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Date: Fri, 22 Aug 1997 19:13:00
Well, in spite of the following exchange yesterday during voir dire between yours truly and the attorney for the City of Seattle, I did in fact finally get to sit on a jury:
"Mr. Morrow, do you drink?"
"Yessir."
"About how often do you drink?"
"On a daily basis."
"Can you describe how you get when you've had a lot to drink?"
"I become incredibly witty."
"Um, anything else?"
"Yes: everybody becomes much more attractive."
"Heh, heh. The old 'beer goggles' effect, right?"
"Well, I prefer to think of it as 'wine glasses,' actually."
As you might have guessed, this was a DUI (Driving Under the Influence) trial. The judge (a Mr. Holifield, with an "i" not a "y" -- as well as two intact lobes), added a couple of chuckles of his own when he asked prospective jurors if any of them lived in Ballard. (Note for non-Seattle readers: Ballard is an old fishing community consisting mostly of Norwegians and some Swedes, long ago absorbed by the Seattle city limits. Ballardites are known by some of the following characteristics: names such as "Thor" and "Ole"; hats with horns on them; "lutefisk," a dreadful, paste-like fish dish; and taverns called "The Valhalla." But the real source of their infamy is their reputation as some of the suckiest drivers in a region not famed for skillful motorists. Ballardites don't think they've done a good job of parking unless at least one wheel is up on the curb; they weave all over the road ["ya sure, I pay taxes on it, so I'm darned tootin' gonna use it all"]; and they rarely go more than 7 mph ["where's the fire, sonny?"]. So, in a case that hinged partly on alleged irregular driving by the defendant, the judge was half facetiously trying to weed out anyone who was used to that kind of driving as the norm. Whew. Ever notice how long it can take to explain some jokes?)
A word or two about the key players:
Counsel for the city -- honest to god, if someone in central casting worked with someone else in costuming, they could not come up with a better "lawyer as shark" look: Heavily pomaded hair (slicked straight back); large class ring; brilliantly shined shoes; smart, double-breasted suits. And the size of the guy: shoulders nearly popping out of his suit, and (well manicured) hands as big as Virginia hams. Like some NFL linebacker moonlighting as a bouncer in an upscale strip club (not that I would know about these things from direct experience, mind you).
Counsel for the defendant -- in contrast to the prosecutor, this guy was folksy understatement personified, from the tips of his sensible shoes to the top of his slightly balding pate. With his owl-like eyes peering out good-humoredly from his glasses, his quiet, soothing voice, and his wry, self-deprecating humor, he could have easily been mistaken for a CPA (which in fact, his client was). However, if the prosecutor was a shark, this guy was a barracuda. I think I'll give him a call if, heaven forfend, I ever wind up needing a lawyer.
Fellow jurors -- belying my snotty observations about some of the people I had been hanging out with in the assembly room earlier in the week, the five other people on the jury were quite impressive in their abilities to grasp the main issues, conduct a logical and friendly analysis, and adhere to the judge's instructions. I was very pleasantly surprised by what an efficient and non-confrontational group this was; no Lee J. Cobb "Twelve Angry Men" scenes, even when it looked like a potential hung jury for awhile. (Well, one woman did have a tendency to break out of the corral and head off for the wild, overgrown chaparral of irrelevant discussion, but we were able to lasso her and drag her back to the holding pen without too much trouble each time that happened.) I conceded foreman duties to one bearded guy when he actually used the phrase "decision fork" -- and seemed to make sense. Frankly, I wish most meetings I had to attend when still employed at a Behemoth Software Company That Shall Otherwise Remain Nameless had gone half this well.
One would think that a DUI case would be pretty cut-and-dried, and in the hands of anyone else, this might have been the result. However, the defense attorney made a darned good case for disregarding the results of the Field Sobriety Tests (FSTs) conducted at the scene of the arrest: the defendant was tired from working late; he was born with a cleft palate that, in spite of surgery, still causes him to slur his speech when he is nervous; a horrific childhood injury burned his feet and left him with permanent balance problems. So, snick, snick, snick, that part of the case was pretty much cut to ribbons. (Somewhat humorous aside: later, in the jury room, we were all trying the FSTs as described by the arresting officer: head back, eyes closed, touch tip of index finger to tip of nose; heel to toe nine steps, pivot and return; balance on one leg with eyes closed and hands at our sides; etc. Most of us had trouble with at least one of these, stone cold sober on a carpeted floor [I managed to stick my finger right up my left nostril while attempting the first one]. We all decided we would be toast if called upon to perform the same tests outside on an uneven patch of pavement, under the stern glare of a gendarme, with all kinds of hooting and jeering passersby.)
Unfortunately, it was not so easy to discount the results of a Blood Alcohol Content test administered back at the police station. Two successive tests showed BAC readings of 0.127 and 0.128 (grams of alcohol per 210 liters of air, in case you're interested -- but there won't be a pop quiz). Legal definition of intoxication in Washington is 0.100, so this put the readings at 27% over that, well above the machine's margin of error. The machine itself appeared to have been carefully calibrated and serviced (with all kinds of built-in safeguards to detect alcohol already present in the room air, improper temperature of the breathing tube, and so on), and seemed sufficiently easy to use that a trained Chihuahua could probably do it. To foul up the test would have meant that the arresting officer was either A) a vindictive person out to get the defendant; or B) an incredible doofus who shouldn't be allowed near paper clips.
We all liked the defendant, who appeared to believe quite firmly that his driving had not been impaired. He is a nice family man who puts in long hours working on low-income housing projects for the elderly. It was not easy to return a guilty verdict, and we all took turns during deliberations trying to convince ourselves that we had reasonable doubts. But, in the end, the glove did fit, and we could not acquit.
So, what conclusions are we to glean from this rambling account of my time in the halls of justice? Here are a few: 1) Don't always assume that your fellow man and woman is lacking in intelligence just because a majority of them elected Reagan twice (and decided to tear down the King Dome and build a new open-air football stadium for mega-billionaire Paul Allen at taxpayers' expense -- but I digress); 2) Bring a cushion if you have to sit in the jury box (those wooden seat backs are killers); 3) Drink at home -- the booze is cheaper, the air is cleaner, and you can hear the TV; 4) If you must drink elsewhere, take a cab home -- a DUI arrest looks pretty terrifying, even from an outsider's perspective -- and imagine how awful you'd feel if you ran over someone's puddy tat.
Which brings us to, last but not least,
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