January 25, 1993
At this, the fourth pre-trial visit to Section 6, it seems like a reunion. I recognize the people from my interview group, including the big guy who was obsessed with having many chickens for lunch. (Oh yeah, forgot that part!) I think about speaking to him, asking him if he had chicken and maybe how many he had, but sanity takes hold and I refrain. There is still that feeling of pent-up excitement in the air as we are ushered into the courtroom, a smell of old paint, dust, sweat mingled with aftershave and perfume. We are all silent but for the shuffling of feet. Everybody files into the room and finds a seat. Once again the whole crew is waiting for us: bailiffs, reporters, attorneys, the sanke man, clerk and assistant, and the judge, William McGuinnes. He's a pleasant guy, showing a lot of deference to all of us for sacrificing so much of our time to this cause. With the calling of the roll, the action begins.
McGuinnes instructs the clerk to read off a list of twelve names, randomly selected, to compose the initial jury. My name is the fifth one called, no particular surprise to me. I take my seat as juror #5, knowing deep in my soul that I will not be removed, that I will be here when the process is complete...
(This morning was odd, filled with snippets of dreams, odd talismans appearing in my second sight. The most vivid looked like this
It is the front of an eagle's beak clutching a bright ball of light with distinctive rays shining out. It reminds me of something from the Mayan art I saw recently on PBS. I'm not going to try to interpret it, but it was one more sign to me that my life path is being followed and intersected by this trial.)
...Three hours later. After numerous challenges by the three parties involved, the gallery has been cut to just six people from about 60-70, we are all in place. I have not been challenged since taking my seat. The only other person from the original group of 12 called still there is #6, the fellow next to me, named Rudy. The same Rudy from the interview group who wanted to discuss football to great lengths. I suppose we'll have something else to talk about from now on...
The bailiff shows us the jury room on the sixth floor, our home away from home for the next couple of months. He tells us the mundane details. Everybody seems a little shocked, bored, excited all at the same time.
Afterwards, as I drive home, I feel a sort of relief from finally knowing, but apprehension over the upcoming trial. How long will it really go? They said 8 weeks or so, but when has a government official ever really stuck to estimates? Hearing witnesses, seeing evidence, watching an ancient process being played out before me as I, along with four (other) men and seven women "good and true" sit to judge guilt or innocence, life and death. It connects us to thousands of others, maybe millions through history who have answered this call. Therein might lie the thrill running like a cool blue current through our veins, expressed in nervous laughter and glassy eyes.
This should really be memorable.
Next up: We're off!
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