I've just done four days as foreman on a jury for a criminal trial in Perth. I have no wish to go into details, because I don't want to identify any of the people involved. However, I do want to make some comments on what I saw, heard and experienced.
I have always considered jury duty to be a civic duty; the responsibility of citizens who enjoy all the rights and privileges our legal system gives us. But from the moment I told people I had been called up, it was "Oh, you poor thing. Can't you get out of it?" When I said I didn't particularly want to "get out of it", the response was incredulity. "What? You can't be serious! Get the company to write you a letter or something." (In fact, it's no longer that easy to get an exemption -- as it shouldn't be.)
So, at the duly appointed time, I joined some 120 others at the court for "pre-selection". Wow! Tattoos, piercings, muscle tops, torn jeans, "holey" T-shirts -- and that's just the prospective jurors! Little old square me in business trousers and shirt was decidedly odd man out.
We became a number -- no more names. It reminded me of the movie,
Zulu.
Pvt. William Jones: What's he up to, 593?
Pte. Robert Jones: Oh, I think he wants to be a hero, 716.
Cpl. Frederic Schiess, NNC: Haven't you rednecks got names instead of numbers?
Pte. Robert Jones: 'Tis a Welsh regiment, man! Though there are some foreigners from England in it, mind. I am Jones from Bwlchgwyn, he is Jones from Builth Wells, and there are four more Joneses in C Company! Confusing, isn't it, Dutchy?
So I became, along with everyone else, a number. It was, of course, for our own benefit -- privacy and anonymity. Disconcerting, nevertheless, to have your identity, your "youness", stripped from you. So, you sit in rows in seats reminiscent of an airport waiting room, listening to messages over a PA, reading or watching the flat screen TVs. Finally, instead of a boarding call, the clerk gives you a brief talk and shows you a cheesy DVD about "being a juror". Or was it "Upon landing in Singapore"? Oh well, it was about as enthralling.
Then they hold a ballot to select prospective jurors. In each case, they call more than twice as many as could be needed -- and I'll explain why later. I've never won more than $39.95 in Lotto, so I was safe. And of course, my number came up in the third jury. We gathered, sizing each other up. ("God, he's old." "Mmm. she's nice." Lordy, he's not white -- hope he understands English".) Our lovely jury clerk introduces herself and off we trundle to the courtroom.
It's here you suddenly realise that, hell, this is serious. The accused is already in the dock, and watches you as you file in and sit down. Procedures are explained, and the defence and prosecution attorneys chat to each other after a friendly handshake. After all, this is just work -- nothing personal intended.
There's a rat-a-tat on the door and we stand. The judge comes in, we bow, and he smiles and invites us to sit, the Clerk of Arraigns (deadly serious lady -- is her face trowelled on?) conducts a ballot to choose 13 of us. Two are excused and there is one objection. I'm on the jury. So, 13 -- but why? Surely a jury is 12. Yes, it is ... but we have an extra in case anything happens to one of us. Just before we retire to consider our verdict, there will be yet another ballot which will reduce us to the required 12. I'm elected foreperson, so I'm with it for the long ride.
It's a sad case. A tragic case, really. We listen to prosecutor and defence, watch pre-recorded (it's a retrial) and live witnesses. My heart goes out to complainant and accused. Four days later, we have to make a decision. One of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I wrestle with my own thoughts, intellect and emotions for hours at night. I don't want to be here; I don't want to do this. As far as I can see, there can be no winners -- only losers.
The judge (charming fellow; wouldn't like to upset him, though) gives us our final instructions. For 90 minutes, he summarises the case and explains the relevant rules of evidence and what we can and can't take into account. There are two charges against the accused, and we must find on both, separately, and return a unanimous verdict.
Back in the jury room, there are a few nervous jokes and banter that disappear quickly as we realise the true weight of what we have to do. we're talking prison sentence, destroyed lives, families ripped apart.
I write on the board the judge's words: "Guilty beyond reasonable doubt". If we cannot get to that stage, we are told, we MUST acquit.
It takes us three hours to find not guilty on both counts. Why? We simply don't believe the prosecution did prove "guilt beyond reasonable doubt". When we call our jury officer back to say we are ready, we are all shaking, some quite visibly.
The jury stands, as does the accused in the dock. The Clerk of Arraigns asks whether we have reached a verdict.
"Yes", I reply.
"On the first charge, what say you? Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?"
"Not guilty."
I'm trying not to look at the defendant, but out of the corner of my eyes I can see his face dissolve at our verdict.
"On the second charge, what say you? Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?"
"Not guilty", I say, and I can see the defendant is starting to cry.
"Is that the verdict of you all?"
"Yes", I answer.
The judge pronounces the defendant acquitted. There's no clue whether he or the court agrees or disagrees with our verdict. I know, I know ... WE were the judges, but even so ...
The defendant, now acquitted, is released from the dock. Crying, he goes to the back of the court and he and his mother just sit and hold each other. He briefly looks at us, and I can see he's trying to say something, but it's all too much for him. Behind me, I can hear a couple of the jurors clearing their throats. It's incredibly emotional -- at least for them and us.
The judge thanks us and we file back into the jury room. It's over. Our jury officer explains that the emotions we are feeling now will wear off after a couple of days, but gives us the contact numbers for counsellors if we need them.
We go down the "secret jury lift" and are dismissed into the street by a side door. We mill around for a minute or two. The two smokers light up. There's a feeling of letdown; we're bewildered. We say goodbyes as if we were old friends, not people who were strangers four days prior.
When my wife picks me up from the train, I want to tell her everything, let her know how I feel, what's been driving me for the past four days. But I find I can't. It comes out all disjointed and jumbled, and the things that worried me so much for so long seem suddenly trivial. Bless her heart, she understands, as she always does, and gives me a shoulder to lean on.
No wonder I love her; she's one in a million.
I hope we did the right thing; I
trust we did the right thing. At the end of the day, we could only judge on what we were presented with. I can live with my decision.
