I stared a murderer in the eyes. I sat in my chair, one among fourteen, and stared a man convicted of killing another
man straight in the eyes.
It’s a bizarre sensation to feel your soul pause. It’s more than your heart skipping a beat or your breath suddenly
disappearing from your lungs. When I looked into the eyes of Lawrence Joey Smith, a man who was convicted of first degree
murder in 2001, it was as if I’d stepped into a void and time, ever so briefly, stood still.
The gravity of this case was real. The circumstances surrounding the case tragic. At issue was whether Lawrence
Joey Smith should spend the rest of his life in jail without the possibility of parole or whether he should be sentenced to
death. The weight of this decision was tangible, and as I looked around to the faces of my fellow jurors, I knew they
felt the same sinking feeling in the pits of their stomach that I was feeling.
I need to be forthright and disclose that I am a proponent of the death penalty. I have always believed that once
you willingly and knowingly take someone’s life in a criminal manner you forfeit your right to continue to live yours.
It’s not so much an “eye for an eye” philosophy as it is one of responsibility, accountability and justice. That being
said, I am not sure I continue to feel the same way following my experiences earlier this afternoon.
As we, the 12 jurors burdened with issuing a sentence recommendation in this case, entered the jury room for deliberation,
we did not know what to expect. We didn’t even know where to begin. Here was a collection of 12 diverse and varied
individuals from around Pasco County asked to make a determination as to when death should come to Lawrence Joey Smith – either
later in his life as a prisoner of the state or significantly sooner at the hands of the electric chair.
My soul paused once again.
There is no way to possibly prepare for such a task. What had been a fun, light-hearted and jovial jury transformed
into a somber group of human beings holding in their hands the fate of another human being.
“No one should be asked to do this,” came a voice from across the table. “Who the hell are we to determine if he
should live or die?” Yet there we were, with our notes, instructions and piles of evidence from the case. There
we were, asked to do the unthinkable, and no one had any idea where to even begin.
“So who wants to be the captain of our little team?” I asked, trying to break the tension in determining the foreperson
of our jury. All eyes quickly turned to me. My throat closed, my heart accelerated, and that condescending voice
in my head reminded me that next time I should just keep my mouth shut. I guess I should have felt honored the others
in the room would entrust me to direct the deliberations, but as I would learn later, the price of honor can be steep.
I won’t bore you with legalities other than to say our task was not to determine guilt or innocence. This trial
was a sentencing trial, and our direction was to determine a sentencing recommendation for the judge. The recommendation
was just that – a recommendation – and it did not have to be unanimous. The final decision regarding the sentencing
rests with the presiding judge, and she is not bound to follow our recommendation. Still, the recommendation of the
jury carries great weight in determining the final sentence, and the responsibility is not something anyone in the room took
lightly.
We went back and forth reviewing the case law and instructions presented to us by the judge. We determined what
aggravating factors existed in the case and weighed them against the many mitigating factors we also agreed existed in this
matter. We talked, we discussed, we even argued. We were passionate and descriptive, logical and formulaic, objective
and fair. Yet in the end, if there was one emotion that ran through my body, I would have to say it was dread.
I dreaded the idea this was actually happening. As I looked up at the board on which we documented our discussions
and recorded the aggravating factors in the case versus the mitigating factors, I could see we were heading towards a decision
of death.
“I don’t want to do this,” I said out loud. It was really more to myself, but I know everyone in the room heard
me. “I don’t want to decide this. I don’t want to sit hear and make this decision.” I looked at my handout,
reviewing once again the instructions and the law, and looked back at our board. “I want so desperately to find something
to change my mind.” I wanted so badly to find a mitigating factor that was compelling and carried, in my mind, more
weight than the aggravating factor of the case. I did not want to recommend the death penalty for this man.
We went back and forth discussing various possibilities and scenarios. We talked and argued about the defendant’s
possible state of mind at the time of the shooting. We speculated about factors surrounding the night in question and
the days that followed. We even went as far as to submit a question back to the judge and the respective attorneys asking
for more specific information about the defendant. Yet in the end, we all came back to the fact there was no evidence
to support any of the speculations or hypothesis we were discussing, and the judge replied stating we had all the evidence
we were going to receive.
After over 4 hours, we all agreed we had come about as far as we were going to go. We took another vote and like the
first one, one that was done to establish a baseline in the deliberations, the recommendation was to put Lawrence Joey Smith
to death.
The silence in the room was suffocating. We sat at the table, some of us in shock, some of us in disbelief, almost
all of us in tears. I asked that we go around the table one last time and provide everyone with the opportunity for
one last chance to say something or argue a point before we formalized the recommendation for death. It was our own,
personal ‘closing arguments’ of the case. One woman made an impassioned statement in favor of life in prison.
Another woman was rendered speechless for the first time in all the deliberations. Others just stared down at the table
in front of them, dabbing away the tears from their eyes.
The discussion came to an end at my seat. In front of me lay a form I was to complete that stated we the members
of the jury were making a recommendation that Lawrence Joey Smith be put to death. I placed a check in the appropriate
field, I entered the final tally from our vote (7 – 5), and I dated the document. I stared at the signature line for
what felt like hours. I stared and stared and stared and finally forced myself to raise my arm, pen in hand, and make
our recommendation final.
My soul paused and I found myself once again in that timeless void, trapped between the surreal feelings in my head and
the gut-wrenching reality of what had just happened. We didn’t speak much after that. The room felt as if we were
all at a funeral. Occasionally, one of us made small talk in an effort to relieve the tension we were all feeling.
Still, the fun, light-hearted and jovial jury was forever gone, and I sensed each one of us wanted to just go home and be
as far away from that jury room as possible.
We wanted everything to simply return to normal. However, I know in my heart things for the 12 of us will never
really feel quite normal ever again.
Note of Correction: Specific to this case, lethal injection and not the electric chair would be used
in the implementation of the death penalty.
I was going to begin this blog with an eloquent and well though out soliloquy about our freedoms as Americans and our
civic duty to contribute to what makes this country great. Instead, I’ll summarize my experience of the past week by
simply stating that jury duty sucks. Okay, I may be exaggerating a bit, but for the most part there is nothing thrilling
or fun about having to report to a courthouse and wait your turn to see if you have to stay or if you get to go home.
Such is the case with me last Monday, February 25. I entered a room with 300 or so of my neighbor residents of
Pasco County and began the process of wait and see. Distributed among three judges, the potential jury pool was quickly
widdled down to a select handful. I myself was asked to first complete a questionnaire and then to proceed into a courtroom
so I could be voir dire’d by the attorneys in the case. Voir dire …. that's French for, “This is really going to ruin
your week!”
I am not at liberty to disclose any specifics of the case. As I write this, the outcome is still pending and by
every expectation I shall be done with my jury services on Tuesday, March 4. Yet I wanted to publish this tonight because
I am almost sad this new experience is coming to an end. I know, I know ……. I just got through mentioning how much jury
duty sucks. However, in the past week I have come to meet and grow with 13 of my fellow Pasconians, and it’s been a
refreshing and delightful experience sharing the jury room with them.
The plan for Tuesday morning is to hear closing arguments in the case and proceed into deliberations. It is at
that point where two of my new buddies will be permitted to leave as only 12 jurors will be allowed to discuss all the evidence
and return with a verdict. The other 2 individuals, who were retained as alternates in the event they were needed, are
still unknown to us and I expect a sad parting at the time this information is determined. Think “The People’s Court”
meets “American Idol”, except I am certain our judge will be far more cordial and delicate that Simon Cowell could ever be.
I don’t know what to expect following that. For all I know, I could be one of the two sent home early. In
a way, that would suck more than the schedule jumbling and plan altering this jury experience has already cost me. After
all the time and all the testimony and all the notes taking; only to be told I am free to go home? Ummmmmmm…. I don’t
think so! I want to be in that room having the discussions, weighing the evidence, swaying opinions and taking full
advantage of the free food provided by the State of Florida.
Yet I know that either way, Tuesday marks the end of a special camaraderie the 14 of us have established in the past
several days. From the sitting and waiting to the idle chit-chat to the newly developed friendships, I really am sad
to see it finally come to a close. I will not publish any names out of respect for each individual’s privacy, but as
I mentally go around the jury room and remember everyone’s face, I can recall a specific memory I was able to create with
each and every one of them. It’s like your first week of school where you break the ice and get to know the people in
your class, except after a very brief seven days schools’ out for summer vacation.
I hope I can stay in touch with most of my fellow jurors if not all of them. I doubt any more that 2 or 3 of them
have Facebook or MySpace accounts, yet I am confident the majority of them do have e-mail addresses. I will always cherish
the special moments shared in that icebox Pasco County likes to call the jury room. (Seriously, you can hang sides of
beef in there!). Even though the nature of what we’ve been asked to do is very, very serious (i.e. expect another blog
once the trial had officially concluded), I find myself thinking how fortunate I am to have been asked to share this burden
with such kind, warm-hearted and downright funny people.
So the next time you go to the mail box and find an official looking envelope from your local government, don’t spend
too much time fretting over it. You never know how special doing the right thing can be.
