JURY SELECTION FOR MY TRIAL TOOK NEARLY THREE WEEKS. The county dragged in over three hundred and fifty spiteful anti-establishment cronies who refused to accept their civic duty to sit in judgment of me. Their excuses rained like biblical plagues—entertaining, but time-consuming narratives nevertheless.
“My father’s a lawyer. I can’t be impartial.”
The constant, omnipresent, ever popular excuse.
“My mother’s a policewoman. I can’t possibly be impartial either.”
Slightly less popular, but frequently used.
“My daughter went to Penn.”
Eh …
“My sister works as an art historian.”
Even more eh …
“I’m a teacher, and my students are having their AP examinations.”
Perhaps, if they’ll all flunk because you can’t stick a sheet of paper into a Scantron grader.
“I’m having back surgery in one week. My doctor can’t reschedule. Will this be finished by then?”
Maybe, but likely not.
“My mother was the victim of a violent crime, so I don’t think I can be on this jury.”
You’re probably right.
“I don’t believe in the death penalty.”
I do.
“I had a hysterectomy last year.”
And I care because …
“I hate authority.”
I have no idea what to do with you, and neither do the lawyers.
“Kill ’er, I don’t care! I believe in the death penalty.”
Hello prosecution!
“I’m a police officer. I see these cases all the time.”
Hello prosecution, again.
“I mean, I could follow the law if I was told to, but I don’t know that I could follow the law if I was told to. You know what I mean?”
I don’t. I really don’t.
“Let each and every one of them fry. Fry like bacon.”
Now you’re getting dramatic.
“I’m partial to women.”
So …
“I’m partial to men.”
Again, so …
“Fry like deep-fried bacon sitting in a batter of butter.”
Now you’re just getting sloppy.
“My fibromyalgia will flare up if I’m seated for longer than three hours. I have a doctor’s note with me.”
Please …
“I also teach science.”
Fair enough.
“I mean, if the judge told me that all the evidence led to one verdict, I would have to follow it. But I couldn’t follow it, you know? You know what I mean, counselor?”
I still don’t.
“I also have hemorrhoids.”
Good times.
“Let them fry like hot butter.”
I’m laughing at you now.
“With hemorrhoids, if I sit in one place for longer than forty-five minutes, I’ll have a bulging pain in my rectum, so I can’t be on this jury.”
That sounds fair to me.
“I’m getting married next week.”
Vaya con dios.
“You see what I mean, judge. I mean, with my hemorrhoids, it would literally be a pain in my ass to be on this jury.”
Hilarious.
“Okay, so I could follow the law, yes. If the law says the death penalty is okay, then it’s okay. But would I believe that? I don’t know. I don’t. No, I couldn’t. Yes, yes I do. It’s okay. I could. I could follow the law. Yes. Yes, I would follow the law.”
Too pliable. Sorry, defense.
“I’m a member of the Church of the Savior of our Father. We do not believe in executions.”
Good-bye.
“No, I’m sorry, counselor. I don’t think I could follow the law after all. Is that okay?”
No.
“I used to be a sniper for the military.”
Yikes.
“My mother is sick and I take care of her every afternoon.”
Impressive. And excused.
“I’m going to India next week on vacation. I’ll lose a lot of money if I can’t go.”
I don’t feel sorry for you one bit.
“Please, I … I … have a heart condition. And I recognize the prosecutor from Wawa yesterday. And I think I went to school with the court reporter. Kindergarten, fifty years ago, maybe in West Philadelphia. And I’m Mormon. We don’t believe in the death penalty. Well, that was twelve years ago. Now I’m a Catholic. No, I’m a Jew. An Orthodox Jew. You understand, right? There’s no way I can be impartial.”
Of course. Of course, it’s perfectly clear.
Judge?
I watched from the defendant’s table during every clumsy excuse. Melodious sacraments to my dissonant entr’acte, perpetuating a system that works more often than it does not.
The final few left us with a jury that seemed less like my peers than I could have anticipated. Their names stay with me, even today: Ronaldo Martinez, forty-five at the time. Construction worker. Originally from Kansas. Moved to Philadelphia one year earlier to start anew after his bitter divorce. Beverly DeBeers, forty-three, no relation to the jewelry company. Stay-at-home mom of, like, six humanoids. Wants to move back to the Main Line, especially after being summoned for this case. Nancy Garmond, fifty. Said she was allergic to peanuts during voir dire. Owns a company producing jelly preserves and marmalade. No joke. Charlie Levi, sixty-two. Retired schoolteacher. Taught physics, poetry, and pottery to inner-city kids. Amir Ansari, thirty-five. Taxi driver from Turkey. Came to America seven years ago and became a citizen only two. Lakeisha Fontaine, forty-two. Works for the DMV. I could have sworn that I’d seen her before. She might have been the one who let me take my license photo over a few times until my smile wasn’t crooked, but I can’t be certain (and clearly she couldn’t either). Russell Bryan, twenty-one. Recent college graduate. Drexel. Isn’t sure what he wants to do with his life. Has a cool ambidextrous name. Lavonne Owens, thirty-eight, corporate lawyer. Loves her job. Likes to wear the glistening fruits of her labors around her neck, fingers, and wrists. Shanaya Portsmith, twenty-six, hairdresser. Wears a different style almost every day. Was blonde, redheaded, and back to blonde during the course of my trial. Vincent Hanger, fifty-eight. Artist. Teacher. Sold a few paintings in a gallery in New Hope recently. Felipe Almuerzo, forty-three, kindergarten teacher. Entirely too happy to be on a jury. Melissa Silva, thirty-six, journalist, hungry for blood. She later wrote a self-published memoir about her experience on this case that made it to the top ten thousand books on Amazon. And of course Samuel Stahl, seventy-four, our trusty alternate. Devastatingly old to be on a jury, particularly one for which he would never even have a vote.
There they were—twenty-six eyes serrating my every blink, the rising cadence of my chest, the unconscious flinch in my face when I unexpectedly sneezed. Thirteen individuals, marinating in the enclosed jury box like a carton of dried-out fruit.
By the time we finally made it to trial, I had been in jail for nearly sixteen months. My roots were halfway down my raggedy mane, and I had no more access to contact lenses. Madison McCall managed to procure an old suit from a thrift store for the trial, and consequently, I looked like a fashion victim caught in the mid-80s. I’m fairly certain I lost a vote or two based purely on the way I looked. Perhaps Lavonne and Felipe would have focused on me and the facts of the case a little more if I looked better. Or perhaps not. The coquettish concern they displayed with the details of each other’s bashful smiles reached me all the way on the other side of the courtroom. (I can’t resent them, though. They did thank me later by sending me a wedding photo, which is now taped to my wall.)
But regardless of how I see it, these were the people looking at me. Sitting in judgment of me. Watching me hour upon hour upon hour. Asked repeatedly by Madison McCall and Tom Davies if they could actually stand in judgment of another person—of this woman, Noa P. Singleton. Every single one of them hesitated through their response: yes, yes they could. They thought they could. Of course they could. Yes, really, it would be their duty. Their civic duty. And then they were sworn in.