I’ve been a juror on three trials. Years ago, I sat on a civil case, a wrongful death of a helicopter logger who died when his chopper went down lifting a heavy tree trunk. His widow and six young children sued the helicopter manufacturer. After three weeks of testimony and almost another week of deliberation, we the jury couldn’t find the manufacturer at fault. The widow and kids got nothing. I was struck for the first time how other people don’t think like me. How could the entire jury listen to the same testimony, see the same evidence and listen to the same arguments only come to very different conclusions? We went over and over and over the evidence until enough jurors finally saw it the same way.
My next trial was a criminal drug case and it had everything: strippers, a stripper bag, a bong falling out of an SUV when the cop opened the car door. The police were buffoons and the public defender was excellent. But in the jury room, things got messy. We were divided and deliberations, while civil, got stressful. One person said of the young Black defendant: “I know he’s guilty of something.” In the end, we the jury found the defendant not-guilty. I learned that even if the process is somewhat ugly, the jury will eventually reach the right decision.
In early June, I reported to the county courthouse for two days of jury duty, after deferring twice. In the past, I liked jury duty, but now I realize it was because I got out of work to do something completely different. Now that I don’t have a 9-5, it was a bummer to get up early, pack a lunch, drive downtown and pay to park.
But I also believe in civic duty so I went; I like being downtown, was interested to see the new courthouse and I miss walking along the river. My only fear was I’d get on a trial that would force me to miss a friends lunch to which I was very much looking forward. I hoped my name wouldn’t get called but it turned out to be the busiest day in the history of the courthouse with 16 trials starting in one day. They needed to fill ten juries. I was called for two voir dires (when the attorneys are able to question the jurors before choosing them).
Jurors in my county must now watch a video about “unconscious bias” that explains how institutional racism, sexism, homophobia and other cultural ills influence how we think, without us even realizing it. These are good things for people to have in mind when sitting in judgement of others. In my second voir dire, there were at least four young (late teens-early twenties) people who said they were so distrustful of police, they couldn’t make an objective decision on a criminal case, (which gave me a bit of insight into why people think our legal/political system is a joke). When one of the lawyers asked us about service, I talked about the neighborhood community arts center where I volunteer and then mentioned I support organizations “that work toward burning down the patriarchy.” I wondered if speaking my truth would get me excused, but ten minutes later, I was on the jury.
We jumped right into opening arguments. The defendant was a frail, elderly Black man from Seattle dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants. The claimant, a cab driver with 34 years of experience, owned his own wheelchair van. The incident, which had happened in Sept. 2022, was captured on the taxi’s dashcam and began at a seedy downtown Portland hotel where the manager had called to get a guest a ride to the train station. We watched as the defendant (the passenger) got into the cab’s front seat and asked to go to the nearest Key Bank. (I’m paraphrasing the dialog below; can’t remember precisely.)
“I have enough money to pay you, but I need to get more before I go on the train,” the passenger said.
“I don’t know where all the banks are,” the driver replied.
“Don’t you have a navigator?”
“Just give me a FUCKING ADDRESS,” the cabbie shouted abruptly.
“Don’t cuss at me. If you cuss at me I’ll cuss at you motherfucker.”
And the conversation escalated from there, resulting in the driver yelling repeatedly for the passenger to get out of his cab, which he did, but he had to return and get his sad plastic bag of stuff. At that point—and the video didn’t show clearly what exactly happened—someone threw a hard plastic coffee cup that hit the driver in the mouth, resulting in a swollen lip and small cut. It was assault in the third degree (a felony) because the claimant was a taxi driver—otherwise it would have been a misdemeanor.
In the jury room during the trial’s breaks, we couldn’t talk about the case. But a major topic of conversation was the public defender’s sense of style. Fellow jurors were mildly obsessed with his snakeskin boots, his muttonchop sideburns, his snappy suits. Why the dark glasses inside? Why did he drink so much water?
In Portland, there is a shortage of public defenders. Last January, Willamette Week reported well over 600 cases that couldn’t go to trial because there was no defense counsel. In the case I sat on, both attorneys were completely engaged and working hard, though I had the sinking feeling it was a gigantic waste of time and resources for such a small matter. But aside from the fashion critique, everyone on the jury took their responsibility seriously. It was a group of 12 very reasonable, smart people from all over the county. They also reinforced my notion that people who serve on juries are inherently privileged enough to spend a few days away from work or home with no repercussions.
After just a few hours of testimony, including recounts by both the driver and the passenger, we started deliberations and chose a presiding juror (foreperson). Why is it always the oldest white male? But the retired surgeon did an exemplary job of guiding us through the process of answering the verdict question. It took us 45 minutes to render a not-guilty decision. There was no proof the passenger threw the cup. Many of us believed it was the driver who hurled the cup at the passenger and, in a fit of instant karma, it bounced off the dashboard and hit him in the face.
Afterward, the judge stopped by the jury room to thank us. She said she had told the defendant (and would have included the claimant if he were still in the courtroom), “If you treat people with the level of respect you were shown today, you wouldn’t even be here. Being kind will keep you out of trouble.” And that’s a good reminder for all of us.
Your ending lines, the quote of the judge, are everything.
Thanks for sharing the experience; I've been called only twice and dismissed both times. Before I read this, I've counted myself lucky. Maybe now, I'd look forward to it a little bit.