Cease Fire

A few weeks ago, I reported downtown for jury duty, thinking and hoping that, like all the other times, if I was still there when the numbers called neared mine that I would be "thanked and respectfully dismissed." I was not.

Instead I was selected as an alternate juror for a murder trial. Alternate Juror #2.

Now, on paper, this is great, right? A mystery writer selected for a murder trial? But, like many of us, my first reaction was - Oh, man! This is a terrible time to be stuck in a courtroom for four days! My mom was visiting and I was days away from a big project launch at work and this meant my team would have to pick up the slack for me. But fate laughs at our silly plans, so jury duty was happening. And, once the finality of the situation settled, I really did find it interesting and certainly hoped to make the best of it. I learned a lot that countless episodes of Law and Order had not prepared me for. For example, when the counsel "approaches the bench," the defendants go too.

That's right - defendants, plural. The case was to try two women charged with 21 charges each ranging from 1st degree murder and attempted murder to assorted weapons charges as prior felons. There were two surviving victims - one pregnant -  and one deceased man who had been shot five times, three of them in the back.

I saw autopsy photos and heard testimony from the medical examiner. I heard from a ballistics expert, and learned about casings and bullets. I saw the bullets removed from the victims, looking more like spiky washers than lumps of metal. I saw video from a body camera worn by a responding patrolman and from the crime cameras posted throughout this city marked by blue flashing lights. I heard two days of testimony from the homicide detective who brought and referred to his murder book - a large binder with reports and information about the incident. (I don't know if Baltimore's police detectives call it the murder book, but they do on Bosch, so...)

And then there were the witnesses. Not in suits or dresses, but in shackles and orange jumpsuits. To say that they were uncooperative would be an understatement.  Each expressed that they had no intention of testifying, no memory of anything related to this case, didn't know anyone else in the courtroom, and so on. One also threw in that she was "taking the fifth" several times just in case.

That was one of the surviving victims. The dead man was her husband.

The other witness who swore he wasn't there was not only on the video footage speaking at length with the patrol officer, he also made a lengthy statement at the police department on video (wearing the same blood covered shirt) where he walked them through the entire evening peppered with "feel me?" every few seconds to make sure they understood. He called 911 from the scene which we heard  in the courtroom. He had been in the car with the victims and was the only one of the four that was not shot.

Does this sound pointless? It was confusing for me at first, why the state would bring in uncooperative witnesses? Why would the victims refuse to testify? Why would they now be incarcerated when they are not charged related to this case? But by Day 3 I started to understand better.

Each day the jurors would arrive in the morning, go through security with our juror badges on, go sit in the locked room where we had to buzz someone if a bathroom break was needed. We were not allowed to wander the halls. Our bathroom was unlocked for us each time we needed to use it and then relocked. We were escorted to and from the courtroom down the hall. I found myself avoiding eye contact with anyone other than the judge, the public defenders and state's attorney and the other jurors. When coming to and from, I watched the floor. By day 2, I was not comfortable eating lunch in the open, wearing my badge, so I brought my sandwich back to the bland juror room and ate it there. We were sent at lunchtime to the main courthouse to collect our juror pay which was exactly the amount it cost me to park my car nearby. We felt conspicuous, exposed, vulnerable. Spectators from the gallery milled about the halls outside the courtroom, talking on cell phones or whispering to each other. Several times, the judge had ordered the bailiffs to remove spectators from the courtroom. My seat did not allow me much of a view of the room, only the area where evidence or witnesses were presented. By lunch on day 3, the jurors sent a note to the judge and before we left the courtroom, the halls were cleared by sheriff's deputies and were were escorted down a set of back stairs and walked outside, all the way to our cars if desired. It was unsettling.

On day 4, the case was turned over to the jury, and as one of the two remaining alternates (one was pulled in for a juror dismissed on day 2) I was released. I did not hear or take part in deliberations. I did not get to examine the evidence, much of which was only barely passed before us or not shown at all as it was formally admitted. I went home. I went back to work. I visited with my mother. I went out to a show with my boyfriend and  some friends. But I didn't feel right.

For days, I checked the Maryland Judiciary website for results of the case, though it took a full week for that to get updated. The defendants had been convicted of 2nd degree murder and attempted murder and other charges. I wish I could say that I was reassured, but I was not really. I felt less comfortable driving through the city. I felt less comfortable at home or leaving home or going to someone else's home.

And then I watched, for the first time, season 1 of The Wire.

In the very first episode, a court case is going on (a murder trial of course) in the very room where I had been selected as a juror. The establishing shot of the fictional crime in question bore an uncanny resemblance to the evidence I'd been shown as a juror. It seems unfair to people who have suffered real trauma to say that I felt a little PTSD, so lets just say that I have a new uneasiness now. I probably had it when I moved to Baltimore more than a decade ago and I'm sure that it resurfaced after my home was burglarized awhile back, but I've been coasting along I think in a state of avoidance.

Last weekend, a group of activists tried to get the residents to agree to a weekend without murders. It did not go well.  A headline from CNN:

Second deadly shooting in Baltimore's 'Nobody kill anybody' weekend

The news lately is filled with terrible, terrible things - the latest being the demonstrations by white supremacists and then the killing of a peaceful protester to those demonstrations. Our President, while being just a constant embarrassment in general, is tossing around inflammatory rhetoric wherever possible, and tweeting about nuclear war. We seem to be slipping backward into a horrible newsreel of nightmares that didn't seem possible the first time around. There seems to be nowhere to hide from this scenario. No one to escort us down the back stairs and away from the threats all around us.

I don't know what to do about it. Except write. And stand up for people when I can. And love those around me. And try not to react to bullies in kind. And try to appreciate all that I have. And to be generous when I can. And kind.

I have to believe that kindness can make a difference. I have to.

I'll get around to season 2 of The Wire soon, but not right now. For now I need to walk outside a little in the sun and the woods, I need to play mini golf with my family, I need to learn how good barbecue ribs are done. I need to spend time with my dog. I wish you all the same.