Open minds

I spent the past day and a half hunkered on a meeting room floor, watching people promise to keep their minds open.

Yesterday marked the start of jury selection in Alpena, the serene up-north town where, in the summer of 2021, a 17-year-old girl was strangled until she died and a 30-something woman was executed in the woods with a gunshot to the back of the head. 

Two-and-a-half years after those deaths, the man accused of killing them goes to trial this month. I was there when they dug up the teen girl’s body in a back yard, and I’m going to be there for the trial.

Some days my fascination with the case feels like morbid curiosity mixed with the yearning of a former cops-and-courts reporter who misses her beat. It’s more than that, though.

Certainly, it’s interesting, especially as I dig into court documents and police reports and learn never-made-public nuggets in off-the-record interviews.

But there’s more to it than that. The murders aren’t just an anomalous blip, appearing out of nowhere and disappearing again as soon as we put someone in prison for them. They have a bigger story, and someone needs to look at it so we can see where we can do better.

That’s why I spent yesterday and today on the floor of a multi-purpose space in Alpena’s events center, taking notes during a marathon jury selection.

(For the record, they offered me a chair. I just like floors.)

The trial proper doesn’t start until the last days of January, but the court decided to pick the jury early. The selection was held at the event center to accommodate the 130-some people attorneys hoped would be enough to seat 16 jurors, four of whom will be dismissed before deliberation begins.

I awed at the patience with which 100-plus strangers sat quietly in black plastic folding chairs, waiting for the judge and attorneys to appear. More than 90 minutes they waited, not rustling with impatience, not heaving sighs. When the court figures emerged from the judge’s makeshift chambers and the selection process finally got underway, the prospective jurors listened with attention, raising their hands when asked and answering questions politely.

Several hours into the process, the county clerk called 16 names to fill two rows of chairs at the front of the room. The next round of questions turned serious quickly.

Does anyone in their family struggle with addiction?

Could they sit through the trauma of listening to stories of domestic abuse?

Could they look at grisly autopsy photos?

Some shrunk back, saying they couldn’t do it. Most said yes. They didn’t want to, but they could.

When asked if they knew any of the potential witnesses, practically the whole room raised their hands.

One woman’s daughter babysat for the child of a witness. Some went to school with the defendant. Knew witnesses’ kids. Lived next door to an investigating officer, down the street from the victim, around the corner from the defendant’s parents. Friends with the prosecutor. Related to a witness’s mother.

Could the prospective jurors set those ties aside and only listen to the facts of the case?

Yes, they promised. We can.

Murder makes a big splash in a small town. Most everyone in the room acknowledged they had heard at least a little about the murders, and some admitted they had strong feelings about it.

It’s only human to want to find someone to blame when something bad happens. Could they set aside those emotions and only consider what the evidence tells them about whether this defendant is guilty?

We will, they said.

Attorneys thanked and excused many who filled the 16 chairs. With each dismissal, the clerk called a new name from the quietly waiting gallery, and a new person faced the same questions: can you set aside your biases? Will you be fair?

Yes, yes, they said. We can. We will.

At noon on the second day, attorneys on both sides nodded and closed their file folders. They were satisfied. A jury had been chosen.

Now, the judge instructed them, they have a big job to do. They have to spend the two weeks between now and when the trial starts with cotton balls in their ears and tape on their eyelids. They mustn’t read about the case, mustn’t talk to coworkers or friends or even family members about it. 

When the trial gets underway, well, then, they still can’t talk about it. They can’t share the shocking details they will hear or describe the heartbreaking photos they will see. They will have to yank themselves away from headlines on the front page of the newspaper and resist the urge to scroll social media. They can’t let any outside thing influence the decision they will make at the end of the trial. They have promised to be fair. And they will.

“All rise for the jury,” the bailiff said as court was adjourned, and all of us, including the judge, stood to honor the people in whose hands the community has now placed a trust these everyday folks will fulfill to the best of their ability.

As they gathered their coats and gloves, finally dismissed for the day, the now-sworn jurors exchanged excited/terrified looks and nervous pleasantries. A month from now, they will know much more than they want to know about frightening forces that live, unseen, in their community. They will have heard testimony that will make their hearts break. And maybe, after seeing what they will see and hearing what they will hear, they will believe what I believe: that we can’t just do nothing and hope it all doesn’t happen again.

Blessings to you, jurors. The road before you will not be easy. Be strong, and be fair.

You can, and you will.

All rise for the jury.

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ENDNOTES

* People accused of crimes might be guilty. But they also might be innocent. Read news stories with an open mind.

* People and organizations blasted in social media may be in the wrong. But they also might be trying to do what they believe is right. Read online information with a generous mind.

* You might be ― you ARE ― imperfect. But you’re also just a human doing your best, and imperfection is OK. Look at the person in the mirror with a forgiving mind.

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