Verdict

The judge said my name and, suddenly, I was foreman of our jury. Leader, facilitator, spokesperson: I wasn't sure of my role, but then the whole experience had been new, why not this?

The trial I had been on before had settled before we, the jury, had a chance to deliberate. This time, however, the final word was put in our collective lap; we were to be the judges of the facts, what was true, what not; what we said would go.

A lengthy set of instructions from the judge was almost like a course in law: what negligence was, what evidence was, what the burden of proof was. The verdict was to be in the form of answers to a series of questions: negligence, yes or no. If yes, then the next question; if no, then that's that. Questions 3 and 4 and had to do with the plaintiff's negligence, if any, and question 5 with the proportion of blame it would have deserved for the injury suffered. Question 6 had to do with damages. We were to walk along a narrow track, though at the end, we had full freedom with regards the award. 

Once sequestered, we, who had been mostly silent together, immersed in our books, our phones, our studies, quickly traded names: we would be working together. Four men, ten women, white and black and Asian, codgers and twenty somethings, we were bursting to say what we thought about what we'd been listening to for the last two days.

Putting aside the proposal for a quick straw vote, we decided by consensus, to create time lines of the two versions of events we'd been given.  Something simple like this began a clarification: this we could agree we knew, that we weren't sure of. It also became a platform for the mention of items we remembered, things we'd jotted down in our notes. Voices multiplied; the hubbub grew. Ah, my job. 'Let's get back to the time line...' and so to the questions of what we felt confident we knew and what evidence supported it. 

A lot came down to questions of credibility: who we believed and why not. Now we fine-toothed our memories of testimony: what was not said, what was 'corrected' and whether these would be important for our verdict.

We refrained from voting once more in favor of a round the table presentation of our views. The question for those still with questions was what evidence or arguments would be needed to settle the matter. Eventually we found what we thought was a key to resolution of our doubts, and we divided up some documents to look for certain findings.

Then lunch, but 15 minutes before the hour was up, we did vote, and I did sign the verdict sheet, all of us feeling at that moment a certain solemnity. It was done. Immediately spirits lifted. We laughed, speculated, commented on the attorneys, the witnesses, the likely truth (as opposed to the most likely of the stories we'd been presented), the whole process.

The experience taught me several things: 1st, in any random group of 14 people there is a wealth of experience and judgment; 2nd, strangers can work together well; 3rd, people can do a good job of deciding on the facts (given the constraints imposed by the charge of the judge); 4th, the justice system is really based on these premises (at least formally.)

Our job was relatively easy; our time on task relatively short; no strong emotions were triggered; no prickly principles wrestled with. Other juries have had awful decisions to make. But what I saw at work was a group thinking, not group-think. We knew how to listen, how to speak, how to forbear, how to interrupt. I played some part in our success, but really no more than anyone.  It also helps if we all understand that we're not going anywhere unless we reach a verdict, at least 12 out of 14 in agreement.

Our deliberation made me proud of us  as citizens and as human beings. We didn't get close to each other, barely learned each other's names, but we thought our problem through to a conclusion that we can get a night's sleep over, even if the plaintiff cannot.