I Served On A Murder Jury. What Happened Behind Closed Doors Terrified Me.

I’ll never forget how a small kitchen knife could only slightly nick someone’s heart and still kill them in less than a minute. But the thing that stuck with me most after serving on a murder trial jury was the realization that none of us were ever qualified to determine someone else’s fate. We were ...

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I’ll never forget how a small kitchen knife could only slightly nick someone’s heart and still kill them in less than a minute. But the thing that stuck with me most after serving on a murder trial jury was the realization that none of us were ever qualified to determine someone else’s fate.

We were just regular people. We barely had our own lives in order. Let the evidence show we had no business interpreting the facts as they were presented.

After spending three weeks trekking to the downtown Los Angeles courthouse, and three days in deliberations, we couldn’t agree on what happened at the scene of the crime. I don’t want to blame our hung jury on anyone in particular, but the woman with the curly red hair who announced to the room, “I mean, I could see myself stabbing someone,” was part of the problem.

With all the buzz around the Lindsay Clancy murder trial — and all the TikTok glommers-on looking for their own 15 minutes of fame — I can’t help but imagine what the scene in jury deliberations must be like. Outside that room, we all have our armchair internet opinions. The experts make their projections. But the only thing we can really count on is that the jury is in no position to have the final say.

“The jury is the fact finder while the judge determines the law,” The Daily Wire’s legal analyst Heidi Hall says. “Juries resolve questions of fact … what happened, who’s telling the truth, whether the evidence adds up. The point of a jury is to use their common sense and life experience to determine credibility.” This is, of course, assuming jurors possess what’s known as common sense.

Back in Medieval times, jurors were chosen because they knew the defendant and could speak to their character, or they had witnessed the crime. We don’t do it like that anymore, opting for the “impartial outsider” strategy. Voir dire — “to speak the truth” in French — eliminates jurors with personal bias toward the facts of the case. But who can really be impartial?

Once the 12 members of my jury were impaneled, someone suggested we break the ice. We introduced ourselves with the bare minimum. “I’m Steve, I work for LA County parking enforcement, and you guys can go to hell,” Juror #2 added, before everyone booed him. Someone else was a delivery driver for a Disney-related laundry service. There was a mom. A painter. A Nordstrom employee. Someone who claimed he had been stabbed on the street. And several people who hate icebreakers. None of us would become friends. If it weren’t for this, we would never associate in real life.

It was only day 1, and everyone already looked exhausted like we had all been sentenced to death row. None of us had a good enough story to be struck from the jury box. I should have said I always believe cops or that I have a sick grandmother at home to care for. “No hablo inglés.”

I love a true crime series and was fascinated by opening statements. This was it! We were really doing this. Justice with a capital J. Let me be Ancient Rome’s Justitia with her scale, bringing some kind of sanctifying closure to this tragic story. That wouldn’t happen.

Lining up alongside pimps and gangsters in business suits to walk through the metal detectors every day quickly became a slog. The taupe, mid-century marble floors of the never-ending hallways looked like sad oatmeal under piercing fluorescent lights.

I assumed the courtrooms attracting the biggest crowds were doing cool celebrity murders. Mine was just a guy who got into a fight with his sister’s boyfriend. And pulled out a knife to settle it.

Then we heard the 9-1-1 call — the movie version where it’s already too late and there’s nothing anyone can do. And all the caller needs is for someone to do something.

“Babe. Oh my God. Breathe! Breathe, babe, oh my God,” we heard the defendant’s sister’s voice as her boyfriend died in her arms. Uncontrollable tears rolled down my cheeks. After the judge sent us on a short recess, I quickly discovered the excruciating awkwardness of washing my hands in a bathroom sink next to someone I just heard screaming for help that never came.

I wondered why there was no safe place for the family of the victims or the jury. We were all just out there, flapping in the judicial breeze.

I welcomed any chance at freedom from my assigned chair in the jury box. The wartime-rations concessions room with its fake overpriced vanilla cappuccinos in flimsy cups gave me a reason to live. I glimpsed a sliver of daylight from a tiny window and wondered if I’d be able to readjust to civilian life after this.

Back on the clock, I flipped to a doodle of the murder weapon I sketched in my juror notebook. I retraced the knife again with my pen. As the days wore on, it felt like we were the ones getting punished for someone else’s crime. The defendant got to sit there and let the circus unfold as his own mother — the only eyewitness to the crime that happened in her bedroom — appeared to fall asleep on the stand.

Eyes closed, and gently chewing on her gums, she put her hand on the judge’s stand. “Judge,” she suddenly blurted out in the middle of questioning. “What are you drinking in there?” She could see he had a glass of something dark perched on his stand. “Let’s get a glass of water for her,” he instructed the bailiff. He was benevolent. After a few more attempts at her testimony, the judge closed proceedings until the following day.

The Clancy trial jury was never isolated from the outside world. Sequestering is rare in Massachusetts anyway, but according to state law, all jury members are instructed to avoid “news in the newspaper, on TV, or on the radio, doing research on the case,” and “sharing information about the case with anyone.” But since they go home to their families, friends, and social media feeds every night, it seems impossible to filter the trial of the summer strictly through evidence introduced in court.

“If they have a strong opinion either way, you would hope that they’re not easily swayed just because the majority is against them,” Hall advises. Jurors are supposed to stick to the law as it’s given and follow the jury instructions from the judge, “not personal feelings, bias, or something they’ve seen outside of the courtroom.”

“You want them to take the time to make the right decision, not feel rushed to make a choice.”

During deliberation for my jury, there were no votes taken and no lively discussion. Someone brought homemade cookies one day, taking the edge off the thick binder of evidence. Most of us were just doing our time. We asked questions of the prosecution and defense. We really needed the account of a third friend who had been there that night, someone we would find out later was lost in the Los Angeles prison system.

Then of course, we had our red-haired aspiring murderer. Along with her, another juror — not the one who had been stabbed during a mugging, another guy — claimed he got into a fight one time with a girlfriend who had, in fact, pulled a knife on him and tried to stab him, so he identified with the energy of the defendant. Also known as murdering.

I made a mental note that 75% of Los Angeles thinks it’s okay to use knives to get their point across. Maybe this was exactly what it means to have a “jury of your peers.”

After the judge declared a mistrial, we were released back into the wild of normal life. The defense attorney met with us in the hallway to ask what we thought of our first murder case. Based on the evidence, she said she would have found her client guilty of manslaughter. That’s what most of us had decided, too. Oh well.

I walked out of the courthouse feeling like I wasted my time not doing anyone justice. Worse, we extended the torture for everyone involved in the case. Especially the victim’s family. The defendant went back to prison where he’d await a completely new trial with a re-cast jury. Whatever ragtag group of annoyed civilians they can possibly assemble.

I hoped serving on a murder trial would exempt me from jury duty for life. A year later, I got the postcard: “You are ordered by the Superior Court of Los Angeles to appear for service as a trial juror.” If you’re wondering, “I was on a hung jury” is a great way to get out of doing your civic duty.

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