Issue 8 - jury duty
A possibly weekly email about what's been going on in my brain
8 - 14 January 2023
I was fine with the solitary Hep B vaccine jab last week. This week though with a second dose of Hep B, the first of Japanese Encephalatis, and a Tetanus booster, my body let me know it's time to chill out.
My new lens (a Fujifilm XF 33mm 1.4, it's lovely) arrived too late for even any test photos so a photo montage throwback to my 2009 Japan trip.
Jury duty
Something long form and personal this week. It’s been several months now since my jury duty stint and I think I’m ready to talk about it. Maybe. Trigger warning for child sexual abuse.
When I got my jury summons it was an oddity: something different from the humdrum routine that the pandemic lockdowns had enforced but not really something I could look forward to. It could be brought up in polite conversation: civic duty eh? I heard a few variations of other people’s stories: waiting for several days before being dismissed, brought onto a case only for the defendant to immediately plead guilty… These filled me with hope that my time in the judiciary system would be uneventful. I joked with friends that I half expected to be put on a complex financial fraud case, or someone who has stolen a lamp from B&Q.
Arriving at the courthouse on the first day I was searched, told a seat number I almost immediately forgot and then told in laborious detail about the forms I had to complete and the financial recompense I could get. Then, with the fifty or sixty other people in the room, one I would get to know very well, I was told to get comfy.
When you’re called to court there are fifteen of you, and with only twelve jury members selected there’s a non-zero chance you can escape even then. Ushers in flowing black robes summoned us by number and led us through the warrens of the courthouse. My initial concern at being underdressed - jeans and a hoodie - were unfounded with two members of the group in jogging trousers and sweatshirt combos.
It was still the tail end of a blistering hot summer and the air conditioned courtroom was a blessed relief to begin with, stood as we all were shuffled to one side as the prosecution lawyer asked if any of us had any affiliation with anyone in the room or the locations and people as part of the trial. My attention was drawn to the court clerk sitting at the front of the room, beneath the judge and nestled amongst jet black audio/video equipment, as they languidly shuffled what looked to be a set of cards. It felt a little inappropriate to be fiddling with cards given the circumstances.
My name, full and clear, was the first read from that set of cards. I forgot the etiquette that had been laid out in the intro video earlier and simply squeaked “Yes!” and stood forward. Juror number one, seated immediately to the right of the judge.
There was no preamble after the three uncalled jurors were seen out: the prosecution read out the case we were to pass judgement on: the sustained sexual abuse of a child, starting when they were twelve, over the course of several years by their stepfather. My stomach dropped and knew, from years of queasy experience, that I had gone pale. The air conditioning was now a sharp unwelcome sting against cold sweat. When previously discussing with friends, we had agreed this would have been one of the worst possible types of case to be sat on, along with domestic violence or murder.
Still processing my situation, a video interview of the victim was played. The afternoon sun obscured parts of the court televisions, but the audio was heartbreakingly clear. We were sent home after several separate interviews had been played, instructed on when to return the next day. I thought of all the ways I could get out of this: illness, injury, absconding. “Fucking hell” was the first thing I said when I finally left the courthouse into a fine drizzle.
You’re given a card when assigned to a case so that as a juror when you come back to the courthouse you skip the usual line of people. So as we don’t overhear conversations that may colour our perception of the case. My bag was always searched, the security guards were uninterested in small talk or levity, morose acceptance elicited the fewest delays.
I recognised a lot of people in the juror waiting room from the previous day, still unassigned to a case. One lady opened up a laptop and began working a gantt chart that stretched for what looked like decades into the future. Jurors on the same case sit together, ours all in an uneasy silence, no one made small talk. We spent more time waiting than in court. Sometimes, like that second day, we all stayed in the communal waiting room with an unused cafeteria, ate packed lunches or drifted into the city at lunchtime, never called by the ushers.
I was reading Permutation City by Greg Egan at the time, a sizable book on the ramifications of being able to upload your consciousness to (in the book’s broad definition of) a computer and how that affects relationships, the perception of time, and memories.
The next day we were called up to a waiting area specific for the courtroom we were in. This was worse than the general waiting room as even more than there you are effectively on pause, waiting for the summons. I worried that after a year and a half of being able to drink as much water and use the bathroom unfettered would make time in court… uncomfortable. I certainly wasn’t going to ask a judge for recess so that I could pee. We were sent back down for lunch, having never entered the courtroom, then resummoned in the afternoon and finally to court for an explanation of the timeline of events.
A characteristic of the prosecution, and I assume of the court process in general, is the laborious, meticulous nature of it. The facts, provable and sequenced, laid out without hurry in as neutral a way as possible. Even the witness testimony was frequently paused while the judge noted down every detail. It was procedural, by the book. I appreciate it is critical to the process that it’s handled in this way, but especially so for a case like this, the emotiveness of the acts described never truly surfaced.
I didn’t look at the defendant until several days into the case. I’m not sure whether I was worried I’d judge them by their appearance, or perhaps I was scared that they’d look back. Neither the victim nor their mother gave testimony inside the courtroom, opting instead for video-link; we were told this was normal and shouldn’t have any bearing on our judgement. From my position in the jury line up I had a full view of the roster of clerks who did everything from filling in important looking forms and filing paperwork to talking on Facebook messenger. All the while the details of what had been done to the victim, when, and how many times, were elaborated upon in painstaking, almost banal detail. The timeline of abuse laid out. Opportunities established. I was reminded, of all things, of the Scrubs episode where it’s explained what you have to do to get through your day.
We were told at the end of every day not to look up details of the case or speak about it with anyone, not even our family. I daren’t look anything up, we were already being forced to piece together the intricacies of this person’s life and behaviour, I wanted to be rid of it in my downtime. Not being able to talk about it was the hardest part, and living on my own means there was just an empty space to be filled when I got home. I still haven’t looked up anything even now, I’m hoping the details - names especially - will eventually fade.
I saw the defendant as I was coming into the courthouse one day. I’m not sure if they recognised me, or even saw me, my blood ran cold when I spotted them though.
There were technical issues right before the defence started, but eventually, and after a self-aggrandising opening statement by the defence lawyer, the defendant took the stand. The prosecution had built a great edifice of evidence but, I want to believe that I was open minded and ready for the defence to be just as robust, dismantling our assumptions and casting doubt on circumstance. We had been told repeatedly that we needed to be sure in our judgement, this was not “reasonable doubt”.
Their case, gruelling details of medical issues and ongoing work drama, was unconvincing. Made worse in the cross examination when the prosecution lawyer, with barely concealed contempt, verbally eviscerated the defendant. It was reminded of a shark at work, and there was chum in the water. To an extent the defence lawyer had done the same when the victim had been giving evidence, needling them with “you made it all up didn’t you?” but it had been half-hearted at best, perfunctory and expected. Here though, the prosecution pulled no punches, but there was no grandstanding, no eloquent speeches or heartfelt pleas.
After this, there was the weekend and we were told a summary would be given before we jurors would deliberate. I’m not sure what I did that weekend, I certainly didn’t see anyone, accepting that the hollowness I felt wasn’t going to go away. The decision that had hung over me since the start of the case was simply whether the defendant would, given their age and the severity of the accusations, die in prison. The example I was reminded of was in the thoroughly mediocre film Passengers where Chris Pratt wakes Jennifer Lawrence from cryo-sleep without any way of her going back under; a reviewer eruditely pointed out that Pratt’s character effectively killed Lawrence’s with that decision and that the film never deals with that decision. It’s a vapid comparison but the best I could come up with at the time. Never once did I think this was about justice, whatever that means from a personal or societal view. You could argue that I was only one twelfth of the decision, but when it has to be unanimous, doesn’t that make everyone’s decision its entirety?
Monday morning the judge outlined the points of the case from his notes and in the afternoon we were given a couple of hours to deliberate before being sent home. The next day, before lunch, we delivered a guilty verdict on all counts - ten of sexual assault, one of a threat to kill. Given all that I had heard I knew that this was just the list the prosecution knew they could reasonably prove. Despite being juror number one, I did not read out our verdict to the court, I maintain even now that I don’t have the emotional fortitude to do something like that, too clear would it have been in mind for too long. Sentencing was to be done another day.
One of the other jurors on the case was a young woman who, while I was reading on my Kindle or listening to the Every Little Thing podcast, voraciously read several paperbacks. One of them was A Wild Sheep Chase by Haruki Murakami. If there was ever an author I could talk your ear off about, Murakami would be it. But I didn’t. There is the obvious shyness and social anxiety involved there, but I didn’t want this case to be the foundational event for any kind of personal relationship. I never found out the names of any of my fellow jurors, but I’m sure I’d recognise many of their faces even now.
As we were leaving, there was talk by some of the court staff as to whether we’d be put onto another case, as if we could just put all this behind us and slot ourselves into another one immediately afterwards. Blessedly we weren’t, though many jurors put their name and phone number down to be notified of the sentence when it had been given. I quickly handed in the paraphernalia and forms required and left. I took most of the next week off, I had been emotionally excavated and knew not how to deal with that. I had midnight fears that I was on the defendants hit list now, my face and name memorised ready for retribution. I’m still not really sure if I have dealt with it, though it has been a long while since I thought about the case.
YouTube watches
- Why protecting tanks is getting much more difficult - why strapping explosives on the outside of a tank is actually a Good Idea tm
- Primitive Technology: cane water filter / siphon - I guess he must have been sure his filter worked or that the water wasn't already riddled with unpleasantness
- The process of making a Go/Shogi board - the printing of the grid on these is worth the price of admission alone
- It's been Awesome Games Done Quick this week and the only stand out run I've seen so far is Transistor by Kass, one of my favourite games and Kass seems like a nice dude; I've only just started watching the list so I'll no doubt have more favourites in the future
Random links
- Joshua Taipale on Twitter goes into what makes music "anime style"
- Japanese store Don Quijote announces a change to their mascot, immediately reverses it - the Don Quijote stores are wonderfully bonkers, like if several old Woolworths stores combined
This was hand-crafted by John.