Serving on Jury Duty Was More Meaningful Than I Expected (2024)

Cascading rows of neatly arranged wooden benches greeted me as I walked into the quiet room, where I heard only hushed conversations and periodic footsteps between tables. High ceilings and an elevated judge’s bench loomed at the end of the courtroom, adding to the already palpable air of authority.

It’s strange that I found serving on a jury so meaningful — because I’d dreaded doing it for so long. For years, the city’s courts were infatuated with having me serve. I’d felt like a criminal on the run, narrowly squeaking through the selection process, being dismissed in the last moment on three separate occasions.

This time, I sat in a room of 45 people, as jury selections began for 12 jurors. I’d done the math and knew I had better than a one in three chance of being selected, so I crossed my fingers.

Two opposing lawyers stood up front and asked us random questions about our opinions of the world, our philosophical standing about life, and then posed hypothetical scenarios.

I was asked, in an oddly roundabout way, about my opinion of marijuana laws. Feeling slightly unclear of the question, I stuck to my wrecking ball candor, “I don’t see the big deal with it being illegal. It’s just a plant.”

It wasn’t a tactic to get myself excused by any means. I genuinely felt that way. But it probably wasn’t smart to be that honest in a room full of police officers. Then, I watched as attorneys progressively dismissed every juror. The 12 of us were chosen.

They brought us to a back room where I realized how we were truly a random sample of society. There was a mix of ethnicities and ages. Among the careers represented, there was a mechanic, a secretary, two engineers, a retiree or two, and me, a financial analyst (at the time). We were given our instructions. I was burning to know what the case would be.

We were brought in a few days later for trial. It is only when you sit in the jury box, and look out across the brown, highly formal, sweeping courtroom, with a judge, defendants family, and police officers, all glaring at you — that you realize how big of a deal court is.

The door swung open and a defendant, a weathered and tattooed man in his late 40s, who looked like he’d seen many things in life, came hobbling in with shackles on, escorted by two police officers. I hadn’t expected to feel bad for a defendant so quickly. But I could envision the difficult life this man had lived, perhaps from a broken home, where his parents fought, or which was ravaged by abuse (statistically, more than half of inmates experienced emotional and/or physical abuse in their childhood). A large knife scar went several inches vertically down one cheek. A dragon tattoo crept up under his collarbone through the v-neck orange suit he wore.

Two court appointed defenders sat beside him. They were educated and refined looking middle aged women. The prosecutors were a man and woman in their early 30s. All were well dressed.

And, before we go any further, I’m clear to discuss this case openly per our judge and Florida law. He made that explicitly clear at the end of the trial, and that our first amendment privileges stood strong.

Because I grew up in the 1990s, I envisioned every court case in context to the OJ Simpson Trial. In the back of my mind, I anticipated a high drama case, with evidence teetering jurors in different directions, which would lead to long and heated discussions during deliberations. That wasn’t what I got.

We quickly learned the defendant was accused of possession and intent to sell marijuana. Among the evidence collected against him, was the presence of multiple scales, dozens of small baggies of marijuana, thousands of dollars (much of which was small bills). He also told the cops it was his marijuana. There were photos of him handing the weed to someone in a car in front of his house, with him then accepting cash just after that. Roughly ten pounds of marijuana was found at his house, most of it in a back shed that looked very much converted into a secret weed dispensary.

What became painfully evident during this case, was that he had no real defense. One of his lawyers objected to the prosecution several times, and got up, giving impassioned points — that I had trouble comprehending. I suspect this is because she didn’t have strong points to make in the first place. She seemed to just be trying to slow things down, or show some form of effort for her defendant.

As a juror, you really do feel like you’re at the center of a large play. All of the attention is on you, as attorneys continue to make their points and give speeches in your direction. Several pauses occurred after objections, as both sets of attorneys huddled with the judge to discuss some nitpicky point about the process.

I later learned the defendant was offered a plea deal but chose not to take it. He was a prior felon with points on his record. Choosing to avoid the plea deal is a huge gamble, as the sentence is usually much harsher if you’re found guilty. Plea deals are meant to reduce strain on an already overburdened legal system.

When we went into deliberations, the court bailiff came in, gave us our instructions, and we looked at a table loaded with evidence and photos of weed, the defendant dealing drugs, and other things we couldn’t ignore. The defense hadn’t given us literally anything to work with, and I mean anything. The closing argument made zero sense. There wasn’t even a theory or hypothesis of why the defendant might be innocent. And I don’t fault his attorneys at all. The facts of the case were brutal for them.

The bailiff, a senior officer with grey hair, who was probably near the end of his career nodded to us, clasped his hands together and said, “OK, I’m going to go get you guys some water. I’ll be right back. You are free to begin.”

As soon as he closed the door, a few quiet moments passed. Then, the car mechanic juror, a skinny man with long curly hair, who still had oil stains on his palms, shrugged his shoulders and said, “Look, I think he did it.”

I was glad he put it out there, calling the obvious what it was. There was no excitement or joy as we all briefly talked about the case and acknowledged we were on the same page. You really do feel like someone’s fate is in your hands as a juror.

The bailiff returned a moment later with the water. I said, “Sir, we’ve reached our verdict. It’s guilty from all of us.”

He paused in the doorway, the water still in his hand, “Are you serious? OK. Well, you all did a great job today.”

I suppose he was happy just to get it over with. I knew that, due to the defendant's prior offenses and the points on his record, and his choice to go to court, he was likely to get a multi-year sentence.

Regardless of my opinions on archaic laws on marijuana use, they were still the laws in place, and we can’t pick and choose which ones we obey.

A small part of me took solace in the fact that we were participants in a vital component of democratic rule, where each of us is entitled to a trial by a jury of our peers, and provided a defense attorney when we can’t afford one. It is a key check and balance in our society’s flow of power.

It’s easy to forget that there are many places in the world where this doesn’t exist, and where your fate rests in a single corrupt officials hands, where he or she can pass egregiously harsh sentences that can never be appealed.

At the same time — I was pained that we couldn’t help someone like this defendant see the light. The fact that he’d been in and out of prison so many times over the years was an indictment on our system as well, and our inability to rehabilitate prisoners and reduce recidivism rates.

Regardless, I encourage each of you not to shy away from this duty. Serve on a jury at least once in your life. Yes, it can be inconvenient and a distraction from your other problems. But I suspect you’ll find it quite meaningful.