I had mixed feelings when I was summoned to jury duty late last month. It put me in mind of the 1957 film “12 Angry Men.”
True to its name, the New York City-based movie was a series of angry confrontations, bitter arguments and ugly menacing during jury deliberations — in other words, not much different from what civic discourse has become. Outside of work, I look for less drama, like rowing my boat on a lake.
The jurors — all white men — didn’t start out angry. They were affable enough and ready to get down to business, sharing cigarettes, mopping their brows and complaining about the sweltering humidity. Juror No. 7 was in a hurry; he had tickets to the Yankees game against Cleveland, starting at 8 p.m. So they took a straw poll.
The count was 11-1, which spurred the first reproach. Juror No. 8, played by Henry Fonda, was the dissenter — he wanted to review the evidence against the defendant, a young man accused of murdering his father. He was facing the death penalty. Steady and determined, No. 8 put his colleagues through their paces and made them do their duty.
Fast-forward to the modern-day Snohomish County Courthouse. I almost got out of duty — I was Juror 21. During voir dire, eight before me were excused and I filled the last of 13 seats (including an alternate). After lunch, we heard opening arguments.
The details of the domestic violence case were disturbing. The defendant faced felony charges of assault and illegal possession of a firearm. We scrutinized photographs, a copy of a text thread, the Smith and Wesson pistol in question. We listened to hours of testimony from the victim, police officers and the defendant himself. Some of us gasped at that news. We all had watched enough “Law and Order” to know that’s an unusual play for the defendant.
OK. Now, let me tell you about my fellow jurors. We 13 were corralled in a 20-by-10-foot room and admonished repeatedly not to discuss the case. We shared first names and prior jury experience. A woman I dubbed the cruise director was intent on coaxing us all out of our shells, peppering us with questions: hobbies, super powers, family, etc. It was the start of these 13 strangers, charged with a grim task, becoming friends.
Boy, did she take care of us. Noting the two restrooms, the director gently, firmly reminded the four male jurors to put the seats down. The next day, she brought trivia games, and someone liberated the first jigsaw puzzle from the cupboard. The game-testing manager seemed to be the ringleader for that last endeavor.
After the weekend, the baking planker — she can hold three minutes! — brought macarons and oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. Sublime.
After the prosecutor and defense attorney plied us with their somber closing arguments, we had to say goodbye to our alternate, an insurance company employee with a baby at home. The judge read our instructions. Then we convened in the jury room where we had spent days, finally liberated to talk about the center of our purpose.
We elected the 20-year-old Eagle Scout as our presiding juror and took that first straw poll. Most were not persuaded the prosecution proved the case, but a few were. Me included. So we reviewed the exhibits and our notes. We talked and talked over each other. The social worker-turned-school counselor had some valuable insights.
Finally, someone commandeered an abandoned wooden cane from the coat rack. A talking stick. Unless you are holding it, shut your mouth — a rule we all more or less followed, under the guidance of the Eagle Scout. Truly a born leader, he often paused to make sure everyone was heard.
On the last day, the third grade teacher brought doughnuts to get us started. Later, we seemed to be bogging down. Someone pointed out lunch was more than an hour late. The mountain climber renamed our text thread “Twelve Hangry Jurors.”
Another key leader in our group was the other 20-year-old, an actor and student who turned out to be the Henry Fonda in our story. As we checked in on how opinions were changing during deliberations, she became the lone dissenter, and I’m grateful for it. She made us really examine witness credibility, the holes in the case. She made us work!
Not one cross word, not even a harrumph clouded our deliberations. After a day and a half, we all came to the same conclusion — that on the assault charges, the state failed to make the case. Turns out reasonable doubt is a real, important thing. However, the gun charge case was solid, and we voted to convict.
Welcome differences between this experience and the film? Smoking was not allowed, and we had a first-rate HVAC system. Also, this jury was much more diverse, with eight women, four men, ranging in age from 20 to 71, and including at least two immigrants. The defendant was Black but no jurors identified themselves as Black.
Which brings me to one disappointing similarity to the 1957 movie: Washington’s juror pay was set in 1959 — two years after the film “12 Angry Men” premiered. Most counties pay $10 a day and the pay can go up to $25. That $10 from 1959 is worth about $115 in today’s dollars.
Pierce County Superior Court just concluded a state-funded pilot project to encourage more diversity through higher pay — $100 a day. The point is many jurors, particularly lower-income people, just can’t afford to give up their wages and maybe pay for child care to be able to serve. More compensation could encourage more diversity, in income and ethnicity, according to Laurie Louise Sale, the pilot project manager for the Washington courts.
My employer pays employees during their duty, which was true for many fellow jurors in the workforce. For retirees, the duty represented opportunity costs — the retired truck driver had a nephew who needed his AC repaired; the pickleball enthusiast with grandchildren’s initials circling her wrist had less court time; the retired tech guy and volunteer tutor might have missed one of his hikes up a mountain. The cruise director worried about her elderly mother being alone.
For at least three — the Eagle Scout who works a seasonal job, the actor/student, and the blond-and-magenta-haired substitute teacher — this civic duty was costly.
The Pierce County pilot ended in April and a report on results is expected later this year. Pierce County Superior Court Administrator Chris Gaddis says it’s too soon to talk about the results. He did note people receiving jury summonses responded to the court at higher rates.
I told Gaddis how much I learned from my jury duty and how rewarding the relationships with my colleagues were. I told him we were thinking about a reunion.
“That happens,” he said. “We’ve even had marriages come out of jury duty.”
Damnedest thing. I have 13 new pals, whom I have great respect for. I learned their passions, their values, their commitment to this important civic duty. Bonus: I don’t know their politics. What a privilege.
