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A Jury of Peers
By David Scribner
Recently, I learned what I have in common with Mitchell Lawrence.
You might recall that Mitchell Lawrence was the teenager nabbed four years ago in a summer sting operation conducted by the mighty forces of the Berkshire County Drug Task Force in Great Barrington's Taconic Parking lot.
He lived in the tiny hill town of Otis, Massachusetts. The teen was foolish enough - or maybe it was just bad luck - to sell a joint for a couple of bucks to an undercover detective so that he could buy a taco for lunch. The resourceful undercover agent made sure the deal went down within 1,000 feet of a school - in this case, a nursery school in the basement of the Congregational Church that was, in fact, closed. The cop maneuvered Lawrence into a spot permitting maximum mandatory penalties.
After a judicious delay of nearly two years, District Attorney David F. Capeless, ever mindful of the right to a speedy trial, prosecuted Lawrence for drug dealing within a school zone, even though he had no previous record of any sort, nor was there any evidence he had ever sold grass to anyone else. His conviction sent him off to jail for a two-year mandatory term.
Because of the turmoil and uncertainty while awaiting trial, Lawrence did not finish all the requirements for graduation from Monument Mountain High School, but demonstrating character, determination and courage - attributes he could well have abandoned, given the vindictive treatment he had received at the hands of the district attorney - he earned a general equivalency diploma while in prison.
Lawrence was released in April of this year. As far as the fundamental workings of society, however, he might as well still be in jail. He cannot obtain a driver's license, he's ineligible for college scholarships, he can't vote and he can't serve on a jury.
And it is this last restriction that I discovered I shared with Mitchell Lawrence.
I was recently summoned for jury duty, a responsibility I take seriously. Promptly at 8 a.m., I showed up at Superior Court on Park Square in Pittsfield. The stuffy basement room where prospective jurors assembled was packed. A lot of crime awaits us, I thought.
After watching a video presentation on the obligations of a juror, I filled out the questionnaire - and one query made me pause. Was there anything that might disqualify me?
Don't get me wrong. I wanted to serve on a jury. It's an honor, really, as well as a pretty heavy responsibility, to be in a country ruled by a judicial system where ordinary citizens get to listen to evidence and testimony, and then decide guilt or innocence. It's one of those rare occasions when we can feel an essential and important membership in a community of shared values.
So when answering the questionnaire, I felt I had to be as honest as possible in order not to jeopardize the proceedings by holding back something that might later become an issue. And there was one thing that prosecutors might find distressing: as a journalist I had written quite critically of the conduct of District Attorney Capeless - and in particular, had taken him to task for what I saw as his mean-spirited and unwarranted prosecutorial rigidity in the Mitchell Lawrence case.
At last, it came down to jury selection. The jurors were being interviewed for a rape case. One by one, we were escorted into the majestic courtroom to sit next to the judge in the very chair where witnesses would swear an oath to tell the truth. On the side walls were oil paintings of renowned jurists.
The judge reviewed my questionnaire. You seem to have a problem with the District Attorney, he observed. Only a particular situation that I've written about, I replied, but that won't affect my views of the case before this court. I'm capable of making the distinction.
Despite my appeal, I was dismissed for being a journalist, as if writing about and researching the practices of the district attorney's office automatically ruled me out. I thereby joined the ranks of criminals and cops who by virtue of their specialized knowledge are thought to have tainted judgment.
But I can't help thinking that the quest for pure impartiality is futile, in journalism and in court. Everyone has prejudices, whether they're detectable by a questionnaire or not. The issue is whether people can set aside bias to deal with the reality of facts as they're presented. I think our judicial system rests on this premise.
For instance, I'll bet that Mitchell Lawrence would make a fine, fair juror, even in a trial of a teenager caught in the same situation he faced. You might worry that he'd be prejudiced but my hunch is he'd see things straight down the middle. He knows the score, has thought a lot about what he did and what he should have done, what's right and what's wrong.
And frankly, I'd be proud to serve on a jury with him. But I doubt that will ever be permitted.
This column originally appeared in the Berkshire Record.
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02/28/08
The Last Hurrah
It was only a matter of time before local daily newspapers - the ones we used to count on for being a complete, accurate archive of essential community information, like the records of births and marriages and deaths - would realize that there's a pile of money to be made on death and dying and grief.
06/15/06
Parents to District Attorney: Why?
Fourteen years ago, 52-year-old Joseph Mechare and his wife Sharon had a dream. Just married and living in Millerton, New York, where Joe had grown up in a working class family - his father was a carpenter and he had been trained in autobody repair - they wanted to start a new life together.
03/24/06
DA Capeless: Zealot or tough cop? You decide.
In Berkshire County, Massachusetts, reputed rock-ribbed bastion of enlightened lifestyles, you can go to jail for two years for an offense that's the equivalent of a speeding ticket, especially if you are a foolish teenager, and have never had another offense.
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The ICE-men Cometh: Local Skirmishes in the War Against Illegal Immigrants
At dawn on Saturday morning, Sept. 27, 2008, men in jeans, flannel shirts and workboots were getting into old cars and battered pickups outside what is known by the Hispanic population in Valatie, N. Y., as the
The Brooklyn of the Berkshires? Pittsfield's Push for a
When more than a thousand people turned out on the streets of downtown Pittsfield on a rainy Thursday evening in June for a celebration of the arts, music and culture, the city
Regional Passenger Rail Projects Await Green Light
Late on a summer's day in the Berkshires of Western Massachusetts, Jack Fitzpatrick, former state senator and owner of the Red Lion Inn, likes to pace the platform of the Stockbridge rail station he bought 10 years ago for $150,000.
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©2009 David Scribner
Starving Artists Detective Agency
255 North St.
Pittsfield, Massachusetts 01201
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