I, Not the Jury

I narrowly missed serving on a jury about a gangland-style assassination that happened in a nightclub bathroom. For whatever reason, the lawyers discharged me, for which I am eternally grateful.

Every few years, I get a summons for jury duty. Every time, I dutifully make my way to the courthouse. Except for one experience, I’ve been dismissed in one day. This was the lone occasion where, by the lunch break, I panicked about what to say that could get me sent home or back into the jury pool.

The first inkling that everything was not as it seemed was the defendant, who appeared to be a nice young Black man, dressed in a button-down suit with his hair professionally braided. But upon closer inspection, you could see tattoos covering his hands and snaking up the back (and front) of his neck. For that reason, he never removed his jacket or unbuttoned his white shirt.

I was in the initial group selected to randomly sit in the jury box, eighth out of 12, in the second row. We filed into our seats and were addressed by the judge, followed by the prosecuting and defense attorneys.

A couple of buzzwords in their introductions to the case stuck out like sore thumbs, including “gang activity” and “autopsy photos.” There was a murmur in the courtroom and the judge admonished everyone to be quiet and listen closely.