Friday Fiction

Here's one that started me off on writing a book.

JURY DUTY

By Jimmie von Tungeln

            “How do you like jury duty so far?” the man next to Clyde Olsen asked. They had been cleared for the next case and were waiting in the Jury Room—a narrow space stuffy and thick with cigarette smoke. A ceiling fan swirled the smoke around in the heat, and Clyde could hear the sound of chairs scraping and people talking in the courtroom. It was still early in the morning but nearing time for the trial to begin.

            “Oh I like it fine,” he said. “I don’t get out much—gives me a chance to get away from work and do something useful.”

            “Tell you the truth,” the other man said. “I’d rather be fishing.”

            They both laughed. Clyde eyed the man. He was trim and well-dressed. His suit was cheap but new and the man was clean-shaven and short-haired. Clyde saw the Service Pin in the man’s lapel. “You been in the service?” he asked.

            “Seventy-ninth Infantry. Landed at Normandy on D-day plus four. With it all the way to
Germany.” He paused. “How about you?”

            Clyde smiled and looked away. “Had two kids, one of them just a baby, so I was exempted until the last few months. They finally called me in January and I was set to be taken but then Germany surrendered. This your first jury duty?”

“First time. Hope it’s the last,” the other said.

“Oh, I’ve been here before,” Clyde said. “During the war they were short of men to choose from so I got called pretty often. Armistead, Arkansas ain’t a big town, you know. Myself? I kinda enjoy it. Mostly bootleggers and wife beaters so far.”

“This your first murder case?”

“Yep, and I understand it’s an open and shut affair.”

“Open and shut. That’s what I hear.”

Just then, the bailiff walked through the door and announced that it was time for the trial and asked if anyone had any questions.

“Will they feed us dinner?” asked a thin young man with a large Adam’s apple.

“We may be through before noon even gets here,” the bailiff laughed and said.

“Shucks,” I’m already hungry,” the man said to a ripple of laughter from the group.

The jury filed out and Clyde found himself looking down the row of attorneys’ tables. At the farthest one sat a man in a wrinkled suit and next to him another who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old, wearing khaki pants and a white shirt and looking for all the world as if he might bolt for the door at any moment—the defendant.

The crowd was small, basically divided into two groups of five or so each. Clyde noticed a couple of children but movement drew his attention back to the defendant. He had turned in his seat and was looking into the crowd, his neck pulsing from the effort. The man in the suit nudged him and nodded toward the front as the Judge entered the room. The crowd rose and remained standing until the Judge sat and the bailiff announced that court was in session. After those in the room had seated themselves, it became quiet except for the clicking of ceiling fans. The judge nodded and the trial began.

As had been predicted, it appeared to be a simple affair—a case of a tragic set of circumstances and a youthful and horrible lapse of judgment. There was first a bar, where a young married man should never have been in the first place. Then there was an argument over something so silly and meaningless as to almost make the jury laugh. There were threats and, later—after feelings should have cooled—there was violence on a man who was walking home alone.  Through the morning, there was enough evidence and testimony to convince any juror that the defendant had caused the death of an innocent man.

The only balancing weight would be the sincerity of the youthful defendant when it came time for him to testify. Though he swore his innocence, he had no way of proving it. The jury watched without emotion as the prosecutor destroyed, one by one, his protests.

Then it was noon and the Jury was escorted to a local diner to be fed. They were instructed not to talk about the case until they returned but there were few who didn’t whisper about the scope of the tragedy.

Clyde sat next to the man with whom he had talked earlier. Clyde expressed his opinion that a man would stay out of trouble as long as he minded his own business.

“There ain’t a thing outside a man’s family that ought to concern him,” Clyde said, then added, “Unless it’s something like this that somebody has to do.”

“I’ll tell you one thing,” the other man said. “I don’t much care for being on a jury.”

Clyde seemed surprised. He lit a cigarette and said. “Why, we are making sure justice is served. Don’t you think it’s our duty?”

“I reckon. I’ve just had enough of duty to last me awhile.” The man rose and headed outside to take the air.

Clyde turned to the man seated on his other side. “Ain’t he the one, though?”

After lunch the man in the wrinkled suit questioned two people that had been in the bar when the argument started. He seemed to be building up a case that the defendant had been goaded beyond some human breaking point. Then he produced a short parade of witnesses who swore to the goodness and honesty of the defendant.

After that, each lawyer gave a speech, both of which the jurors seemed to find boring and it was over.

Back in the jury room, the heat was intense and none of the jurors seemed energetic about discussing what they had just heard. Most of the conversation centered on the tragic waste and the role of circumstances in a person’s life. On the first vote they, one and all, found the man guilty of murder. It was second-degree murder, but still murder, and the jurors were solemn as they waited for their decision to be delivered to the Judge.

Clyde didn’t look at the defendant when he was seated again in the jury box. He and the other jurors stared at the judge without moving. It was now late in the afternoon and time for them to go home, having done their duty in the only way possible.

Shortly, the ceremony was over. The jury foreman announced the verdict. The defendant declined to speak, simply lowering his head and waiting for the announcement. The judge handed it down and two bailiffs appeared from nowhere to handcuff the prisoner. The judged thanked the jurors and dismissed them.

Clyde had begun to stand when it happened.

It was just a sound but one like he had never heard. Vicious and unreal, it pushed him back into his chair. He almost threw his hands to his ears but this wouldn’t have stopped it. Nothing would have. He turned toward the back of the room, jerking his head like the first movement of an animal in danger.

From the crowd a woman was screaming. High and piercing, it was first just a sound of anguish torn from an unimaginable depth of feeling like someone had punched a hole in a pressurized tank. Then it formed along “Nooooooooo…” A quick breath and then again, “No, no, please God no.” The sounds tore past Clyde like winds in a storm.

They were from a woman dressed in a shabby, floral-patterned dress. She was thin, and wore a pair of glasses that dominated her face. She kept screaming and tried to move toward the prisoner but she was being held by the group of people who had sat with her during the trial.

“Oh God… don’t let them take him,” she screamed again, trying to break loose from those who were holding her. They held her, though, and her screaming turned to wet sobs as arms closed around her.

            The arms didn’t stop a boy of about five years of age.  He tore from the group and, vaulting a low partition, raced to where the prisoner stood and wrapped his arms around one leg.

            “Daddy, daddy,” he yelled. The sound echoed from ceiling to wall and seemed to be strengthened and spun by the ceiling fans. “Please don’t take my daddy. Please, please!”

            He sobbed into the khakis of the prisoner who stared at him with surprise. The entire courtroom stopped. Even the judge had turned to see what was happening.

            One of the bailiffs who had been holding the prisoner’s arm let go and said to him, “Don’t move.” He moved around the man and began pulling the boy loose.

            “Oh daddy, don’t, don’t, daddy don’t,” the boy said. The bailiff wrenched him free from the man’s legs and dragged him backwards, the little arms flailing in circles like the blades of a windmill, as if he might generate enough wind to unite him with his father.

            “Daddy, daddy,” he sobbed. His entire head had turned red and tears flowed through the redness and then were slung away as he shook his head from side to side to emphasis the “No, no” he voiced. His cries joined those of the woman to form a sound that flooded the room.  “Don’t take our daddy,” the woman yelled, but the strength was going from her. There was a rough sound as the bailiff and another man, each holding an arm, dragged the young boy backwards along the hardwood floor with the heels of a ragged pair of brogans scraping the floor.

            Through it all, the prisoner had not moved, nor had the judge or the jurors. They all watched the scene as if it were occurring in some strange theatrical performance. They kept watching as the woman and boy were led from the room, their faces still turned toward the prisoner and still entreating someone—the judge, the jury, the bailiffs, maybe God himself. It was a general and non-directed plea for mercy.

            Then the courtroom was quiet again. Still no one moved for what seemed like minutes. Then the bailiffs began leading the prisoner toward the side door. Just when the jurors thought the spectacle might be over, the young man broke the silence with a series of hoarse and guttural sobs that sounded as if they were erupting from the bowels of the earth itself. It was as if the shaking of his body might cause the entire building to fall.

            “Come on now,” a bailiff said. “Don’t let these folks see you like this.” The man tried to nod but the sobs conquered him. They led him from the room in that state.

            Now the jurors stirred, as if they belonged to one great organism, and filed from their seats. As they moved toward the door, Clyde’s companion turned to him.

            “Maybe I’ll see you again some day… at another trial.”

            Clyde’s eyes seemed to be trying to focus. His face was pale and slack, like a balloon from which the air had been released. His mouth moved several times before sound emerged.

            “Never,” he said. “Not me, never again. No… not ever.”

Started me on a book.