Gideon has been missing from the blawgosphere for a while, which I suspect to be the product of burn-out and preoccupation. Because of his skill and dedication, he’s now been tapped to try the most serious cases handled by his office, and it takes its toll on a lawyer. It’s also brings new insights, and we are fortunate that Gid took a few minutes to put some in writing.
His latest post, I’d probably run, is particularly poignant, reflecting both his ambivalence toward the merit of the jury trial as a viable means of determining guilt, well as the emotion felt as lawyer and client walk out of the elevator and into the courtroom to hear the verdict of the jury.
But once the trial is done, the case submitted to the jury, the adrenaline shuts off and you come back to earth. Waiting for the jury is the most difficult period of the trial. Any seeds of doubt that somehow made it through the hard shell start to grow. The defendant looks to the lawyer for assurance, and the lawyer looks at his client, a human being who has put his faith, his life, into the lawyers hands and prays he was worthy of such trust.
But there is absolutely nothing, nothing, to do. Just sit. Just wait. Some people are able to work while the jury deliberates. I can’t think of anything but the jury. I revisit everything I did during trial, every question asked, every ruling made, every utterance in the courtroom, and try to find meaning in it. It’s a wasteful exercise, since there is nothing to be done about it, but there is so much invested in the trial that I find it impossible to think of anything else. I wait for the verdict.
The defendant waits too. Unlike the lawyer, who will go home to dinner with his family no matter what the outcome, the defendant doesn’t know where he will be supping that night. When the message comes that the jury has reached its verdict and it’s time to return to the courtroom, the jolt is palpable. This is it. One way or the other, there is a decision that will change someone’s life forever. The magnitude of it hits you in the face and, for me at least, there is always a sense of dread. Not until I hear the words “not guilty” will the tension leave my body.
But the defendant. How does he do it? How does he not seize in fear, knowing that his life, his family’s lives, have been placed in the hands of 12 people of dubious merit, a system fraught with flaws, a deck stacked heavily against him? And only me on his side?
As the defendant walks from the elevator to the courtroom door, his emotions must be out of control. How does anyone do it? Is it a naive but necessary belief in justice? Is it faith in his lawyer? Is it the lack of a viable alternative? Is it just rote? I don’t know.
In every case I’ve ever tried, the defendant has asked me during the walk what I think the verdict will be. In every case, I’ve responded that we’ll find out in a few minutes. I would never say anything else.
I’ve never lost a client between the case going to the jury and a verdict. They always stay. I prefer to think that it’s because they are honorable people, men and women who have made the decision to challenge the accusation and face the consequences. But truly, I don’t know how they do it. The pressure is unbearable. Like Gideon, I wonder if I could be as strong if I walked in their shoes.
His latest post, I’d probably run, is particularly poignant, reflecting both his ambivalence toward the merit of the jury trial as a viable means of determining guilt, well as the emotion felt as lawyer and client walk out of the elevator and into the courtroom to hear the verdict of the jury.
How, I asked myself, did they have the courage to step off that elevator and into that courtroom, knowing full well that they may never walk out again into those hallways and out those doors?This is a feeling known only too well by every lawyer who tries criminal cases. Once you start trial, you believe that you will win, not because you enjoy self-delusion but because fear and doubt will only impair your effectiveness. You believe because you have to believe. There is no alternative.
Maybe my experience with the system is a curse in this regard. I’d never, never (well okay, almost never) risk a jury trial. I’ve come to the conclusion that jury trials are a crapshoot. That you’re always taking an immense risk placing your fate in the hands of 6 (or 12) strangers, who might have their own agenda and their own skewed view of the evidence. That you’re placing your fate in the hands of your lawyer, who may – with the best of intentions – pick the wrong approach to convince your jury.
But once the trial is done, the case submitted to the jury, the adrenaline shuts off and you come back to earth. Waiting for the jury is the most difficult period of the trial. Any seeds of doubt that somehow made it through the hard shell start to grow. The defendant looks to the lawyer for assurance, and the lawyer looks at his client, a human being who has put his faith, his life, into the lawyers hands and prays he was worthy of such trust.
But there is absolutely nothing, nothing, to do. Just sit. Just wait. Some people are able to work while the jury deliberates. I can’t think of anything but the jury. I revisit everything I did during trial, every question asked, every ruling made, every utterance in the courtroom, and try to find meaning in it. It’s a wasteful exercise, since there is nothing to be done about it, but there is so much invested in the trial that I find it impossible to think of anything else. I wait for the verdict.
The defendant waits too. Unlike the lawyer, who will go home to dinner with his family no matter what the outcome, the defendant doesn’t know where he will be supping that night. When the message comes that the jury has reached its verdict and it’s time to return to the courtroom, the jolt is palpable. This is it. One way or the other, there is a decision that will change someone’s life forever. The magnitude of it hits you in the face and, for me at least, there is always a sense of dread. Not until I hear the words “not guilty” will the tension leave my body.
But the defendant. How does he do it? How does he not seize in fear, knowing that his life, his family’s lives, have been placed in the hands of 12 people of dubious merit, a system fraught with flaws, a deck stacked heavily against him? And only me on his side?
As the defendant walks from the elevator to the courtroom door, his emotions must be out of control. How does anyone do it? Is it a naive but necessary belief in justice? Is it faith in his lawyer? Is it the lack of a viable alternative? Is it just rote? I don’t know.
In every case I’ve ever tried, the defendant has asked me during the walk what I think the verdict will be. In every case, I’ve responded that we’ll find out in a few minutes. I would never say anything else.
I’ve never lost a client between the case going to the jury and a verdict. They always stay. I prefer to think that it’s because they are honorable people, men and women who have made the decision to challenge the accusation and face the consequences. But truly, I don’t know how they do it. The pressure is unbearable. Like Gideon, I wonder if I could be as strong if I walked in their shoes.
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