THE JUSTICE SYSTEM : Jury-Room Incivility--Looks That Could Kill

Each year, the Los Angeles Superior and Municipal courts send out roughly 4 million jury affidavits to recruit prospective jurors. Fewer than 5% of them ended up on a jury. People will say anything, and do anything, to avoid jury duty. Consider what one citizen wrote the county jury commissioner to dodge the draft: “I am one who has lost all my hair and I need a full wig. I cannot be in an enclosed room for any length of time because of the extreme heat.”

Lacking such creativity, I recently found myself in an enclosed room in Department 37 of the Superior Court building Downtown. I was Juror No. 12 in a case involving two men accused of the felony sale of 5.3 grams of marijuana to an undercover cop. Three Los Angeles police officers and a criminalist testified. The defense offered no witnesses or evidence.

I thought reaching a verdict would be a cinch, but it wasn’t. And although nothing--absolutely nothing--compares it with the O.J. Simpson trial, a jury stint, no matter how brief, helps shed light on a few issues raised by a dismissed juror on the Simpson jury.

* Although the judge expressly forbids jurors from discussing the case with anyone outside the court, it’s easy to “discuss” the proceedings with other jurors without actually having a discussion.

A jury spends day after day together reading the paper, playing cards, watching television, just waiting. It’s not hard to learn about your colleagues. You hear them on pay phones, arguing with spouses, checking in with the boss. There’s plenty of time to form quick friendships, make alliances and chat.

In my case, jurors got to know each other discussing family, friends and work. Innocently enough, the conversation eventually turned to the impressive judge handling our case. Then came snickering comments about the lawyers. While we never discussed the defendants or the details of the case, we conveyed our reactions to it in subtle ways.

One day, a defense lawyer wore a leafy gold pin to court. In the hallway during the lunch break, jurors whispered about the jewelry. Was it a marijuana leaf? Was this a fashion coincidence or a political statement? Some jurors rolled their eyes disapprovingly.

It wasn’t just the jewelry that drew remarks. One juror who worked in the garment industry briefed us in the hallway about the clothing worn by the attorneys. She expressed scorn for one defense lawyer who wore a frayed pinstriped suit. Another juror complimented the prosecutor on her stylish skirt length. By the time we arrived in the jury room, it was hard to avoid guessing where many jurors stood in the case.

Sure, we obeyed the judge’s explicit instructions not to discuss the case. But still, we communicated.

* “Order in the court” doesn’t translate to the jury room .

In court, the judge rules. In the jury room, anything, anything goes. Judges don’t even tell jurors how to pick a foreperson. They just send the jury into a room and tell them to return, whenever, with a verdict. If jurors want, they can arm-wrestle for the job of foreperson. In this setting, it certainly doesn’t take much for civility to break down.

After a mere two days of deliberation, nerves on my jury were frayed. What seemed, at first, to be a slam-dunk case became an emotional drama. “Not guilty” jurors were subjected to a withering barrage from all sides, including a teary speech by one woman who said she felt “ripped off” by not being able to convict. While no one kicked or pushed anyone, there were plenty of angry looks that could have killed.

* “Reasonable doubt” defies reasoning.

At the end of the trial, the judge gave us instructions, orally and in print. Neither made sense. Consider the “reasonable doubt” instruction in criminal trials. Reasonable doubt is defined as “that state of the case which, after the entire comparison and consideration of the evidence, leaves the minds of the jurors in that condition that they cannot say they feel an abiding conviction, to a moral certainty, of the truth of the charge.”

We spent several hours reading and rereading this instruction. We endlessly discussed its meaning. No one agreed. So we wrote the judge a note asking for more guidance. Our note came back with a new instruction to reread the old instruction.

* It ain’t over until the foreperson speaks.

Our jury took innumerable straw polls. The votes fluctuated considerably. At times, we were divided 8-3 guilty, with one undecided. Then, we were unanimous, 12-0 guilty. After the lunch break, we were deadlocked again; 10-1, with one undecided.

In the end, we were deadlocked 11-1. The lone holdout said it was a “gut thing.” He just couldn’t vote to convict. He offered no reason. He made no argument. He conceded that the defendants had no defense. He just didn’t believe the cops. That was all.

When we returned to the court room to be excused by the judge, all the lawyers seemed to be looking at me resentfully. I didn’t know why. Later in the hallway, the young prosecutor rushed up and said, “You’re the one. You’re the holdout.” She was wrong, as were both defense lawyers. So much for their heralded ability to “read” jurors.

When I told them it was Juror No. 6 who voted not guilty, they were stunned. He had looked angry. The lawyers were sure he was leading the lynch mob. But Juror No. 6 voted not guilty. Maybe he wanted to be Henry Fonda in “Twelve Angry Men.” Or maybe he liked the defense lawyer’s gold leaf pin. Who ever knows in the pursuit of truth?*