The foreman, a woman in a bubble
jacket (the room was cold)
asked if we’d heard enough.
We could rewind the tape
or paw the evidence bags
ourselves, could grip the gun
through plastic, or even file
a clarifying question
with the monitor for whom
we were no exception
to the rules of confinement:
the boredom that succeeds
surprise upon learning the show
can entertain, if briefly.
Out of the box, we agreed
the prosecution had flair—
a crisply bearded Latino
who sprang up near the end
with a sudden reversal
in his closing argument.
This felt like no kink
in the yarn he fed us, rather
a jolt to make it taut.
The court-appointed lawyer
sniffed through it all, not
from spite, but from a cold.
Now and then he’d collect
corners of a handkerchief,
find a spot and blow.
His closing was a PowerPoint.
An occasional whisper
to the defendant, a Black
male in his 20s who stood
respectfully and smiled
whenever we came in, was
the depth of their communion.
Though who knows what passed
between them and their opposite
number, or perhaps the judge
while they all waited? We
didn’t keep them long.
First, silence. Then tentative
conclusions slid across
the folding table, so
like one at home. How
we parsed the adjective
in “beyond a reasonable
doubt”! I was myself
called out between sips
of bottled water by
a Potomac (Md.) mom
who argued that my doubt
was not in hailing distance.
She wouldn’t let her child
arrive at this pretty pass.
The admission of a world
outside the windowless room
started a subtle riot.
We paused to ask each other
about travel, deadlines,
and daycare options.
How long would this continue?
It was up to us.
The bud of contingency
bloomed, sending forth
its doctrine in ruddy
shoots. We could agree
not to disagree.
Ninety minutes on,
the face of the accused
hardened. No need to pretend
to us he had a chance.
We thought the counsel wept
but it was just the sniffles.
Grabbing our things later,
we saw the judge, de-robed,
enter our jury room.
So we sat back down.
“I’d like to take some time
to answer any questions
and learn how it went for you.
I do this twice a year.
We’re grateful for your service.”
The silence that followed was like
the one that had begun
when the foreman had asked us if
anyone wanted to start.
Now, as then, I spoke.
“How much do you think he’ll get?”
The judge waved, parting
an invisible curtain, or
batting a fly away.
“The minimum is twenty.”
As we went underground
to our separate parking spots,
taking our leave forever,
I couldn’t help but wonder
how things might change if only
we could rewind the tape
or paw the evidence bags
ourselves, could grip the gun
through plastic, or even file
a clarifying question.