19 May 2006

Voir Dire

Judge Brinkema is a kindly looking woman. Back in the day I would have said that she looks like your Grandmother, but that is a complex observation, now that many people I know are grandparents.

Many people in the jury pool could have been grandparents, too, but the Judge carried with her the authority, in a nice way, that she would send us all to bed if we acted up.

Only her eyes belied her gentle courteous manner. She had been a prosecutor once, and her eyes indicated that she was still observing us for evidence.

She started with a little speech about how important this process was. She said she would like to give the twelve jurors black robes, since that is exactly what the jury was going to be, twelve judges. She introduced us to Prisoner Montoya as well.

Prisoner Montoya turned around in his chair to look at us. The Judge explained he was a Mexican national, who currently lived in Houston, Texas, with his wife and child. He wore a green jumpsuit with the word “Prisoner” stenciled across the back.

If I had the choice, I would pick the green instead of the orange. It is much more flattering.

Montoya had short dark hair, and his face was unlined. Dark eyes and dark lashes. He did not appear to be concerned about anything in particular, even as the court-appointed translator leaned to explain what was happening.

Judge Brinkema explained the Montoya was accused of two felonies. The first was transporting illegal aliens in a van fro Houston to Fairfax County. The second was illegal treatment of the same illegal aliens. I looked at Montoya, and he looked at me, a face in the crowd. Montoya was accused of being a Coyote, one of the predatory monsters who charge the undocumented a vast sum to be transported across the border and deep into the United States.

Or maybe he was a Robin Hood, helping to unite families against an uncaring and brutally oppressive government. I don't know which, since I had not heard the arguments.
There were fifty-six of us, and the Judge explained we were going to do the voir dire process, which was a series of questions that would determine whether we could be objective about the guilty bastard at the defendant's table. The words are Latin, and they mean “speak the truth.”

I had assumed that we would all be called to the stand and asked the questions individually. That would take a long time, a day at least, but the actual system is much more efficient. The Judge asked us all a series of questions, and if we had an issue, we were to raise our hands, then stand, state our name and our issue.

If we felt the matter was personal, we could request to approach the bench and speak to the Judge, the prosecutors and the defense counsel in a “sidebar.” To maintain confidentiality of the sidebar, Judge Brinkema would press a button to broadcast a barrage of white static over the loudspeaker system. She demonstrated the capability and it was quite annoying.

“The noise makes it difficult for us to hear, as well” she said, “So I need you to be quiet while we are doing it.”

A well-prepared voir dire allows the defense attorney to focus on the prospective jurors and appreciate their nonverbal behavior. The juror questionnaires have been reviewed and the key information collated. I was confident that my career would have resulted in a black line being drawn through my name. After all, white males with military background of a certain age could reasonably be presumed to be authoritarian in nature, naturally inclined to support the prosecution.

Why take the chance?

David Tianaga was the defense attorney. He was a tall white male with sandy hair and a look of permanent disappointment. He lived in Maryland, he told us, when directed by the Judge, and that helped us all get acquainted.

The Judge asked about twenty questions. Did any of us speak Spanish? Could we live with the official translation an refrain from our own independent interpretation? Where any of us attorneys, and could we put hat aside? Did any of us know any of the officers of the court? Had any of us been prosecuted by the Judge, when she was a state attorney? Did any of us work for the Department of Homeland Security, and did any of us have knowledge of the case from the media?

Several asked to approach the bench. The man who clutched his briefcase to his chest left it behind, looking furtively from side to side. The white noise came on and the officers of the court gathered around him. The static hissed. Then it was turned off and the Judge said he was excused. The man scuttled out the back door, the first one of us to be set free.


As you might imagine, with fifty-six of us present, there were some issues to talk about. Some had to rise several times over delicate matters of conscience. The Judge was marvelously patient with us.

I had to rise once, on the matter of the Department of Homeland Security, since I had briefly worked for their office of State and Local Coordination as a contractor. I said that I was no longer employed by the firm or the Department. The matter was noted.

“Do any of you have strong feelings about illegal immigration?” asked the judge.

I pondered that for a while, since this seemed to be the “get out of jail free” question. You did not have to say what your feelings were, only that you had them. One woman who had been complaining about child care rose promptly and said it was immigration she had strong feelings about, not the fact that the court would be in session until six, three hours after school ended.

I thought perhaps I would rise and say that I had once inspected the camps of illegal migrants, headed from Haiti to Florida, interacting with thousands of them at Guantanamo and in Port au Prince. I wondered if I should mention just how I felt about them, the atmosphere of despair, and their quiet dignity as we turned them back over to the thugs who ran their country.

How could you not have strong feelings about the Coyotes who left people to die in the desert? Or that the laws of my country were supposed to be respected?

In the end, I kept my own counsel and did not waste the time of the court. It wouldn't have mattered. The lottery did not pick my name, and the defense counsel did not have to waste a challenge to eliminate me.

Little slips of paper were placed in a miniature jury box, which was passed back and forth from the prosecutors to the defense table. Prisoner Montoya did not look concerned. The first panel had nine women and three men. Five were challenged and dismissed. Then three on the next round, and then finally two.

There were no more challenges. Judge Brinkema had the final twelve sworn, and then turned to the rest of us, who were waiting passively in our pews.

She thanked us for our time, and for our service, and excused us from our civic duty. Then she got ready to try Montoya.

Copyright 2006 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

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