From the Eyes of a Juror

by Frank Terranova

  Chapter 23 – Jurors and Witnesses

  Thursday afternoon June 5, 2008 – 12:10 PM

  As one might imagine, Newlan was downright despondent after being shuttled back into to the deliberation room by Billy the Court Officer, and he played out the scene, starring Judge Gershwin and himself, in his mind for days on end, wondering whether there was anything he could have possibly done differently to coax a more favorable ruling out of the noble judge.

  “I was so close to being sprung free,” moaned Newlan. And yet he was unable to seize the moment and finagle his way off the jury. No matter how badly he wanted out, in the end, his guilty conscience reared its ugly head. There was no way he could have lived with himself if there was even the remotest possibility that Judge Gershwin’s lasting impression of him was that he had somehow attempted to shirk his civic duty, regardless of the fact that he was convinced his concerns were legitimate. However, after taking her view of the matter under advisement, he was forced to agree that maybe he was overreacting as usual.

  “Oh well, at least I didn’t say anything stupid on the way out the door,” reflected Newlan with a sigh. He was all but certain that when he left the room, he wouldn’t be coming back, and he was relieved that, for once, he didn’t put his foot in his mouth. And even though he was batting around .500 in his attempts to restrain his big mouth, now that he was back in the saddle, however unwillingly, he made a promise to himself that he was going to be a model juror and not complain about a single thing for the duration of the trial...it was a promise he would find very difficult to keep.

  Newlan’s unexplained removal from the deliberation room had his fellow jurors buzzing with conspiracy theories, but for the most part they welcomed him back with open arms. Although for some inexplicable reason, he was overcome by a paranoid feeling that a handful of his new colleagues had guiltily looked the other way as he reentered the room.

  “How’d you make out?” asked Jim, the juror in seat number 6, more out of curiosity than anything else. But Newlan didn’t take the bait and he downplayed the issue by nonchalantly stating; “oh it was no big deal…just had to discuss a minor issue with the judge.”

  Newlan was mindful of the fact that Jim may have been trying to press him for information, which aroused his suspicious side; and on top of that, he dutifully recalled what Brandon had said about not mentioning anything to the other jurors.

  Of course, Newlan wasn’t going to get off the hook that easily, for it seemed that Jane had a few follow-up questions in tow, waiting to spring on him; questions which he found to be rather irksome, because although there was no possible way that any of his colleagues could have had the foggiest idea as why he had temporarily left their presence, the incident still left him feeling a bit awkward, and he was almost glad when Billy sauntered back into the room to retrieve them.

  “Line ‘em up…we’re ready to go,” ordered Billy as he led the jurors back into the courtroom with the standard command of, “all rise…jurors entering.”

  Despite his vow not to look into the gallery, Newlan eyes wandered lazily out into the open space anyway; and the fact that every person in the courtroom, including the attorneys, the defendant, and the judge, as well as the audience in the gallery, were all standing in deference to the jurors finally began to sink in.

  “It all makes perfect sense, since after all we are the center of attention. We’re the ones who’ll be making the ultimate decision about whether to send a man away to prison for a long, long time. We’re the ones whose lives are going to be disrupted. They need us here. People like us are what make the court system what it is,” surmised Newlan, and his revelation left him with a sudden swelling of pride over the reverence with which they were being treated.

  Having never been on a jury before, Newlan and most of the other jurors weren’t sure what to expect as they gingerly sat down and mentally prepare themselves for what lay ahead. And judging by the colorless look on their faces, one could only assume that they had taken Billy’s advice to heart as far as expecting the unexpected.

  “If the rest of the trial is anything like the opening statements then it should be intensely dramatic,” conceded Newlan; although he would quickly come to learn that while witness testimony could indeed be riveting at times, at other times it could also be very dry and boring.

  “Court is in session…you may be seated,” began Judge Gershwin before dispensing with a few more choice words of advice for the jurors benefit.

  “Now ladies and gentlemen of the jury, as the trial moves forward you may become aware of people and places that are familiar to you, such as Mr. Breslin’s place of employment. So I must remind you once again, as I will do frequently, that you are not to discuss the case with anyone, for any reason, and if any circumstances come up that you feel unsure of, please direct your concerns to our quite capable court officers,” requested the no-nonsense judge while at the same time flashing an uneasy smile.

  Judge Gershwin made a stringent point of always remaining pleasant whenever she spoke to the jurors, which was sometimes in sharp contrast to the tone that she used on the attorneys and witnesses who frequented her courtroom. But nevertheless, Newlan was sure that he observed the all-powerful judge discretely glancing in his direction with derision plastered across her face as she made her draconian plea that the jurors honor their vow of secrecy.

  Whether Newlan’s observations were real or imagine was inconsequential, because, either way, it left him self-consciously squirming in his seat for a moment or two until he was finally able to talk some sense into himself.

  “What am I worrying about? No one other than Brandon and Billy knows what the judge and I discussed…so hopefully it will remain our little secret.”

  Newlan’s perceived slight aside, once Judge Gershwin got her subtle reminder, tailored specifically to his needs, out of the way, she proceeded on to more pressing matters.

  “Now for those of you who are unfamiliar with courtroom procedures, the prosecution will present its case by calling their witnesses, and then the defense will have the opportunity to cross-examine the government’s witnesses. And once the prosecution has completed its case, the defense will have the opportunity to call any witnesses that they might have. OK, let’s begin.”

  Upon digesting Judge Gershwin’s command to get down to business, the jurors sat up attentively in their swivel seats with their pencils held tightly in hand and their notepads at the ready. In some illusionary way, they resembled marathoners, poised at the starting gate, breathlessly waiting to begin frantically scribbling down every subtle movement they observed; every implied statement they heard uttered; and the words “let’s begin” could just as well have been the gun going off to start the race.

  However, as the days dragged on, many of the jurors began to show signs of wearing down, much like a long distance runner at the 20 mile mark, and more than a few of them eventually gave up on their note-taking practices; most of them came to the conclusion that they’d be better off listening intently, and maybe jotting down a note or two here or there. But there were a few notable exceptions; namely Frank Newlan and the attractive Natalie in seat number 7. Their zeal for note-taking was so obsessive that it caught the attention of the judge and the attorneys, who were duly impressed to find them scribbling down even the most innocuous of comments into their 6” X 9” notebooks. Their attention to detail was in fact so neurotic that before you knew it, they each needed a second notebook…and then a third.

  On the other extreme, there were also a couple of jurors, such as the lanky Mark in seat number 4, who didn’t record a single word into their notepads; remarkably, not one written observation did they enter into their journals, starting from day one, right on through to the reading of the verdict.

  And although the jurors were unanimously in agreement that there wasn’t one absolutely right or wrong approach to their appointed task, that didn’t stop Jane and others from surreptitiously
interjecting that Natalie and Newlan were going off the deep-end with their fanatical diligence…but that didn’t deter the impassioned scribes in the least

  “To each his own,” groused Newlan when after only a few days it became clear that his doggedness was annoying many of his colleagues. He was hell-bent on transcribing every little detail right on down to the last syllable, even if it killed him, and he didn’t care what anyone else thought.

  But in the meantime, as Newlan fidgeted in his swivel chair, restlessly anticipated the action in the form of DA Lyons’ first offensive, he took a moment to scan the courtroom, and his curious attention became instantly focused on the two clerks who were seated at the long table just below Judge Gershwin’s bench.

  “Those are the same two paper shufflers who were here yesterday. I wonder what they actually do,” pondered Newlan as he and his colleagues sat impatiently waiting for something to happen.

  Positioned directly at the center of the table was Assistant Clerk, Dan Dente. For some reason, Newlan seemed to think that Dente physically resembled DA Dan Fielding of the old TV sitcom, “Night Court” and he found the similarity rather amusing in ways that only his twisted sense of humor could appreciate.

  Dente’s job description included, among other things, the preparation of all court papers and documents, and the performance of any additional administrative tasks necessary to ensure that all cases moved rapidly and smoothly to a just adjudication.

  Dente’s job demanded years of training, and on top of that it required a thorough knowledge of legal and courtroom procedures, as well as the ability to maintain complex and accurate court records.

  Dente was also required to number, stamp, and keep track of all exhibits which were submitted as evidence in the case. But from Newlan’s uninformed 50,000 foot view, Dente appeared to be nothing more than an overpaid pencil-pusher.

  To the right of Dente sat Court Reporter Jerry Montgomery. His job was to repeat every word that was uttered throughout the course of the trial, verbatim, for the purpose of recording a transcription of the proceedings. Montgomery accomplished this task by holding a mask-like device over his mouth for hours on end and whispering into it, as if it were some sort of covert microphone.

  Montgomery’s job required that he sustain an agonizingly high level of concentration for extended periods of time, without showing any reaction, which could be rather difficult; particularly when he was obliged to focus in on the boring technical details of an expert witness, pontificated in verbose manner, or even worse, when he was compelled to absorb a day’s worth of emotionally draining testimony, unintelligibly whispered from the mouth of a traumatized victim of a violent crime.

  And Judge Gershwin, for her part, being fully cognizant of Montgomery’s challenge, frequently reminded the witnesses to speak loudly and clearly so that he could do his job. She did her best to be compassionate, but regardless of the distress level of the witnesses, their testimony needed to be audible for the sake of all involved. And furthermore, owing to the fact that Montgomery could only record one person talking at any given time, she would often admonish witnesses and attorneys alike if they talked over each other; in short, she wasn’t one to allow her tightly managed courtroom to veer out of control.

  As a whole, the jurors were amazed that Montgomery was able to listen carefully to the ceaseless courtroom prattle for hours on end, while simultaneously chirping into his strange device, and at the end of the day still capture every word that was spoken throughout the course of the trial without anyone ever hearing his voice.

  But regardless of the mysteries surrounding Montgomery’s recording equipment, there he sat with the mask cupped to his mouth, just like the jurors who stood by at the ready, pencil and paper in hand; all of them anxiously awaiting the commencement of the testimonial declarations of the first witness.

  And after an extended delay that seemed to stretch on ad infinitum as far as the jurors were concerned, DA Lyons finally announced, “Your honor the prosecution calls Ms. Ann W. White to the stand.”

  As Lyons spoke, the wide double-door entrance into the courtroom opened up and in through the gallery wandered the witness looking very much like a child lost in the supermarket. And when Ms. White hesitated ever so slightly, she was intercepted by an elderly court officer who was also assigned to the case, and she was pointed toward the swinging half-door which separated the audience from the grandiose spotlight.

  Ms. White was shaking like a leaf as she apprehensively approached the witness stand, and her nervousness was exacerbated even further when she was unexpectedly halted by Brandon at a point that was roughly adjacent to the center of the jury box.

  “Please raise your right hand,” requested Brandon and then court clerk Dente took over from there.

  “Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help you God?”

  “I do,” replied Ms. White.

  “Well this part seems familiar…although I notice that they don’t swear on The Bible anymore,” muttered Newlan as he inquisitively looked on.

  Understandably, Ms. Ann W. White had a shell-shocked look etched upon her face as she took a seat in the witness box, and her head unwittingly rotated back and forth as she peered out into the crowd of people whose eyes all seemed to be focused on her, not to mention the TV cameras in the back of the room which were also pointed in her direction as well.

  Most of the witnesses in the case, including some of the younger police officers, would become stricken with reactions similar to those of Ms. White, which isn’t too surprising when you consider it’s not every day that one is obligated to testify at a criminal trial, let alone a murder trial.

  For the most part, only the veteran detectives seemed unfazed by the circus-like atmosphere that had permeated the courthouse grounds, and even they would occasionally end up stammering their responses when faced with the contentious cross-examination which was routinely administered in ferocious doses by the tenacious R. J. Gleason.

  “Ms. White, for the record could you please state and spell your name and tell us what city or town you are from,” requested DA Lyons in a slow monotonic cadence.

  White, who was a pleasant 35 year old African American woman, cheerfully yet hesitantly responded; “Ann W. White…A-N-N…W…W-H-I-T-E…and I’m from Malden Massachusetts.”

  And so with that opening salvo out of the way, the inquisition began in earnest.

  Lyons: “Ms. White what type of work do you do?”

  White: “I work in the insurance industry.”

  Lyons: “And how many years have you worked in the insurance industry?”

  White: “About 8 years.”

  Lyons: “And are you currently employed?”

  White: “Yes…I work for the Commerce Insurance Company”

  Lyons: “And where did you work before the Commerce Insurance Company?”

  White: “The Barron Insurance Agency.”

  Lyons: “And where is the Barron Insurance Agency located?”’

  White: “Newton Massachusetts.”

  Lyons: “And how long have you worked at Barron?”

  White: “I no longer work at Barron.”

  Lyons: “Yes, sorry my mistake. Let me put it another way. Could you tell us roughly what time period, in months and years that you worked for the Barron Insurance Agency?”

  White: “From about March 2005 through March 2006.”

  Lyons: “So roughly one year?”

  White: “Yes.”

  Lyons went on to ask Ms. White a bundle of similar scene-setting type questions, almost to the point of ad nauseam. On and on and on she went, and what’s more she would repeat the same routine, witness after witness…day after day…week after week.

  However, for the remainder of our story, we will spare you, the dear reader, of all the extraneous detail which was requested of each and every witness who took the stand. Our hope is that we could give thos
e of you who are unfamiliar with the inner workings of a criminal trial a little taste of the excruciating level of detail with which some attorneys delve into when questioning a witness. Unfortunately for our venerable jury however, they wouldn’t be so lucky.

  They had to listen to over 70 witnesses spell out their names, and state where they lived, where they worked, and for how long, before getting into the meat of their testimony

  “If I have to put up with a full month of this minutia I’m gonna lose my mind…and we’re only on the first witness. They could cut the trial in half if they left out some of this irrelevant crap,” grumbled Newlan. Although, it was only a matter of time before he submitted to the sufficiency of the fact that perhaps some of the background information might be necessary, and as such he delivered the following coarsely worded addendum to himself.

  “I guess maybe the attorneys do have to include every fuckin’ little detail when they question a witness, just to make sure that their cases aren’t appealed…or maybe DA Lyons is just being anal.”

  But Newlan’s silent objections aside, Lyons meticulously pressed on.

  “Ms. White on the morning of January 13th, 2006 do you recall what time you arrived at work?”

  “I pretty much arrived at the same time everyday…around 7:45. I don’t drive, so my husband gives me a ride to work every morning, and he is always punctual,” explained White.

  “Now do you remember anything unusual about that morning?”

  “Oh yes, it was a day that I’ll never forget,” sadly replied White.

  “Are you referring to Mr. Miller? Please tell us what happened that morning,” impatiently requested Lyons.

  “Well, we were getting ready for our weekly Friday morning sales meeting. It was just after 8 o’clock and normally we would wait a few minutes for any late arrivals, but on this particular morning Fred never showed up at all…and he didn’t even call, which wasn’t like him. After the meeting, I rang Fred’s cell phone but I got no answer, so then I called the deli down the street where we’d go for breakfast and lunch just about every day…the waitresses there all knew us by name, but they hadn’t seen Fred either,” recounted White as her voice suddenly trailed off.

  “And then what happened?” asked Lyons in a reassuring tone.

  “My co-worker, Melissa Green, stopped by my office, and she mentioned that she saw Fred’s car in the parking garage, so I figured that maybe he was passed out in his car, because…well…Fred liked to have a good time. Anyway, we decided to take a walk down to the garage and look for him,” falteringly recollected White as all of a sudden she stood on the verge of losing her composure.

  “And did you find Mr. Miller?”

  “We did,” replied White, and after a pause and a deep breath she continued. “We approached Fred’s car and I noticed that the windows were all fogged up. Then I thought I saw blood on the ground by the driver’s door, and when we looked inside I could see Fred slumped over…and….and…I knew he’d been shot.”

  As she recalled the scene, Ann White began to cry softly, and Billy, who seemed to be expecting as much, hustled over to her with a box of tissues in hand.

  “How did you know that he had been shot?” asked an emotionless Lyons; she appeared to be utterly un-phased by Ann White’s tears.

  “I just knew,” whimpered White as she dabbed her eyes with the tissue paper.

  “Objection,” shouted Gleason. And in return, Judge Gershwin, who made it a practice to mull over all but the most clear-cut objections in her mind before responding, thought about his challenge for a moment before replying; “sustained.”

  “I wonder what was wrong with that question?” silently thought many of the jurors; although, they hadn’t seen anything yet when it came to objections.

  “Let me put it another way,” countered an undeterred Lyons. “When you looked into the window of Mr. Miller’s car, what did you see that would make you come to the conclusion that he had been shot?”

  “It was hard to see because it was dark inside the garage, and as I said the windows of Fred’s car were fogged up, but there was just enough light for me to make out a roundish puncture wound on the side of his face with blood running down from it,” sobbed White; her crying was becoming more and more uncontrollable by the minute, but she was helpless to stop it.

  For some peculiar reason, Newlan persona wasn’t fully equipped with the ability to handle the sight of people crying, and so as a result he found himself stirring uncomfortably in his swivel chair. Despite his sometimes aloof exterior, he was a big softie at heart, and he felt a lump forming in his own throat as he watched Ann White struggle to continue on with her testimony while she found herself in an obvious state of torment over the memory of Fred Miller’s defiled face.

  Lyons, who wasn’t totally heartless, paused for a few seconds to allow White to compose herself, but then she got right back down to business.

  “What did you do after you observed Mr. Miller slumped over in his car?”

  “I felt as if I was going to faint and I remember leaning up against the car for support, and I started hollering to Melissa that something was wrong. At that point we ran back up to the office, crying and screaming, and we immediately rushed over to the receptionist’s desk and had her call 911,” proclaimed White who was now completely falling apart at the prospect of having to relive the frightening scene.

  “Ms. White did any law enforcement officials interview you that day?”

  “Yes, and I told them what I just told you,” sniffled White.

  “And did they ask you any other questions?”

  “They asked me if Fred was dating anyone, and I told them that he recently mentioned someone he had been seeing lately, but that I had never met her.”

  “And did you give the police the name of the person Fred was dating?”

  “Yes…Tracy Breslin,” mumbled White as a slight gasp arose from the audience.

  “No further questions you honor,” announced Lyons.

  “I think this would be a good time to break for lunch,” decided Judge Gershwin, followed by what for the jurors would rapidly become the familiar chant of “all rise” delivered in Billy’s distinct Boston accent.

  As Lyons headed towards the DA’s table, Newlan could have sworn that he detected the slightest hint of a crinkled smile chiseled on her face, as if to signify that she had won round one. But of course…R.J. Gleason…had other ideas.