The Trial: Stages

Voir Dire:

In the United States, it now generally refers to the process by which prospective jurors are questioned about their backgrounds and potential biases before being chosen to sit on a jury. It also refers to the process by which expert witnesses are questioned about their backgrounds and qualifications, in order to potentially give an expert opinion in court testimony. As defined by Gordon P. Cleary: "Voir Dire is the process by which attorneys select, or perhaps more appropriately reject, certain jurors to hear a case."


I didn't think much about the jury duty experience over the next few weeks. It was strange enough that I was in the same room as a two guys accused of such heinous crimes. I remembered back when they were in the news, in 1989. There had been a couple of news reports about people being shot at and/or killed along Interstate 580 in Oakland, but even though I often took that freeway I never got the sort of fearful feeling one might in a case like Son of Sam or something.

I do recall one report clearly because of the nature of the story. On my way down to Berkeley early one morning the news was dominated by the capture of a young man who had shot at a couple of drivers on I-580 in the wee hours of July 27, 1989. The first guy, Rodney Stokes, had survived having three shots fired at him by ducking down and playing "possum". He then watched as the assailant drove forward and accosted another driver, shooting him fatally. Stokes kept his cool and after contacting the police was able to finger the shooter. The cops had the guy in jail and were questioning him. This action spoke to the altruist in me. I would have done the same thing as Rodney Stokes. That's what I was thinking at the time.

Spin forward four years and now I have seen this man standing before a judge with his accomplice. It made those stories more real. I had seen this accused killer and he really didn't look like a bad guy. I guess that was the point, with the nice clothes, neat haircut and nerdy glasses.

Next Letter

The next correspondence I got from the County was in a regular envelope, sent to me by the prosecutor's office. I was instructed to come to the courthouse on a particular day for voir dire. In this part of the trial preparations, small groups of potential jurors come in and sit in a small room, waiting to be called into the courtroom for individual questioning. There were three or four other people with me and we made small talk, speaking only a little about the particulars of this case. None of us knew that much about it, with one exception. There was fellow, a tall, rather overweight guy who seemed really anxious to get on the jury. He said he had been summoned before but never "made it". It seemed like he considered it a personal affront not to be among the chosen, just the opposite attitude most folks brought to jury duty.

Eventually a bailiff poked his head into the room and said: "Mister Newbegin, please." I followed him through the heavy wooden doors into a now nearly empty courtroom. Only the principal characters were there: The judge, defendants, lawyers, clerk, stenographer and bailiffs. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach much like the one I have before performing or public speaking. I was directed to the jury box and took a seat, a microphone before me.

First to question me was one of the defense attorneys. He asked me about my responses to the questionnaire concerning alcoholism in my family and my views on the jury system. I was forthright in my replies, talking about how alcohol had been tough on our family and that I had a lot of faith in the system, flaws and all. They asked me about my umpire experiences. "I suppose it's pretty tough to put up with the criticism, isn't it?"

I gave them my corny answer: "I call 'em like I see 'em."

Then Mr. Burr rose. I could feel my gut clenching as he walked slowly over to me from his seat. There was a sharpness, calculation in his eyes, and he smiled slightly and said: "Good morning, Mr. Newbegin". I knew I could not be untruthful with this guy. He was going to get the facts, ma'am.

"How did you first hear about this case?"

"I had heard some reports on the radio about a couple of people being shot on the highway. Then I heard about the guy getting caught one morning when one of the people he shot at followed him."

"And what did you think when you heard that report?"

"I guess I was hoping they got the right guy."

"You have heard that this case involves charges of murder in the first degree along with three special circumstances?"

"Yes, sir."

"This is a capital case, Mr. Newbegin. If this defendant is found guilty of the charges and any of those special circumstances are found to be true, he could be sentenced to life in prison without parole or the death penalty. Were you aware of that?"

"Yes, sir."

Burr went on to discuss with me my views on the death penalty. He asked me whether I thought it was a deterrent, talked about California Supreme Court Justice Rose Bird, whose controversial stand on the death penalty had gotten her fired. At the time I supported the death penalty as just another way of punishing people for the most heinous of crimes. This trial was my "put up or shut up" moment.

"What I need you to tell me, then, is this: If that were the case, would you be able to cast a vote to send this defendant to the gas chamber for the crimes he committed?"

I looked at Charles Stevens, who was busy writing something at his seat. Always writing, almost never looking up. I turned my gaze back to Mr. Burr. "Yes, sir, I could."

"Thank you, Mr. Newbegin. No more questions, your Honor."

I got up and headed out of the courtroom. I had no real sense of what would happen after that. Outside, the fat guy was still hanging around in the hallway by the elevators. "Hey, how'd you do?"

"I don't know, I just answered the questions."

"God, I hope they pick me for this one. This is just so cool, huh?"

"Yeah, cool. See ya."

I got in the elevator, went back to my car and returned to the working world. I thought about Burr's question and really had little doubt I could do it. If these terrible things were true, well, he deserved to fry, right? I felt at once a little excited, a bit overwhelmed by the potential experience. I guess I could see why the fat guy was that way. He was just acting out what most of us were thinking.

Furthur: A Jury of His Peers?

The Trial: Preface

I will not be writing a linear account of all the events in my life after Jan and I were married. Too many stories would be left out because they are still being written; they are not yet resolved. This particular tale is a big honkin' nugget that deserves the light of day. Enjoy!

The Letter

It came through the mail slot like every other piece of correspondence I got every day of every week. I thought at first I had gotten a parking ticket I'd forgotten, left unpaid. "Superior Court of Alameda County" and the Seal thereof right on the front, light blue lettering on a white envelope. One of those perforated types that requires instructions to open. While I followed those notes carefully, I still tore the inner notice slightly. And there it was:

"You are hereby summoned to appear at Superior Court for Alameda County for jury duty."

Ah, really? I had joked with friends who complained about jury duty that I had never gotten a summons even though I had been a licensed driver since I was 16 and registered voter since 18. Now it was my turn. You know, people bitch about it but I thought: "Cool. Wonder if I'll get on a jury." I told my boss at Custom Process, the photo lab I worked at in Berkeley, that I had gotten the summons. I said I thought I probably wouldn't even make it to a trial. He looked at me kinda funny and shook his head: "Oh, you'll be on a jury, all right."

"What makes you say that?"

"I know you, Ed. If I was on trial for my life I would want a whole box full of people like you."

I didn't know what to say. I suppose it was a compliment, but could it have been a backhanded one? Was I gullible? Too empathetic? Ask too many questions?

The week I was to report I had to call before 8AM on Monday to see if my number was one of this week's pool. If not, I would be in a temporary pool for six months, then cut loose. I was on my way to work early that day and i forgot to call before I left, so I pulled off the freeway and stopped at a pay phone near a McDonald's. I slotted the quarter in and dialed the number. A recorded message rattled off the group numbers and sure enough, I was in. I had to report to the courthouse that day.

I called one of the guys on my crew and told him not to expect me that day and headed for downtown Oakland. I parked in the city parking garage and strolled around to the huge entryway. The courthouse is perched just above Lake Merritt.

A quick pass through the metal detector and up to the third floor to sign in and join the other cattle waiting to be called. I had brought a book, Bones of the Moon by Jonathan Carroll. A truly weird book to be reading in preparation for jury duty.

The lady in charge of the cattle call room would occasionally rattle off a list of names and tell them to go to Department so-and-so on floor something. The room was emptying out and I was still there, reading away, eating snacks from the vending machine. Finally my name came up, along with 20 or so others. We all filed out and headed for Department 6, Judge William R. McGuinness presiding.

As we shuffled in and took our seats. one man stood on the right side of the court and watched us all enter. He had a nice designer suit, short, dark, bushy hair and, as I wrote in my journal at the time: "snake eyes". His right elbow rested in his left hand and his right hand was on his chin, index finger just touching his lips. He scanned the room slowly, a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth. This man was Ken Burr, the Alameda County prosecutor.

On the left side sat a couple of other suits. The defense attorneys. We all got settled and finally Mr. Burr turned around and sat at his table. The clerk told us we could remain seated as Judge McGuinness entered, which was a little disappointing. Not like TV at all. Not the last time I'd have that realization, either.

Then the bailiffs brought in a couple of guys who could only be the defendants: One a large, darkly complected black man who looked terrified and the other a lighter-toned, confident looking young man with large, dark-rimmed glasses. His almost haughty gaze swept the rows of potential jurors once and he took his place next to his attorney.

The clerk of the court stood and began reading the charges. And oh, my, what a list of charges: Four counts of First Degree Murder, Six counts of Attempted Murder and two Special Circumstances. The main defendant was one Charles Arnett Stevens, known four years earlier as the I-580 Freeway Killer. His co-defendant was Richard Clark, who was being tried for his role in one of the murders. Damn! When I get summoned, I really get summoned!

After the charges were read, the prosecutor told all of us that we would be given a questionnaire. We had to fill it out at our seats and hand it in before we left that day. Then all the principals left the court, with just the bailiffs sticking around as proctors. The questions were pretty run of the mill, asking if we knew any of the people involved with the trial in any way, from the judge to the attorneys and defendants to any investigative personnel. We were asked about any crimes committed against or by each one of us. Had there been any history of alcoholism in our families? I related my Dad's struggles with booze and his father's drunk driving accident that seriously injured a man who died within a year of the accident.

Then I went home. We had been told that about 300 people were being considered as potential jurors for this trial, so what were the odds?


Answer: Not as astronomical as I would have thought...