the verdict

It didn't feel like the jury room anymore by Thursday morning. It felt like a hospital quiet room where the nurses take you to wait for bad news. Stale coffee and frowning people.

In some ways it made sense to pick up where we left off, but I knew the intervening hours since we'd called it a day the night before had affected the other jurors like it had me. I had new angles I wanted to consider, witnesses I wanted to analyze afresh, and new ideas about the deliberations process, and I knew I couldn't be the only one. So I took a cue from Tennessee Young Writers Workshop--something I find myself doing all the time.

I was a student at TYWW--a week-long writers' retreat in Tennessee--for six years and a counselor/mentor/teacher for another seven. Every day after our afternoon classes, we observed a sacred tradition known as temperature check or just temp check for short. Temp check was a time for the students to sound off to the staff--to tell us what they were enjoying and what wasn't working for them and what questions they had and all that good stuff. Everyone looked forward to temp check as their chance to share and center themselves for the rest of the evening.

It turns out temp check works just as well with a deliberating jury as it does with angsty Southern teenagers. We went around the table and spoke frankly about how we were feeling, what we were thinking, what we wanted to discuss more, and how we felt we should move forward. Despite the fact that we were all of different minds about the case, everyone listened to one another intently and even encouraged one another. When my voice cracked a little with emotion when I was describing the train of thought I'd been following since the night before, one juror reached out and touched my hand to comfort me.


And then I baked all the jurors a cake made of rainbows and smiles

Once we'd heard from everyone, we tried our best to move forward. It was hard not to wander a little. We found ourselves getting caught up in minor details. Maybe it felt safer to dwell on the minutiae so we could take our minds off the enormity of what we were deciding. I did my best to keep the conversation on-topic and productive but I didn't really know what I was doing.

And then it was lunchtime again. We had a new bailiff that day who elected not to stop traffic so we could cross the street to the cafeteria. The disappointment was palpable as we waited patiently for the signal to cross.

It was harder to make conversation without talking about the case. We made halfhearted chitchat about how good the chicken salad was and how awful traffic had been the night before coming home.

No one really seemed to be listening to what they were saying. I think we were all completely preoccupied by the same thought: how on earth were we ever going to reach a verdict?

One particularly well-spoken juror finally articulated this thought when we reconvened after lunch. "We've been at this for two days now," he said, looking around at all of us significantly. "We need to talk about the possibility that we might be a hung jury." Everyone had to admit that he had a point. A few people felt strongly the defendant was guilty, a few felt strongly that they had reasonable doubt, and most of us still felt pretty conflicted. We discussed it as a group and decided that, although we were ready to render a verdict on one of the minor charges, it was starting to look like we were not going to be able to reach a consensus about the other charges. There was a little stirring of relief. Even deciding that we couldn't reach a verdict felt like something like a decision.

The bailiffs had explained that I could ask a question of the judge by memorializing it on paper, signing it, and having a bailiff bring it to the judge. This question, I was told, would be entered in as official evidence in the trial, and then the judge would be able to answer our question.

I turned to a fresh sheet in my steno pad. Your Honor, I wrote, feeling something like I was back in 8th grade, We think we might be deadlocked. Can you give us instructions as to what to do if we are? I resisted the urge to add PS I like you, do you like me? Check yes or no. I pushed the button to page the bailiffs.

A few moments later the door opened. "Did y'all reach a verdict?" the bailiff asked hopefully. I shook my head and handed her the note. She took it without a word and disappeared.

It was only a few minutes later when she came back. "Ms. Foreperson?" asked the bailiff. "The judge wants to see you in the courtroom." Another what made me think this was a good idea? moment. I stepped into the courtroom through our special jurors' door only to discover the entire courtroom assembled--the lawyers, the defendant, the spectators. Somehow it had not occurred to me that they were all in there waiting on us.

It only took a second. The judge, who was very kind and patient through the whole process, asked if we were deadlocked. I told him we weren't sure but we thought we might be. He basically told me to get back in there and keep at it.

And then the strangest thing happened. Little by little, we reached a verdict. First I had a breakthrough--I realized that the only testimony that was creating our reasonable doubt (by placing other armed people at the scene) was the same testimony that stated unequivocally that the defendant was guilty. Therefore, I reasoned, we had to find him guilty. Either we believed the testimony, in which case we had an eyewitness account that the defendant was guilty, or we decided not to believe her and would have to throw her entire testimony out--including our only knowledge of other armed people at the scene. All the other abundant amount of evidence pointed squarely at the defendant, so the idea of other people at the scene with guns was the foundation of the last remaining shred of reasonable doubt I had. With the last bit of reasonable doubt eliminated, I was ready to convict.

The others started to come around one at a time. The people who felt strongly all along that we had to convict him started to speak up more. Finally, our most stalwart skeptic finally decided that her doubt was actually not reasonable, and she admitted that she was prepared to render a guilty verdict on all but one count. As soon as she changed sides, everything fell into place really quickly. The other holdouts started to agree, one by one, that they were ready to convict on all but one count too. It was an interesting compromise.

When the last person finally agreed they were ready to render a guilty verdict, we all looked around at each other with wild, hopeful eyes. Not two hours before we had asked the judge for instructions on how to proceed as a hung jury. Had we actually reached a consensus?

I polled the jury once and then again and then maybe again. I wanted to be absolutely sure that everyone was absolutely sure and confident in their verdict. Once and then again and then again we reached the same conclusion: we were ready to find him guilty of all but one count.

I tried to remember how I was supposed to render the verdict. "Did he say I just flip over the indictment and write the verdict on the back?" I asked my fellow jurors, and they nodded. I looked down at the stapled stack of paper in my hand, shrugged and flipped it over. I started to write out the verdict, count by count.

"Do you want me to write that?" one juror asked me. I looked down and saw that my hand was shaking so hard that I could hardly hold the pencil. I let him take the pencil and paper from me and write the verdict while I took ragged breaths and tried to calm myself down.

We pored over the written verdict over and over again, making sure I'd written everything correctly. We buzzed the bailiffs and I told him we were ready to hand down the verdict. "Who's the foreperson?" asked the grumpy one who had escorted us to lunch. When I pointed at myself, he just laughed and shook his head. The door clicked shut.

And then silence. Just a few moments after the bailiffs left, one of the fluorescent overhead lights started to flicker on and off like a strobe light. "Ugh!" I exclaimed, instantly nauseated. "Can we turn the lights off!" Someone flicked the light switch and the lights dimmed but the strobe effect continued. I had to press my forehead against the big glass window looking out over downtown Atlanta and close my eyes tightly. I chanted Thiswillbeoversoon, thiswillbeoversoon inside my head.

And then they came back for us. We looked around at each other with looks that meant something but we didn't really know what and took lots of deep breaths. My hands were trembling and I wasn't sure I could actually unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth long enough to speak.

We filed in and sat down. The attorneys, the defendant, the spectators, the court reporter--they all rose for the jury. I took my appointed seat at the end, closest to the judge.

"Has the jury reached a verdict?"

I stood up. "Yes, Your Honor."

"Would you read it for us now?"

I froze. The judge had not even looked at the handwritten verdict. Had I done it right?

"Your Honor?" I managed. "Would you take a look at this and make sure I did this right?" I felt like a child. I could feel the weight of many pairs of eyes on me.

The bailiff handed him the verdict. The judge gave it a quick glance and nodded as the bailiff handed it back to me. "That's fine."

I hesitated again. "So if I read it, like, verbatim it will be right?" I cringed at how timid I sounded. The judge smiled. "Yes."

I took a deep breath and I looked around. I saw the attorneys sitting with their hands folded, sizing us up. I saw the defendant looking back at me with sad eyes, already seeming a little defeated. I saw the families in the back of the courtroom--the defendant's mother behind him in her Sunday best and the victim's family behind the prosecution, stone faced.

And then I read the verdicts. The competitive speaker in me couldn't help but look around at everyone as I read my lines like I was saying Four score and seven years ago instead of We the jury find the defendant guilty of count four. I tried to speak loudly and clearly and not stumble on any words.

The reaction was underwhelming. I was expecting cries of anguish or victorious cheers or at least some silent tears or meaningful skyward looks. Instead the defense attorney requested that the judge poll the jury. I think the defendant was looking at his hands resting in his lap. The judge called on the jurors one by one and asked us three questions:

Is this your verdict?
Was this your verdict in the jury room?
Is this your verdict now?

Thirty-six yeses later, the bailiff silently handcuffed the defendant and led him out of the courtroom, even as the judge was making mollifying remarks about the service and commitment of the jury. He thanked us for our time and dismissed us. The bailiffs opened the door that lead out of the courtroom and into the jury room.

I was closest to the door and thank goodness. I bolted for the jury room and so did the juror behind me, a friendly middle-aged guy who had sat next to me throughout deliberations. He ran into the bathroom and I could hear him wailing, sounding like he was pleading. I sobbed, open-mouthed, into a wad of paper towels in the corner by the coffeemaker until the judge entered the jury room. He handed out excuse notes for our employers and told us it would be best if we just went home and tried to forget all about it. And just like that, my jury duty was over.

* * *

Myself and two other jurors were the last to leave. As we were walking in heavy silence back towards the elevators, we found ourselves face-to-face with someone we couldn't help but recognize: the victim's nephew, the spitting image of his uncle, who had been seated in the front row for the entire trial.

Alone in the hallway, the huge man approached us. Standing so close, I could hardly distinguish him from the photos we'd seen of his uncle 'in life'. Without a word, he offered his large, warm hand to shake one by one. When he got to me he closed one giant hand over our clasped hands and looked me dead in the eye. "You did good," he said. And then he walked away.


That actually happened.


Discussion Question:
Think of a time when you did good but it didn't feel very good.



* * * * * * *

This is part one of four in my series about my experience as the foreperson of a murder trial.

one: jury selection
two: the trial
three: deliberations
four: the verdict

deliberations: day one

It was the third day of jury duty when a sick, heavy feeling settled over me. The shuttle and the line and the metal detectors and the memorial to the Nichols shooting--it was all familiar now and I didn't like that. We knew we would assemble Wednesday morning to hear the closing statements and then it would be time to deliberate.

I had a thousand questions swimming in my head from the day before, and having watched a lot of Law and Order and stuff I fully expected a lot of rhetorical bombast, pregnant pauses, and persuasive puffery.


You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view - until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.

I sharpened an extra pencil and tucked it into my steno pad and fixed myself a styrofoam cup of coffee.

The prosecution did a pretty good job with their closing arguments. They had a powerpoint that recapped everything we'd heard the day before and explained all of the laws we'd be dealing with in deliberations. They left a number of stones unturned but I had a feeling they were undisturbed for a reason.

When it was time for the defense's statement, I got kind of nervous. The defense had been so pitiful the day before and it was their last chance to get it together. This was their time to coax out our reasonable doubt and nurture it into something we couldn't ignore. It was their time to construct some alternative versions of the story of what happened on the night the victim was shot.

They didn't do anything like that. In fact, I can hardly remember what the attorney said. More of the same unconvincing, poorly structured arguments. I spent a lot of time looking at the defendant, wondering what he must be thinking. Wondering if was contemplating the institutionalized injustice that confronts the undereducated and impoverished, or if he was just scared that he was about to go to jail for the rest of his life. He looked scared but maybe not as scared as I would expect.

The state gave their brief rebuttal and then just like that the ball was in our court. We were going to need a foreperson, the judge explained, to facilitate the discussion and eventually to read the verdict in court. The judge informed us that we were to go into the jury room, pick a foreperson, and then adjourn for lunch as a group. Simple as that.

We got into the jury room and spirits were low. It was starting to sink in by then that we were about to be stuck in this tiny room with these dozen strangers indefinitely until we could all agree on one man's fate. We sat down around the table and stared each other down.

"Okay," I ventured, breaking the silence, "Who doesn't want to be the foreperson?"

Twelve pairs of very serious eyes stared back at me as twelve hands shot into the air in unison. I sighed.

"Okay," I said, putting on my patient teacher voice. "Who really doesn't want to be the foreperson?"

Twenty-four sad eyes, twelve hands in the air. I exhaled.

"Fine," I said, sounding every bit like I knew what I was getting myself into. "I'll do it."

A collective sigh of relief. "That's good," says one of the middle-aged male jurors. "I was going to say you anyway."

We filed back into the courtroom and told the judge that I would be the forewoman. He told us he was going to buy us all lunch.

Our bailiff lead us down the back elevator (maybe the same elevator Brian Nichols came down after he assaulted his bailiff?) and down to the sidewalk. Without a hint of irony, he strode into traffic and stopped all the impatient cars so the jury could walk across the street for lunch. We looked around at each other and smiled, feeling important for a moment.

We all loaded up on cafeteria food and thanked the tax payers for our 'free' lunch. While I nibbled on my chicken salad sandwich, I looked up jury foreperson responsibilities online. I didn't learn much except that I should probably take a straw poll to see where we stand before we start deliberating.

We all managed to make conversation without talking about the case. We talked about daughters and sons and commutes and jobs and husbands and honeymoons and television shows. We found little points of contact and let ourselves feel the small delight of connecting with each other just a little. We laughed and shared cookies and tried to psych ourselves up for what would happen that afternoon.

I don't know what I was expecting, honestly. In retrospect it is a little silly to think that they would explain to you how to deliberate, or even give you a jumping off point. They just brought us back from lunch, gave us the box of evidence, explained how to ask a question of the judge, showed us what button to hit when we were ready to render the verdict, and said good luck.

We settled in around the table. Everyone looked at me. That was the first moment, but not the last, that I wished I had not volunteered to be foreperson.

I didn't really know what I was going, but I jumped in with the help of my fellow jurors. We decided to use the white board to write up all of the charges and discuss them, to make sure everyone understood the charges. They were fairly complex and it turned out to be a very useful exercise. After that, we took a quick straw poll and discovered we were a pretty even mix of he did it, he didn't do it, and I have no idea.


It was just like this except there were some people who weren't white men

We spent all afternoon in there. We diagrammed witness testimony on the board, working methodically through our notes and scrutinizing the testimony. We looked at photos of the scene of the crime and photos of bullet holes. We didn't need to examine the photos of the victim but they just kept surfacing over and over again like a dead fish. I kept having to flip them over so I wouldn't have to look at them.

We had no idea what we were doing, no clue how to reach a consensus, and very little grounding in the laws at hand. But for a group of clueless citizens, we certainly found a lot to talk about. Everyone was incredibly engaged with the process, which was especially impressive considering that we were slogging through the second half of our third day. We'd go for hours at a time and then stop only briefly for bathroom and coffee breaks. It was exhausting and overwhelming and fascinating and awful.

The bailiffs popped their heads in when the sun was starting to hang a little low in the sky and asked us how much more time we were going to need. We looked around at each other with questioning eyes. We were nowhere near a consensus and couldn't even see the light at the end of the tunnel. "Can we have another hour?" I asked. The bailiffs cringed and told us we'd better wrap it up and come back in the morning. So we did.

I went home feeling like I had spent the day in a boxing match. I was stunned at what an exhausting intellectual exercise it was to comb through all the laws and testimony and make sure everyone got a chance to express their opinions and ask their questions. I have been through a few exhausting intellectual exercises in my day (see: 2001-2007) but honestly these deliberations were up there with the most difficult. I felt pushed to the absolute limit of what I knew about interpreting texts, and I am a trained professional at interpreting texts.

Nick was gone in Vegas so Lanier took me out to Señor Frog's, where I had two margaritas for dinner. That was plenty.

I had no idea what was going to happen the next day.

Discussion Question:
What is the most exhausting intellectual exercise you have ever completed?


* * * * * * *

This is part three of four in my series about my experience as the foreperson of a murder trial.

one: jury selection
two: the trial
three: deliberations
four: the verdict

the trial

After I watched this, all I could think was that Snoop looked so young in this video. He was 23. [Lyrics NSFW.]

On the second day of jury duty, I was prepared for the shuttle and the metal detector. The bailiffs had shown us how to get in the special door and how to sign in, so I was prepared for that too. What I wasn't prepared for was what would happen after we were instructed to file into the courtroom.

Believe it or not, we heard the opening statements and all dozen witnesses in a single day. We had been given pencils and steno pads, the kind I used to use for vocab lists for Latin and Greek classes, and told to take good notes because we only got once chance to hear the testimony.

To everyone's credit, all thirteen jurors paid rapt attention to the proceedings. But honestly, it was impossible not to. Perhaps I've watched too much Law and Order, but I kept zoning into the proceedings so hard that I'd have to remind myself that I wasn't watching a movie, that I was a real juror and that this was real life.

We heard from a few expert witnesses but mostly we heard from folks from the neighborhood. The neighborhood in this case was in the absolute depths of crack-riddled poverty. Several of the witnesses were admitted crack users. Several were convicted felons. All of them were terrified to be there--wary of the law because of one bad experience after another with the police, confused about the proceedings and the idea of being cross-examined, and most of all absolutely petrified that their testimony would end up costing them their lives. Snitches get stitches.

What played out was a fascinating study in complete cultural incongruity. The witnesses didn't understand proper courtroom decorum. You can fault the prosecution for that, but then again I can appreciate that it is difficult to make someone comfortable with the very structured proceedings of a trial in a short amount of time. The witnesses tried to get on the stand and tell their side of the story, and they became frustrated and seemed to shut down when the judge or the lawyers would stop them and explain that they had to only answer exactly the question they were being asked. Several got worked up and talked back to the judge and the attorneys. A few were friends of the victim, so they got (understandably) upset when they recounted the details of the night. The witnesses spoke with a strong accent (I am still kind of shocked that 'African American Vernacular English' is the preferred term but that's the best way to describe it--very deep AAVE with a Georgia twist) and had varying ability to speak precisely, which lead to really interesting semantic issues. For example, back window meant window in my back bedroom that faces the front ie front window. The prosecution seemed fairly well-versed in working with witnesses from this type of background, but I was not very impressed with his ability to identify the miscommunications that were taking place and straighten them out clearly for the jury. Confusion all around.

We went all day with just a brief break for lunch. I headed down to the Italian place on the corner and was giddy to discover that they'd make me a personal pizza covered in green olives. My favorite. It was so incongruous, to go from that courtroom and the details of that night to a sunny day and my favorite food and a little time to myself. I turned down an invitation to sit with two lovely ladies from the jury. I knew I would not be able to keep myself from talking about the case with them, and we were forbidden to discuss it. They never asked me in voir dire if I was good at keeping secrets. If they had, they wouldn't have picked me. But I did what seemed like the right thing and tried to separate myself from my fellow jurors for the time being.

Ugh. I am really dying to post all the details, to tell you about what happened and the witnesses and the unintentionally hilarious things the defense lawyer said, but I really feel like it would be disrespectful to all the families and might place me in needless danger. If you are interested in reading about the case, email me and I will send you some links.

Otherwise, I can tell you this. I heard scared people. A lot of scared people. I saw photographs of a dead person. Lots of those too. I heard 911 calls. I saw videos of police statements. I saw the families sitting in the courtroom. I saw the defendant sitting just across the way from me, another human being who by chance I stood in judgment of. I saw photos of buildings, photos of bullet holes, photos of the victim 'in life'. I heard people crying and I saw other people crying silently. That's all I can tell you.

I don't know why I didn't expect the day to affect me, to come home with me like a dog that followed me home. The judge told us to just go home and forget about the trial for the night, but I found that to be impossible. The horrible images I had seen all day, the pleading voices and frightened people, the stories and how they matched and where they differed. It all rushed through my mind unbidden all night, stopping only briefly when I was able to distract myself. I spent a few futile minutes trying to think of any way I could get out of it, any possible excuse I could invent that would excuse me from the next day's deliberations. I couldn't think of anything.

Discussion Question:
Can you think of a time when you were traumatized unexpectedly?


* * * * * * *

This is part two of four in my series about my experience as the foreperson of a murder trial.

one: jury selection
two: the trial
three: deliberations
four: the verdict

jury selection

I came this close to forgetting that I was on standby for jury duty this past Monday. I had mailed in my little slip a few weeks prior, made a note on my calendar, and promptly forgotten all about it until last week, when the hastily scrawled JURY DUTY on my office calendar caught my eye. Oh well, I thought to myself, at least I'll get a day to just sit in silence and work on my index.

I had been called for jury duty once before--in Austin. I went in at 8:00am and was in my car driving home by 10:45am. So my expectations for jury duty in Atlanta were pretty minimal. Long, boring day, lots of sitting, go home, the end.

Jurors are instructed to park over at Turner Field, ie the Braves' stadium, and take the free county shuttle over to the courthouse. When I pull into the Orange Lot at 7:30am on Monday, it is 42 degrees outside and snowing. I know this does not bode well for an unremarkable day.

Crowded, jostled shuttle ride on Rosa Parks-era Blue Bird bus gives way to an endless snaking line inside the courthouse building. The security line. I am mildly irritated as I pull my laptop out of its case and take off my silver bracelet that always sets of metal detectors. My irritation falls away instantly as I round the corner toward the elevators and spot a memorial to the victims of Brian Nichols' infamous 2005 escape and killing spree at the Fulton County Courthouse. [Note: If you aren't familiar with the Brian Nichols incident, let me warn you before you click that it is really upsetting and really engrossing. Open the link in another window and read it later.] Instantly I am feeling really grateful for the thorough security and the abundance of armed deputies everywhere I look.

Another line at jury check-in and then they turn me loose into the giant potential juror holding pen, where I will sit with hundreds of other people waiting to hear my name called.

I have been warned by my colleagues that there is an appalling scarcity of outlets in the jury pen. Paula, who never fails to impress me with her resourcefulness, advised me to bring a power strip, assuring me that I would become the lady of the hour in that big, depressing room. My fellow potential jurors elect not to carry me around on their shoulders shouting my praises, but a few people are very grateful.

I have three, almost four blessed hours of silence in the jury pen to work on my giant index (ironically, a law book) before, dundundun, they call my name. Sixty lucky jurors are to report downstairs to a certain courtroom for jury selection. Fabulous.

We are seated in the spectator's part of the courtroom, arranged by our recently-assigned juror numbers, and informed that we are about to start voir dire for a murder trial. You have never lived until you have heard Southerners pronounce 'voir dire'. Verr darr.

As soon as they say 'murder trial', the room heaves a little. People look around them like maybe they can just shimmy under the wooden benches and out a side door and go home. I just suck in a deep breath. I am not prepared at all for this. I didn't think I'd even get called into jury selection, let alone for a murder trial. The defendant is sitting right in front of us, his eyes dancing over us, sizing us up.

We are each given little laminated cards with our juror numbers on them. The prosecution and defense lawyers ask us a series of questions about our personal experience with the justice system, whether we've ever witnessed a crime, and lots of other random things that ended up pertaining to the case. If our answer to the question posed is yes, we are to raise our card. They call on us row by row.

What's strange is how much we are affected by each other's answers. For example, one of the questions is 'Have you ever thought you saw a friend or family member in a crowd only to discover it was actually a stranger?' I kind of roll my eyes when the defense lawyer poses the question, but then no one in the first row raises their card. I'm in the second row, and when they get to us, I'm the only one who raises my card. But then virtually everyone in the third, fourth, and fifth rows raises their card without hesitation. It's like no one wants to deviate from the first row, but then once one person has deviated everyone feels comfortable answering honestly.

We get through the group questioning and the judge tells us we have a little time for lunch before we need to report back for our individual questioning. I'm not very familiar with downtown so I end up wandering until I come upon Underground Atlanta.



Underground Atlanta apparently has a long and storied history. For example, it was severely damaged in 1992 during Atlanta's post-Rodney King verdict riots.

Underground Atlanta was once a major tourist attraction and now it's quite run-down and dated-looking. It looks like it was designed by the same people who did Opryland--90s-tastic and delightfully tacky--and it appears that it has had absolutely no maintenance since the last day of the 1996 Olympics. It's a crappy little underground mall just like the crappy underground malls I know and love in New Orleans and basically every city everywhere.

What Underground Atlanta lacks in panache and security and sunlight, it makes up for in cheap Chinese food. I stuff myself with lo mein and orange chicken and steel myself for the next part of voir dire.

It takes all afternoon for them to call us in six at a time for individual voir dire. I am absolutely stunned when the lawyers refer to me by my last name in front of the defendant, and ask me what line of work I'm in. I'm nervous and I can't help myself from chirping in my characteristic sunny way, "I'm a children's book editor!"

I know at that moment that I am hosed. I am looking young and earnest and pure as the driven snow. I am looking like the kind of person who could never find someone guilty of murder. I am going to get picked for this jury. The defense lawyer smiles. They ask me a few more questions and then send me back out into the hallway.

It's almost 5pm when they call us all in to let us know who's been picked. They go down the rows and call us by number. One woman barely muffles a sob as her number is called. I am not at all surprised when my number comes up. They ask us to file into the juror box and sit down. They call the last number and dismiss the other 47 people. The 13 of us look back at them with pleading eyes as they collect their things and file out, relieved smiles on their faces. The judge gives us some instructions and tells us he'll see us at 10am tomorrow.

All I can think is, What just happened?

Discussion Question:
Have you ever been called for jury duty?

* * * * * * *

This is part one of four in my series about my experience as the foreperson of a murder trial.

one: jury selection
two: the trial
three: deliberations
four: the verdict