Now for the thrilling conclusion to "Dynasty - the return of the husband stealing whore". Oh wait that was on TV...silly brain.
The deliberation period ended up being one of the most stressful things I have ever been a part of. As the Australian legal system decrees the jury’s decision has to be unanimous there were no majority rules votes, we had to all utterly agree on each point of the law to come to a guilty verdict. We had two counts to rule on and, much to my surprise, the first one was simple. After forty mins we all voted and found him guilty. Imagining myself running from the jury room a free man that day I was wholly unprepared for the fuss the second count would create.
Due to the second count hinging on what the accused’s intent was, we had issues proving what was in his mind at the time of the crime. Some of the jury (me included) saw intent could be inferred from what he did and said. But some of the jury could not infer guilt without solid statement of intent or action. Thus started a three day argument which saw the group fracture, reassemble and then fracture in a final implosion of jury frustration. The entire trial’s evidence was trucked up and down the stairs everyday by our poor old sheriff, someone needs to get him a mule or at least a forklift. We requested the court transcripts and much debate was based around the judge’s last instructions, and what she deemed as being the laws we had to work from. We role played phone calls, drew Venn diagrams, siphoned through tons of paper and talked until we were blue in the face, still we were getting nowhere.
So we decided to send the judge a love note saying we had reached a verdict on count one but were unable to reach a verdict on the second count. We were then ushered into the court room faster than a speeding bullet, the old court Sherriff practically popping a ventricle. Immediately the foreman was asked to stand and deliver the verdict, and no sooner than the word guilty slipped from his lips a mysterious set of stairs behind the accused opened up and out spilled a subterranean army of bailiffs who took him away down into the holding cells. It was the most bizarre and serious sign of the entire trial, and compounded the overall seriousness of this all, that we were not just locked away for the hell of it. We had to make a decision on this man’s actions, and now it was so real, he was guilty and I had been one of twelve people who have indelibly altered his life and his family’s. It was hard not to feel a twinge in my heart, even in the face of all the evidence, it being the first time I had realised he was simply a man who had made a big mistake and not just as a faceless person called ‘The accused’.
But, for us, it was not over, the judge instructed us to return and continue deliberating on the second count. If we could not come to a decision by tomorrow, then we were to let her know. We all left and were so emotionally drained we slumped in our tiny chairs like ragdolls. The next day, we fought and argued, people were starting to crack, shouting, crying etcetera, including myself. I was becoming very angry and about to lose it with the corroded hinge. So by 3pm we decided finally we were never going to agree, and a letter was drafted for the judge and dispatched via huffing Sherriff mail, and ten seconds later we were whooshed into the courtroom as if by waterslide. The accused stood in the dock, surrounded by bailiffs and looking very tired. The judge asked the foreman to stand and asked if we were able to come to a decision based on all the evidence, he said we could not and immediately she thanked us and we were dismissed. It was a blur, five mins later I was collecting my belongings and happily shaking the hands of people who thirty mins ago I wished to slap.
And that was it. I wandered out of Kings Street Court Complex and off into the light, blinking while my phone erupted into a dozen messages, and wondered why I felt a tiny bit sad it was all over. Thinking I was about to suffer the juror’s version of Stockholm Syndrome and marry the judge, the reality of over five weeks of work to catch up on and various relationships to resuscitate snapped me back into this world, soon forgetting about my former institution. It still affects me every now and then though. A dramatic month of amplified emotion and vigorous debate, cathartic and disturbing, I consider it one of the most illuminatingly visceral but valuable experiences of my life.
Due to the second count hinging on what the accused’s intent was, we had issues proving what was in his mind at the time of the crime. Some of the jury (me included) saw intent could be inferred from what he did and said. But some of the jury could not infer guilt without solid statement of intent or action. Thus started a three day argument which saw the group fracture, reassemble and then fracture in a final implosion of jury frustration. The entire trial’s evidence was trucked up and down the stairs everyday by our poor old sheriff, someone needs to get him a mule or at least a forklift. We requested the court transcripts and much debate was based around the judge’s last instructions, and what she deemed as being the laws we had to work from. We role played phone calls, drew Venn diagrams, siphoned through tons of paper and talked until we were blue in the face, still we were getting nowhere.
So we decided to send the judge a love note saying we had reached a verdict on count one but were unable to reach a verdict on the second count. We were then ushered into the court room faster than a speeding bullet, the old court Sherriff practically popping a ventricle. Immediately the foreman was asked to stand and deliver the verdict, and no sooner than the word guilty slipped from his lips a mysterious set of stairs behind the accused opened up and out spilled a subterranean army of bailiffs who took him away down into the holding cells. It was the most bizarre and serious sign of the entire trial, and compounded the overall seriousness of this all, that we were not just locked away for the hell of it. We had to make a decision on this man’s actions, and now it was so real, he was guilty and I had been one of twelve people who have indelibly altered his life and his family’s. It was hard not to feel a twinge in my heart, even in the face of all the evidence, it being the first time I had realised he was simply a man who had made a big mistake and not just as a faceless person called ‘The accused’.
But, for us, it was not over, the judge instructed us to return and continue deliberating on the second count. If we could not come to a decision by tomorrow, then we were to let her know. We all left and were so emotionally drained we slumped in our tiny chairs like ragdolls. The next day, we fought and argued, people were starting to crack, shouting, crying etcetera, including myself. I was becoming very angry and about to lose it with the corroded hinge. So by 3pm we decided finally we were never going to agree, and a letter was drafted for the judge and dispatched via huffing Sherriff mail, and ten seconds later we were whooshed into the courtroom as if by waterslide. The accused stood in the dock, surrounded by bailiffs and looking very tired. The judge asked the foreman to stand and asked if we were able to come to a decision based on all the evidence, he said we could not and immediately she thanked us and we were dismissed. It was a blur, five mins later I was collecting my belongings and happily shaking the hands of people who thirty mins ago I wished to slap.
And that was it. I wandered out of Kings Street Court Complex and off into the light, blinking while my phone erupted into a dozen messages, and wondered why I felt a tiny bit sad it was all over. Thinking I was about to suffer the juror’s version of Stockholm Syndrome and marry the judge, the reality of over five weeks of work to catch up on and various relationships to resuscitate snapped me back into this world, soon forgetting about my former institution. It still affects me every now and then though. A dramatic month of amplified emotion and vigorous debate, cathartic and disturbing, I consider it one of the most illuminatingly visceral but valuable experiences of my life.
