By Casey Young
“All rise.”
I paused and studied the man standing with the defense. The skin on his face was sagging, his hair falling from age, and his gut extended past his belt line. There was something eerie in his eyes, but surely this was only a case of a DWI or something inconsequential.
“Thank you for coming today,” the judge started. “You are all potential jurors in the case of Robert Lake vs. The People in the charge of second degree murder.”
Soft whispers cascaded across the room as my own stomach flipped. I couldn’t believe my luck. My dad had assured me that I would be in and out, and I had an aching feeling that would no longer be the case.
The day drug on past 2 p.m. as seat-by-seat the jury was filled. The anticipation was building in me as the potential jurors dwindled down. Judging by the questions that were asked, I knew I held no bias and if my number was called, I was surely going to be chosen.
“Number 129.”
I picked up my coat and smiled at the man whom I had made great friends with during the day. If my number hadn’t of been called I had even considered dropping him my number, but fate had different plans.
“Well, Ms. Young, I see you study at Paul Smith’s College. What do you study?” asked the prosecutor.
“Environmental science.” I tried to hide my nerves. I was positive they were going to ask me about my opinions on domestic violence, blood, or even women as aggressors, but they didn’t. The four lawyers took a minute to conference about just who they’d like to serve on their jury. I crossed my fingers, knowing full well I was about to be chosen.
“We would like numbers 76 and 129 to stand.”
I stood, confused. Generally, there were only 12 jurors on a jury and one alternate. So, why was I the 14th person standing?
“Given the gravity and charges of the case we have chosen to proceed with two alternate jurors. We thank you in advance for your service.” The air escaped from my lungs. I was no longer Casey Young. I was Juror 14, or Alternate Juror 2. “Thank you for your time, everyone. Those of you left are excused. Those of you chosen for jury are to be back at 9 am tomorrow morning. Get some sleep. Tomorrow we will go until no later than 4 p.m. If you need your parking validated, please see the bailiff.”
As we ate dinner that night the news flicked on a segment about the trial.
“A jury was chosen today in the trial of Robert Lake. Lake is accused of murdering his girlfriend in December of last year. The trial will begin tomorrow.”
My parents looked at me with wide eyes. I just shrugged and shoveled more potatoes into my mouth. I was sworn to confidentiality and I was determined to keep it, even from my parents.
The next morning, I rolled out of bed. I didn’t even bother putting on makeup and drove myself to Albany. I walked through the metal detector in the front of the building and proceeded to the break room. About half the other jurors were already there, making meaningless conversation about the weather. I tried to keep to myself, but an older woman with gray tangled strands made conversation with me until a guard greeted us.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I will be with you during the duration of this trial.”
An older woman with loose curls gripping her head led us to an elevator around the next corridor. She had to scan her badge for it to open, and suddenly the gravity of determining someone’s future hit me. We arrived on what seemed to be the 3rd floor. We had our own room where we were to keep our coats, paper bag lunches, and cell phones. Our breaks and lunches would be spent in this small cement box, nervously looking at each other, wanting desperately to discuss the only topic we weren’t allowed to—the trial. Over the course of two weeks I found my favorite people to talk to were the man who seemed about 25 and worked for a non-profit helping at-risk kids. Juror 7. The other, a woman in her 50’s, who taught at SUNY Albany. Before she came back to the States, she taught at Oxford University in England. Juror 3.
I can remember going into that courtroom on day one, nervous, excited, curious, and ready to remove any emotion from the facts. We lined up outside of the courtroom, in juror order. As the door pulled open, I could hear “All rise” boom from the judge’s voice. As we walked into the room, I tried not to look at the defendant. I took my seat and waited for what would happen next.
First, opening statements were made by the defense and prosecutor. It was then that I finally learned what I would be hearing about the next two weeks. The man in front of me, accused of murder, stared at the jury as details were explained by the prosecutor first. The prosecutor was well-spoken, and I sat at the edge of my seat as he explained that Mr. Lake had stabbed his girlfriend in the neck, twice, put a bag over his head to suffocate himself, woke up, tried to cut his own neck and wrists, showered, smoked a handful of cigarettes, drank a cup of coffee, walked several blocks to the hospital for his own wounds, and told a nurse there was a body in his apartment. Then came the defense’s opening statements, a story that seemed to come from a completely different incident. According to this woman, who kept pausing to collect her thoughts, Mr. Lake’s girlfriend was high on drugs, charged him with two knives, and Mr. Lake managed to grab one of those knives and defend himself. Clearly, this would be nothing like an episode of CSI.
The second and final part of “Juror 14” will be published April 28.
Casey is an editor for The Apollos. You can find her bio here.