury room after lunch, it looked like a handful of jurors had stayed in there, including one young woman who had put her head down on the table. She held a soft sweater and was rubbing it lightly on the side of her face. It looked like she was trying to sleep. Something looked odd and I found myself staring at her, trying to figure out what she was doing. Was she… no… yes…what!?
She was sucking her thumb.
This grown woman was sucking her thumb, moving her jaw like an infant with a pacifier in its mouth. Clutching her comfort “blanket,” she closed her eyes and rested, barely attempting to hide her appallingly regressive behavior.
As other jurors returned from lunch, they, too, caught sight of the thumb-sucking and, like me, gazed at her with puzzled stares. One elegant, well-dressed woman sitting next to the thumb-sucker waited until the girl casually opened her eyes. The elegant woman quickly made a jerking motion with her hand, which clearly told her to “get that thumb out of your mouth.”
The young thumb-sucker smiled lazily and ignored her, like a sleepy baby who grins at her mother and falls back asleep.
In all my worldly experience, I had never witnessed anything like this and it shocked me. What did it mean? Did this girl have mental issues? Was this behavior the result of severe emotional trauma? Did she even have the maturity or capacity to participate on a jury?
There was little time to contemplate because the judge was ready, so we filed out once more to hear her final instructions. The judge announced the charges, carefully read the specific law that pertained to each and dismissed us.
It was finally time to deliberate.
“Does anyone want to be foreman?” someone asked, adhering to the tipstaff’s first and foremost directive to pick one. No one jumped at the chance. I thought the older gentleman on the other side of the table might volunteer, but he didn’t. I almost suggested the well-dressed woman, since she was the only person in the room with the chutzpah to tell that girl to stop sucking her thumb. But after a moment of hesitation, another young woman in the room bravely said, “I’ll just do it.”
The next hour of my life was enlightening. Our petite young foreman, who looked like a college coed, organized and directed our deliberations admirably. Every person in the room was polite and respectful. Not one dominated, everyone cooperated and treated the case with the seriousness and sincerity it deserved. To my surprise and relief, even the thumb-sucker contributed with intelligence and reason. Although I’m still puzzled by her behavior, I regret that I judged her.
In the end, we sent the defendant to jail. There was no question the defendant possessed marijuana because the evidence was in a marked envelope in the courtroom, and both the prosecution and defense attorneys stipulated to that. As a jury, we believed that he assaulted his ex-girlfriend, mostly because the police officer saw blood and scratches on her face. I, of all the jurors, had the hardest time with the terroristic threats charge. But when the judge re-read the criteria of the law, I saw merit of the charge. We also agreed that, according to the judge’s strict reading of the law, he burglarized her apartment the minute he tore off the screen, which had been screwed into the house. The only charges we dismissed were stalking and harassment, because, no matter how earnestly that skinny girl on the stand wanted us to believe her, she had no evidence to prove it.
After our petite foreman read the verdicts, I noticed that the elderly woman, who had been sitting behind the defendant during the trial, didn’t stick around to hear what the jury decided. I felt sad for her, whoever she was.
We jurors believed the defendant got a fair trial. Still, I, Juror #2, couldn’t look at him. The last thing I saw in the courtroom was the bailiff walking across the room to put handcuffs on a formerly innocent man.
***
Ann K. Howley is the award-winning author of Confessions of a Do-Gooder Gone Bad.
Please visit her website at http://annkhowley.com/#about-ann