***Justice Served

written by Neal Dranoff

Being a 50 plus male and having “been around the block” a few times engenders a requisite amount of seasoning. By this age, naiveté has pretty much flown out the window and we feel like life has few surprises left to offer. Even devoid of having personally experienced a given situation, we’re so bombarded with others’ tales through our profusion of media outlets that we at least think we can easily wrap our hands around a remedy should we ever find ourselves as a principal.

Or so I thought…

I was notified in February that I was liable for possible jury service in Federal Court beginning in late March. When the appropriate time arrived, I made my required phone call to see if my assigned number was selected to attend the next day’s jury pool; it was, and so began my brief, but startling journey into “another world.”

I was selected for the second voir dire (French for “to see/to hear”) call of the day, a rather large one where fifty-five of us were chosen. For those of you not familiar with the concept of voir dire, you are escorted to a courtroom and given a very brief overview of the case by the presiding judge. The judge then proceeds to weed out possible jurors from the group through an exhaustive series of questions that can expose bias towards the prosecution or defense, along with a host of other reasons why you should not be selected for the jury. Once the judge is finished, the respective lawyers get their chance for questioning the assembled pool, with the intent of selecting those people they feel are most apt to side with them once the trial begins. After the lawyers exercise their allotment of preemptive strikes, a jury consisting of twelve members and two alte
ates is finally selected to hear the case.

Guess who was the last person picked, as Alte
ate #2?

The case was drug-related (cocaine powder and crack cocaine to be precise). The two male defendants were each charged with three counts involving possession, intent to distribute, and possession of firearms. Each defendant was in his early twenties, but could have easily passed for eighteen—baby-faced complexions, fresh haircuts, shirts and ties—every attempt having obviously been made by their lawyers to dissuade us from thinking they were street-wise and hardened individuals. After being given precise instruction on how to conduct ourselves from the judge, the prosecution (representing the government) began their opening argument.

To say it was compelling is an understatement; we learned there were actually five arrests made but the other three parties had pled guilty and were going to testify for the prosecution against the two defendants, thereby hoping to lessen their own jail time. My fellow jurors and I were drawn into what can only be described as the seedy, sordid underworld of a drug-infested existence. Remember, no opinions were to be formed about guilt or innocence until the trial ended (the judged had told us to expect six days of trial time before deliberations could begin), but I soon realized TV shows and movies ain’t nothing like this folks! After hearing opening statements from the defense, who agreed the prosecution had followed correct procedural manners in forming their case, but were arguing against the defendants’ level of involvement, the first witness was called. He was the lead detective in the case and was put through three rigorous hours of examination and cross-examination by the lawyers. The other detective and fellow officers in the case followed him onto the stand, albeit for much shorter questioning.

The second day was the real show; the first of the other three arrested parties made his appearance, in green jail fatigues with a sheriff escort always remaining by his side, as a witness for the prosecution. I won’t delve into every detail, but I learned more about cocaine, both in its raw form and in its “cooked” form as crack tha
I ever cared to; as well as how a sweeping cocaine business operated on a daily basis. I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the unnerving feeling of having the three firearms gathered as evidence a mere ten feet in front of the jury box—a .45 caliber Taurus Millennium pistol, a .44 magnum, and a 12-gauge shotgun, all of which had been kept constantly “hot” (i.e. ready to be fired) and within arm’s reach in one of the defendant’s apartments. The only “amusing” facet of the proceedings was that this witness, both a customer and accomplice of the defendants, was 45 years old and was thus called “Old-Head” by all of his associates.

When the fourteen members of the jury returned from lunch recess that day, we were told there would be a delay in allowing us back into the courtroom, as there were many details being sorted-out by the lawyers and judge. Two more hours passed and we all began thinking this “delay” was plea-bargaining by the defendants, who, in my opinion, had been buried earlier by the testimony of Old-Head. It was obvious the police and prosecutors had done a credible, thorough job and the defense was facing an uphill battle. Once we finally were able to re-enter the court, the defendants were no longer present—the judge told us they had decided to plead guilty and their pleas was accepted based on the overwhelming evidence presented to that point. We were graciously thanked by the judge, who told us that while we were no longer needed to decide the case, our mere presence helped produce the outcome and we had performed our civic duty at the highest level.

The train ride home was a blur. First, I could not stop thinking about the two young lives gone to waste and the effect on their families. Second was much more personal. My father passed away over forty years ago; I was only fifteen at the time and was suddenly thrust into the role of “man-of-the house” (my brother was only eleven). I had to grow-up in a hurry, becoming mature and savvy for my age. Ever since that phase of my life, I’ve always regarded myself as wise and street-smart. This trial, even in its shortened state, made me realize, however, that in certain social circles I’m literally a “babe in the woods.” Here I am in my fifties, seemingly immune to anything else life can throw my way, but in the world inhabited by the defendants, I’d be nothing more tha “fresh meat.” Scary, scary thought. Best to start walking around with a fresh set of eyes starting right now…

-Neal