Over the years cops and robbers have dominated television viewing. With only one week served on the Grand Jury, I realized that the stories will never end. They are being scripted as you read this and if you read it again, a fresh scenario will be hanging in the sidelines to be drafted. One week. They had said it would be the most interesting service we could do for our country. These expectations were met with swift intensity.
The
Grand Jury is different than a single trial or waiting in a room to be called for a myriad of cases during a set time. Members of the Grand Jury are privy to all of the county’s felony cases that have been reviewed and filtered for probable cause. This creates a daily docket of 30-50 cases in my county alone. The Grand Jury hears the bare minimum of evidence to confirm probable cause, then votes. Seven out of nine ayes’ will indict the suspect and move him/her on through the judicial system. During a brief orientation, the question was posed whether or not we would just be rubber stamping decisions already made. The answer was yes, 99% of the time.
With shameful honesty, I thought these two weeks would be R&R (rest and relaxation); an opportunity to take it easy while listening to some interesting cases. That first day I headed across the walkway nine stories above early morning High Street. Dawn masked the city as dirty, deserted; almost barren. I used to work downtown though and knew a hubbub of activity would ignite a melting pot of cultures and personalities soon enough. There was such a festive air…in my mind.
It didn’t take long to change my mind and gain a new respect for lawyers, in particular prosecuting attorneys. The ones we met came into the court room chatting it up about their weekends, their animals, cooking and the weather. In general they were giving the impression of normalcy. Five hours later you wondered how could they do it day in and day out. It’s one thing to watch Ironside or the Judge or Law and Order. It’s completely different to go through 50 drug related cases in 1-1/2 hours. I’ve lived a sheltered life.
Profiling this assembly of intriguing jurors would have been impossible. One worked for the government and quite obviously had unattained aspirations of becoming a lawyer. When the opportunity arose, his intense interrogation of an 81 year old woman who had suffered a troubling and embarrassing scam was unconscionable. He and Marta exchanged hurt and suspicious glances when they were told their line of questioning was inappropriate.
Lucille spoke but once that first week and it was to say she was highly offended that people were being referred to as suspects or bodies or victims. She wanted to personalize each case with individual names used throughout the testimonies.
The default leader of the pack was a driver by occupation. All summoned jurors are assigned a number from 1 to somewhere around 300. The rule of serving during a Grand Jury 4 month session is that once your number is called, you must serve a minimum of 2 weeks. The option is then available to stay through the end of that session. Clifford was called within the second month. His employer’s policy allowed his people to remain a juror once instated until the session end. By the time I got there, Cliff was 10 weeks seasoned. He helped us to understand the process. When asked what case had affected him the most, it was during our stint when we were shown a picture of a man who had most of his head blown off.
Yes! There
is murder in the city. One of our first cases was a suspected serial killer justifying his actions to an ex-girlfriend whom he blamed. How could he possibly kill someone he loved? Internet chatrooms became a gold mine for his release.
Another murderer sitting in the county jail decided he needed his dad to make threats on his brother’s life. Said murderer didn’t think his brother was doing a good enough job intimidating the witnesses of the crime he had committed.
Horrendous sexual abuse, tragic domestic violence, passing bad checks, stealing, robbery at gun point, drugs, fires; it was all happening inside this community of 1 million. There were times I thought my head might explode!
The 1% of the time that this was not a rubber stamp position, was a domestic violence case. It was an opportunity to hear both sides of the story. The involved parties contradicted each other and a Grand Jury majority chose 7-2 to indict, which in essence would allow the courts to determine who was telling the truth. I awoke wide-eyed deep in the night when the pieces fell into place. I should have voted nay.
Conversely, there was a guy who stole his neighbor’s big screen TV. He stashed it in his girlfriend’s car then spent the next 30 minutes arguing with her because they couldn’t find the keys. He left on foot in a huff to add to his loot only to get caught cutting out the window screen at the apartment of an acquaintance. She yelled and threw a plate at him. Heading back, he ran into a man with a dog. Tough and in his face he demanded the man’s money.
“I don’t have any money. I’m walking my dog.”
“I’m going to go get my piece and then you will give me your money!”
The would be robber left. He came back with an obvious screwdriver ‘gun’. The dog walker popped him in the nose and took off. Our gangsta headed home with blood dripping down his face only to find the police at his door.
Tell me that isn’t a great sideline story for TV!
Written by Teri Lee
February, 2008
"Grandma, I'm so hungry!" The savory warmth coming from the chicken stewing atop the old coal stove was more than this little one could take. Great-Grandma Sadie turned with hands stuffed in the front pockets of her cotton house dress contemplating my mother. She smiled and surprised her beloved granddaughter with a thick slice of home baked bread spread with sweet butter; topped with strawberry jam.
The pot that stewed the chicken and made memorable sandwiches landed third generation to my mother 40 years ago. To this day Patty remains a fearless and marvelous cook! When we were growing up, more often than not, Great-Grandma Sadie's old dutch oven held center stage at our family's Sunday dinner table. The lid with crusted sauce or jus along its edge, held in the heat of our main course while bread was warmed and drinks were poured and set at the table. The six of us would anxiously await the ceremonial lifting of the lid to inhale the evening's meal of pork and scalloped potatoes, roast with carrots, onion and potatoes, venison, squirrel or rabbit. We would then dig in and do what was cherished the most; share in each other’s lives.
