Unreasonable Doubt IV: Judge Not and Ye Shall Not Go Home

As deliberations began, my fellow jurors divided roughly into three categories:

Rationalists—"Let's stick to the evidence and testimony."

Psychologists—"But what if she were thinking something other than what she said?"

The Silent Minority—"Call me when we're voting."

Of the twelve jurors, seven actively deliberated; one or two shifting between rationalist and psychologist depending on the count. (I tended to vote rationalist.) And while the Silent Minority wasn't mute, they mostly spoke of peripheral matters. ("Remember when Robert Downey Junior used to get arrested a lot?")

With a table full of evidence (plus a small basket of glazed doughnut holes left for us by the judge), we rolled up our sleeves on Friday afternoon.

Count one involved spousal abuse and the alleged beating. For this we had the strongest evidence—victim photos taken by the cops, testimony of the victim's friend, testimony of the cops and a paramedic. In addition, the paramedic testified that Mrs. Pak was not coked up based on his examination and years of experience dealing with the citizens of Los Angeles.

On the defendant's side, we had Mr. Pak's testimony that his wife was a whacked out druggie, a manic muffin head, thrashing on their bed and wailing like some Georgia snake handler. His attempts  to either comfort or restrain her had inadvertently resulted in Mrs. Pak's facial injuries. If anything, he was acting in self-defense.

The foreman asked for pros and cons. There was some back and forth that tended to focus on the more fantastic claims of the defendant. There was a sense that Mr. Pak wasn't a very believable witness. Rationalists and psychologists seemed in general agreement.

The foreman called for a vote, "All those who believe the defendant is guilty of spousal abuse, please raise your hands."

I raised my hand, already planning my route home out of downtown. (A drive north up Hill Street through Chinatown to the 110 freeway, north to the 5 Freeway, then a short hop to the television and either the Military Channel or something involving midgets and pit bulls.)

Many hands shot up.

An old guy of the Silent Minority—the retiree—held out.

We were hung 11 to 1 to convict.

 Energy seeped from the room like air from a ruptured scuba tank. No one had anticipated this on the first count. It was as if a guest at a birthday party had suddenly dropped a flagstone on the cake.

The foreman maintained a neutral politeness,"And, uh, what is your opinion of that count?"

"Well, I think we're all rushing to railroad the guy."

"How's that?" asked the former music industry business man.

"What was he supposed to do? His wife was all coked up."

(Are you freaking kidding me ! Where were you during the trial? The first count is a gimme; a slam dunk; a tap in. You must have a brain full of Snapple.)

"Listen, I spent ten years in the music industry. I've seen my share of coke freaks. It doesn't just wear off. You're sweaty, your system's all jacked up."

The photographer chimed in, "And the paramedic said the wife didn't show any symptoms of cocaine. So she probably wasn't high."

(Believe him, old man. I implore you to believe him. I will you!)

The government worker— from whom I'd learned to draw thick arrows—suggested we get the transcript and read back relevant parts. You may've seen this done in courtroom dramas. It's fast and never a problem on TV.

In reality, it's a big hassle. The foreman must request specifically which parts of the massive transcript are needed. Both attorneys must then be summoned. The judge has to Okay the whole thing.

We ended up not doing it.

The retiree backed up a bit on the wife being coked, but still held to the defendant's need to restrain her. If count one ended up hung, then so would the next two since they all were alleged to have happened at the same time in the same location— the Pak's bedroom.

A rationalist remembered the defendant testifying that he had been standing away from the bed, but had returned to restrain his wife, admitting he may have injured her in self defense.

A psychologist suggested, "He didn't have to grab her. He could have left the apartment or called for paramedics,"

The retiree wavered.

Another rationalist read back a legal definition from the jury instructions. The definition roughly stated that you can't rush into a situation and claim self-defense. Old Man Trouble must come to you.

There was the out.

"Well, based on that definition, I might see it differently."

(Oh, thank God! You charming old duffer. How good and noble and intelligent you are when you agree with me.)

"Why don't we vote again?" said the foreman quickly.

12 - 0 for conviction. Count one was a wrap.

The next two counts involving bruising the wife's wrist and smothering her with a pillow until she stopped screaming—along with her promise not to call the cops—went 12 - 0 for conviction on the first vote. We were picking up steam.

The bailiff strolled in. "How you guys doing?"

"We have three so far," said the foreman.

"The court's gonna close early today. You'll have to come back on Monday."

There was pleading from all around the table. Jurors had put off projects and clients or were only being paid for a single week. Going another day would complicate a lot of plans. We needed more time.

"Let me talk to the judge," said the bailiff and strolled out.

This brought us to count 4: intimidation. According to the charge, the wife had run into the bathroom stating she wanted to call a friend, maybe the cops, she wasn't sure. The husband followed, kicked open the door, slapped the cell phone out of her hand, held it away from the wife, and extracted another promise not to call the cops.

According to the defendant, he went into the bathroom to continue his perpetual wife-comforting but that nothing had happened with the cell phone. After all, hadn't she used it later to call her friend and the cops?
 
The psychologists jumped all over this count, quickly shifting the focus to the wife's actions and thoughts.

"She never actually said she was going to call the cops."

"How could she be intimidated if she wasn't going to call anyway?"

"Remember the cell phone they passed around? I didn't see any damage."

"Me either."

"I dropped my cell phone at the beach once and it broke to pieces. I don't believe the husband threw her cell phone."

"I don't think there's enough evidence to convict."

"Me either."
 
"Why don't we vote on this one?"

Many hands rose but we hung again.

11 to 1 for acquittal.

I was the hold out.

I could hear my fellow jurors thinking: Thanks a lot, you four-eyed bookworm.
 
The foreman maintained a neutral politeness as she addressed me,"We have a difference of opinion here. What do you think of the count?"


Coming Up: Lather, Repeat, Rinse

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