I was the lone holdout on a Baltimore jury

I don’t feel good about it

I was recently selected to sit as a juror in a Baltimore City Circuit Court criminal trial. The defendant had been charged with, among other crimes, first-degree assault, which, in Maryland, carries a penalty of up to 25 years. He was accused of shooting and injuring an unarmed man. The evidence was incriminating: A surveillance video showed the defendant, gun drawn, climbing out of a car and firing three shots at the victim. But as he fired, for a moment the victim was out of view. The defense argued that at this moment, the defendant believed the victim was reaching for a gun.

The trial was surprisingly short and consisted mainly of bench conferences (at one point I counted eight in 10 minutes). It lasted around 4 hours; there were only three witnesses.

Deliberations took longer, but my fellow jurors were, for the most part, intelligent and understanding. This wasn’t “12 Angry Men.” In fact, the only angry man in this case was the judge, who seemed mild-mannered and genteel for most of the trial, yet suddenly let out an abrupt cry of rage at one point, yelled for a recess and stormed furiously out of the courtroom, his robe flapping behind him. We jurors didn’t know what triggered his outburst, but it seemed to involve a beef with the state’s attorney.

This was the first time I’d ever been on a jury, and it was all a jury should be: a cross-section of the community, diverse in age and race. My fellow jurors were rational, reasonable people whose arguments were mostly based on a careful understanding of the law. All the judge’s admonitions were followed. No one spoke about the trial until everyone was in the room, no one expressed any prejudicial opinions, and everyone deliberated carefully. After an hour, everyone was ready to find the defendant guilty — except me. Like the other jurors, I believed he probably did not think the victim was reaching for a gun. But “probably” is not enough to show the state had met its burden of proof. Belief is not conviction.

One issue of contention in our deliberations was the question of missing evidence. There was a great deal of information about the case we didn’t know — how badly the victim had been hurt, for example. Neither the victim nor any of his family testified. There was no testimony from anyone who’d treated his injuries. Apparently, right after the scene, the defendant called 911 and turned himself in, but the 911 call was not played in court. We were shown his police interview, but the recording was so muffled it was impossible to hear, and we were not given a transcript, even though both attorneys had one. My fellow jurors properly reminded me that, according to the judge’s directions, we were supposed to deliberate based on the evidence provided, not what was missing. True. But it’s natural to wonder why there isn’t more.

According to the law, to believe something “beyond a reasonable doubt” means to be sure beyond any question, qualm or speculation that no other reasonable explanation can explain the situation — to believe so strongly, in fact, that you would act on it in an important matter concerning your own life and family. It’s the highest threshold of guilt finding required in any court of law. I could speculate what happened in the single moment off-screen, but I could not be sure. And so I held out.

In the 1957 film version of “12 Angry Men,” deliberations continue long into the night as Henry Fonda tries to persuade the other 11 jurors he is right. His reasoned, careful arguments make the other jurors, initially convinced of the defendant’s guilt, start to think more carefully about the evidence. He has all the viewers’ sympathy. Standing up for your beliefs is heroic. Independent thinkers turn the tide. In film, history and fiction, we all love a dissenter. But in real life, dissent is not so easy. It’s nerve-wracking to be hounded for hours by 11 exasperated strangers who clearly think you’re a flake. My (to them) irrational and perverse refusal to change my mind meant that, at the end of a long, exhausting day when everyone thought they could go home and go on with their lives, we all had to come back the next morning. No one was openly hostile, but patience got frayed. We don’t see Henry Fonda holding back tears while the other jurors roll their eyes and hoard the snacks.

I held out, and in the end, on the assault charges, the jury was declared hung. Unlike Henry Fonda, I didn’t convert anyone to my position. Also unlike Henry Fonda, I didn’t feel good about it. In fact, I felt terrible. I stood up for my belief, but what did I achieve? Simply more paperwork, more clogged dockets and the ordeal of a retrial at which the defendant will surely be found guilty. Of this, I have no reasonable doubt.