Trials and Tribulations

The verdict must be unanimous, but we were down to twelve jurors, with one on his way out the door if a verdict wasn’t reached before the weekend. I did not want to see a mistrial. It had been a long two weeks. It was Friday. Everyone had enough. My face was directed at the jury, and I scanned their number with interest. It fell on me to make sure they arrived timely for the length of the trial, that they recessed for lunch at the appointed time, and returned at the appointed time. I alone ensured that they shuffled out during portions of the trial that were for the lawyers and jurists only. In the courtroom, my authority was indisputable. I ruled over the proceedings with finality.

But on this particular day, I was concerned that the trial would drag on and we would lose our last remaining alternate, Juror #12, causing a mistrial. For criminal jury trials in New York unanimity is required for a conviction and the State Constitution demands a jury of twelve, the same number as that of the apostles.

It was the Ides of March, and I observed their number with interest. Juan Lopez was wearing his varsity letter jacket from high school with pride and sat in the seat of Juror #1, making him the jury foreman. Walter Blau sat next to him in the seat of Juror #2. Walter was a doorman at the Hampshire House adjoining Central Park West. Walter had been a wide receiver for the North Bergen Bruins during his high school days. Juan and Walter had a lot to talk about.

Further down was Juror #7, Jorge Soto. Jorge was a personal trainer at Barry’s Bootcamp, with a tall lithe build, who was wearing a hunter green core t-shirt that said MARINES on the front in black bold print. His veined arms were exposed, his coat was in his lap, and he showed no signs of discomfort from the brisk air in the Courtroom. Most of the rest of the panel were women. Juror #5, Earl Earnhardt, was a stage actress on Broadway. Jasmine Wong was a 5th Grade Teacher. Juror #12, Joanne Leeds, was a local bartender at the Blarney Stone—the dreariest and most apropos Irish Pub in all of the Financial District.

And that left us with Joseph Chang, the man of the hour. He was a Burn Surgeon at New York-Presbyterian. One of only three available burn surgeons in the City who was on call the week after Christmas. There had been a fire in Brooklyn where three firefighters were badly burned and awaiting surgery to debride the necrotic tissue and install skin grafts. Twice already, Joseph Chang had been in chambers to announce the possibility that he may have to bow out and return to his duties, which everyone understood, including the overzealous Prosecutor.

The problem was that Sarah Shamsee, a Marketing Executive was also excused because she had to be on set for a car commercial that was supposed to air during the SuperBowl, and Becky Tonkin had to fly home to be with her ailing father who had suffered an unexpected stroke. So they were both out. Leaving just twelve jurors. It was the last day of Trial, the Closing Arguments, and this was a murder case. No one wanted to see this case end in a stalemate over losing a juror. Joseph Chang bowed and thanked the Court and promised that if the deliberations were swift he’d stay on, but if things took too long, he’d have to get back to the Burn Ward.

As the group returned from lunch, I squinted my eyes, closing them nearly completely, and leered at Joseph Chang. Don’t let us down, hang in there a little longer, I thought. After all, the details of the crime were horrific. A double homicide of a mother and daughter. The stuff of a cult horror flick that ran for at least three sequels.

Joseph Chang received a text on his second cell phone. Just as the Prosecutor had gotten into the chart of the timeline of the murder and was really gathering steam. He stood up, interrupting the Prosecutor, and signaling the Bailiff, who called the court into recess and everyone was back in chambers discussing what to do.

At length, it was decided that closings would proceed. After all, it was three thirty in the afternoon on a Friday, and with an hour for jury instructions, that would just about ensure that if the Defense Counsel was cut to about a five-minute closing (butchering procedural due process as much as it can be butchered without leaving too much blood at the scene of the crime) then deliberations could begin before the weekend. If an immediate verdict of guilt was not on offer, the jury could come back on the following Monday morning to damn the man then. Joseph Chang was on board with the procedure and all was well.

At length, the Prosecutor concluded his remarks just shy of ten until five. “I am sure after reviewing all the evidence you will come back with the only verdict supported by that evidence, a verdict of guilty.” I had heard it a thousand times. Then the Defense Counsel stood up and engaged in some abbreviated remarks on the State’s burden, blah, blah, blah. It was always the same, as far as I was concerned. The defense attorney was a young man whose suit fit him exceptionally well. The words coming out of his mouth were another story. He looked in my direction repeatedly for assurance. But I could offer none. Get to the point, I wanted to say. But no one interrupts a closing argument.

As my minute hand and hour hand spread their arms at a full one-hundred-and-fifty degree angle as if to say ‘What the hell,’ the jury finally entered deliberations, the Judge assuring them that if a verdict was not ready in thirty minutes, they could come back Monday. That was all the encouragement that they needed to come back with a verdict of guilty before a quarter past.