Copyright © 2000 by Michael
Segers, All rights reserved
Jury
duty is supposed to be a great equalizer, a chance to get a true cross section
of Americans. If that is so, then a true cross section of Americans, it seemed
to me as I looked around the auditorium, must have cell phones grafted to their
ears. One young woman sitting in front of me was taking out her frustration on
her cell phone, jabbing the numbers. "I could be at the office making lots
of money," she complained into her phone, "but I've got to be
here."
Both
times that I was called out to a courtroom, she was in my group, dragging a
designer duffel bag and complaining. The second time we were called out, we were
escorted to a courtroom where a jury would be selected to hear a charge of
marijuana possession.
The
judge explained that we would all be asked if we had any experiences that would
affect our ability to judge the case fairly. I looked around the group, and it
seemed that the powers that be certainly had thrown together a diverse group of
Americans for this jury: some white, some black, some old, some young, some
dressed stylishly, others looking as if they were unaware of their clothes.
The
woman with the telephone seemed to be the youngest in our group, a slickly
tailored, stylish young career woman marching at the head of the group whenever
we were called anywhere. It seemed that the oldest member of the group was a man
who slouched along at the rear of the group, dragging his feet in outsized
tennis shoes, standing and sitting heavily. One of the first to answer the
question, he began to cry. In the past year, he told us, he had buried his son,
who was not yet thirty, who had died of a drug overdose.
His
story seemed so familiar. In the past year, I've driven a good friend to the
airport. For years, I had watched helplessly as he had watched helplessly as his
son sank deeper into a drug-induced hell. Now, he was leaving to plan the
funeral of his son, who was not yet thirty. In some ways, those two young
men—my friend's son and the son of my fellow potential juror—were lucky, at
least, in comparison to their fathers.
One
of the women spoke bitterly of her grandson's involvement with drugs, and
insisted that she would throw the book at, she would nip in the bud, she would
punish severely anyone with drugs. Another woman told of her sister's murder in
a drug deal. Another spoke of how her ex-husband's drug abuse had destroyed
their marriage.
Finally,
all but one of us had spoken. Only one of us had said that no one in the family,
no parent or spouse, no child or sibling, no cousin or niece or nephew, had ever
been touched by drug abuse. Then, the young woman with the cell phone spoke in a
flat voice, with none of the tenseness and anger that I had heard earlier, about
her sister's drug abuse, arrests, and rehabilitation, her sister’s loss of
husband and children. "When I look at him," she nodded toward the
defendant, "I see my sister."
A
little cynicism kicked in, and I wondered whether that night, she would laugh
with her sister about how she had avoided jury duty with a whopper. I hope that
in the presence of so much pain, we all were telling the truth.
She
was spared jury duty. I wasn't.
Three
days later, I returned for the trial. There were five court employees--the
judge, two bailiffs, and two clerks. There were four lawyers, two on either
side. The deputy who had arrested the young man had to be available until the
trial was over. All of this for a bit of marijuana that could have been
mailed—if one were so reckless—for a single postage stamp.
We
were not told what the possible sentence would be. We were not told what the
young man's record was. We were told the facts, as remembered by the deputy, the
defendant, and the defendant's girl friend. And so we reached our decision, a
decision read by our foreman, whose brother and nephew had both given his name
when they had been arrested for drug possession. "Not guilty."
Now,
I come to the point of this article. The young man hugged his girl friend. The
two defense lawyers shook hands. The two state attorneys, the prosecutors,
mumbled to themselves. We jurors filed out the back of the courtroom, got our
parking permits validated, and left.
That
is the point, the only point. A cross-section of Americans, faded back into
society, taking with them the memories of this experience, memories of the pain
that their loved ones have experienced… and caused. There is no point.
Through
a half dozen different versions of this article, I've tried to drag it to a
point. I've looked at three books and a dozen web sites. But, there is no point,
just a great deal of suffering. There is no point, no solution either.
As
usual, I want to point you in the direction of good information. Unfortunately,
the best reference on this subject that I know of, The Recovery Resource Book,
by Barbara Yoder (1990) has over three hundred pages crammed with pre-Web
materials. It is an impressive, even overwhelming reference book that I hope
someone will update.
The
Internet provides us with a wealth of information, of course. The best starting
point is the web site of Alcoholics Anonymous, the first of the self-help
recovery groups. The
practical spirituality of Alcoholics Anonymous, which breaks complicated things
into simple lists and sometimes simplistic answers, turns off people who are not
comfortable with the organization’s religious emphasis. An alternative is
LifeRing Secular Sobriety.
Once
again, I find that the conscientious guides of About.com have done a lot of the
hard web-surfing for me with the Alcoholism/Substance
Abuse site,
That
leads me down the path of over-intellectualizing and splitting hairs and
meanings just to take myself (and you, gentle reader) further from meaning.
I’ve spent more time on this article than on any other in this series, and
I’m not happy with it.
And
so, your unhappy old columnist leaves you to rove and rave alone. Keep your feet
dry (take care of yourself), and your heart—full of noble thoughts, of
course—open to the folks in the jury pool and at the defendant’s table, even
the folks at the dinner table with you, who may be suffering in ways that you
cannot imagine.
Rovin' Through Medical Alternatives