Imagine being plucked from your day-to-day routine and plunked down in a jury box for three weeks.
Imagine what you see and hear as prosecutors try to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant murdered, disemboweled and dismembered the mother of his child, stuffed her headless, limbless torso into a suitcase, and dropped it in a dumpster in another state.
Suppose you can discuss this with no one, not even your fellow jurors, until the appointed time comes to deliberate.
That time came for me yesterday. The trial ended a few hours ago. The jury on which I served found the defendant guilty of first-degree murder and three other charges.
I leave the details to your imagination and the news media because for now I don’t have the words to describe the experience beyond this:
Whatever discomfort the jury felt, it was nothing compared to the horror that many others in that courtroom have been through and will remember with such pain and sorrow for the rest of their lives.
If I write about the experience again, in this space or elsewhere, it is simply my way of coping. Some questions are too difficult to discuss in person other than with my closest family and friends.