Starting tomorrow I can get a discount at our local aquatic center and at Denny's. Luckily, for me, I'm at the swim center a lot more often than at the restaurant.
Self-blame and type 2 diabetes, let me count the ways. So yeah, the nurse practitioner where I go for my medical care said I have blood sugar levels that indicate borderline Type 2 diabetes, the kind where my body can't keep up with turning food into glucose because my pancreas is tired. Why is my pancreas tired? Well, there is a genetic component to getting this, and most of my female relatives have some variation on the sugar problem, at least on my mother's side. Other reasons, quite simply, are eating too much and moving too little. (And I can't help wondering how much of my attitude toward my body has been passed down the generations too, a kind of weariness, as well as a kind of wariness about doing things differently.)
Diabetes, of course, is a chronic illness much like asthma, which I've had since I was three. So why the big guilt trip for me with the sugar and not with the air? Maybe it has to do with those 7 deadly sins -- with ol' greed and gluttony raising their ugly heads, with sloth not far behind, although I can trace many asthma attacks to being to lazy to vacuum under the bed. Somehow though, wheezing doesn't trigger the guilt and self-flagellation that "bad labs" do. Maybe it's something like having the feeling that I've squandered something precious -- my health and energy -- just by eating too much. Whatever. I felt awful out of all proportion to the little physical discomfort I was experiencing.
When I got the news, I moved in with gusto -- followed the food plan (about 1400 calories a day), upped my activity by walking about 3/4 of a mile on both my daily breaks.
I also tested my blood sugar 4 times a day, on the blood glucose meter that the doctor's office gave me for free. The little test-strips cost though, and I had to argue with my insurance company to pay for more than 2 tests a day. (I figured that if I were to really get the hang of this, and figure out what makes my glucose rise and fall, I'd need all the data I could get. Eventually they came around.)
The "educational" emails I got from various players in what I call the diabetic industrial complex were contradictory and confusing, the majority promising that I really didn't have to give up much of anything, as long as I stuck with whatever product the given company was pushing. There are also social networking sites just for people with diabetes, and some members "friend" everyone who joins. Who needs 2700 "friends?" Pointless. And if, as I've come to believe, the food is trying to fill another kind of emptiness, utterly unhelpful and somewhat disappointing. I really don't want to define myself in terms of what my pancreas is or isn't doing.
Anyway, the process of eating differently and moving more was hard. I had to focus like never before, and I got to see just how much I relied on food for stress-relief. In 6 weeks I dropped 16 pounds, and when the same nurse practitioner looked at the stats that were stored in the brain of my little meter and said I wasn't really even borderline Type 2 yet, as long I ate less and moved more. Then she said she'd see me in 3 months.
Three months?! Might as well be a year. Too long. My determination wavered and I went back to solving problems with food. Canceled my next appointment. Started noticing things I'd rather not -- my feet have started bothering me more, painful after a day of standing and walking; I put 4 pounds back on, not too bad really, but still the feeling of failure; and when I eat chaotically I don't test my glucose with any meaningful regularity.
I intend to turn this stuff around. I will check in again around mid-March on this subject and let you know how I'm faring with changing habits in a positive direction.
Thanks to those of you who are reading silently, and those of you who've let me know you're there.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Cookies or a Camino? Pizza or a pilgrimage?
Last time I wrote about this, I had two weeks till I turn 55. Now I have less than one week. Hmm. Guess it's gonna happen whether or not I'm prepared, eh?
Writing this blog now seems more risky than I ever dreamed. When I traveled in Australia in 2001 and sent back email dispatches about my adventures, I got a lot of feedback, much of it immediate and much of it positive. Maybe it was because the stories came directly into people's inboxes? Perhaps now the idea of clicking on a link is like doing one more errand in a busy day? Perhaps, as I always dreaded, my words have become mediocre and dull. Maybe Blogger's comment function is too obscure. (Click on the link below a posting which says, mostly, "0 Comments" and let me know you're reading.)
Anyway, the beginning of my Thousand Things list is simple (and most difficult): To arrange my life and my habits to allow me to have a prayer of setting other goals and perhaps even reaching them.
Therese Borchard of Beyond Blue at BeliefNet inspired me with her post "My goal in life? To finish."
Her post refers to resisting suicidal thoughts and all the elements that she has to line up to make that happen. Her life is way more complex than mine, and, thanks be, my depression symptoms are much less severe (right now) than hers.
But the similarities are obvious to me. If I skip a meal, eat too much of the wrong foods or don't get enough exercise, the results are immediate and pervasive, and they don't go away for days. First there's the bitchy blood-sugar-out-of-kilter loss of temper and lack of perspective, and not so much later there's the food obsession, like how-about-a-trip-to-the-ice-cream-shop -- on the coldest day of the year -- after which the cycle repeats. Which results in being unable to relate civilly to people around me (much less with the warmth I would like), get any meaningful tasks completed (computer Scrabble for hours? No problem!) or set any goals at all.
But let's say one of my Thousand Things list items is to walk on the Camino de Santiago, a pilgrimage route in France and Spain. Diabetes screws up your feet. So the short-hand is I can either have the first scoop of raw cookie dough and the first cream puff at the office holiday party -- which lead pretty reliably to the above cycle -- or I can go on the Camino. Stark choices. (Thanks to Ernie N. in our Ukiah office for this image. He said, of his own blood sugar challenges, "I can either have dessert, or I can have feet." He's dropped about 60 pounds.)
I refuse to let this become one of the plethora of navel-gazing blogs, however much they help the writers and the readers. I won't be listing my caloric intake and exercise logs or recording my night-time dreams. But I will post once more about this before my Big 55, then I plan to revisit these issues about once a quarter. I hope someone is reading.
Writing this blog now seems more risky than I ever dreamed. When I traveled in Australia in 2001 and sent back email dispatches about my adventures, I got a lot of feedback, much of it immediate and much of it positive. Maybe it was because the stories came directly into people's inboxes? Perhaps now the idea of clicking on a link is like doing one more errand in a busy day? Perhaps, as I always dreaded, my words have become mediocre and dull. Maybe Blogger's comment function is too obscure. (Click on the link below a posting which says, mostly, "0 Comments" and let me know you're reading.)
Anyway, the beginning of my Thousand Things list is simple (and most difficult): To arrange my life and my habits to allow me to have a prayer of setting other goals and perhaps even reaching them.
Therese Borchard of Beyond Blue at BeliefNet inspired me with her post "My goal in life? To finish."
Her post refers to resisting suicidal thoughts and all the elements that she has to line up to make that happen. Her life is way more complex than mine, and, thanks be, my depression symptoms are much less severe (right now) than hers.
But the similarities are obvious to me. If I skip a meal, eat too much of the wrong foods or don't get enough exercise, the results are immediate and pervasive, and they don't go away for days. First there's the bitchy blood-sugar-out-of-kilter loss of temper and lack of perspective, and not so much later there's the food obsession, like how-about-a-trip-to-the-ice-cream-shop -- on the coldest day of the year -- after which the cycle repeats. Which results in being unable to relate civilly to people around me (much less with the warmth I would like), get any meaningful tasks completed (computer Scrabble for hours? No problem!) or set any goals at all.But let's say one of my Thousand Things list items is to walk on the Camino de Santiago, a pilgrimage route in France and Spain. Diabetes screws up your feet. So the short-hand is I can either have the first scoop of raw cookie dough and the first cream puff at the office holiday party -- which lead pretty reliably to the above cycle -- or I can go on the Camino. Stark choices. (Thanks to Ernie N. in our Ukiah office for this image. He said, of his own blood sugar challenges, "I can either have dessert, or I can have feet." He's dropped about 60 pounds.)
I refuse to let this become one of the plethora of navel-gazing blogs, however much they help the writers and the readers. I won't be listing my caloric intake and exercise logs or recording my night-time dreams. But I will post once more about this before my Big 55, then I plan to revisit these issues about once a quarter. I hope someone is reading.
Saturday, December 05, 2009
Susan and Frank's excellent Thanksgiving adventure
Today, a guest column of sorts. Frank shares his take on What Happened at Thanksgiving, from an email to his family. Thanks, hon.
We had a Thanksgiving that was wild, not by Jack's job interview stories (delayed flight, personal note from Donald Trump), but a good one nonetheless. We drove 3 hours to Susan's sister Korie's home on the Russian River, where Sturmz, I and a macho little dog named Max were the only males among 16. Korie was seen with a knife. (Turkey may have been male too!)
Max peed on the floor when he arrived, Sturmz stole hostess Bella's bed, but then Sturmz waited until the peak of post-dinner poetry reading to begin howling for leftovers while farting out the other end. Naturally, this ruined the mood and cleared the room. I offered to take Sturmz to the car (along with Aspen, who as usual didn't quite realize she is too big to be under the table).
When I got to the car, I discovered we couldn't get in. This began a 3.5 hour search for Susan's car keys. Channeling great Dad searches for glasses or keys, we even laid out the garbage and sorted through it. Korie had converted her garage with some very cool wall hangings into the dinner space. We took the place APART! No keys.
So we stayed over. Highly amped AAA tow truck driver next door helped look for the keys. He is Korie's next door neighbor. We decided he might tow us home the next morning. But AAA sent him to Oakland (thank heaven!) and we got a former Napa-kin who now lives on an ocean bluff a half- hour south of Korie. He loaded the car onto the flatbed for 3 hour ride on winding blufftop road to Fort Bragg. Susan has AAA Plus, so 100 miles of the 107 were covered. He gave us the final 7 for free.
Seemed beyond ridiculous to me, but Dan, the driver said he does this all the time, towing people with perfectly good cars when only the keys are missing, Keyless cars get towed all the time and he recommends avoiding them. As we pulled out in the tow truck, the horn began honking on the car up on the flatbed, occupied by Sturmz and Aspen. Dan said, "I think they want us to go faster!"
I looked in the side rear-view mirror and could see Sturmz standing up on the driver's seat, paws on the steering wheel, barking and barking. After three sessions of horn-honking in about 5 minutes, the beeping ceased.
When we got to the gas station in Jenner, Dan discovered he had forgotten his wallet at home. He left the four of us for an hour while he went to get it.
We got coffee and Susan went off somewhere. The other three of us met a husky youngsta. She was bowing to Sturmz, but Aspen doesn't quite have the art of dealing with overly energetic puppies. She wants to herd them but then chaos ensues.
So on we went, past the most incredible scenery anywhere, cliffs are even higher than in FB.
Dan and I swapped Napa stories, even got to debate the veracity of valley rumors about a secret military base in the Macyacamas. Story is true -- there were tridents there at one time, and there were black helicopters there in 1990s, for whatever that is worse. Susan would have drifted off mid-conspiracy, but she was working too hard in the middle seat to keep from getting the gearshift slammed into her knee. Anyway, we got home.
Thanks to Korie for dinner and the fun and for giving up her bed! Gracie the cat may have been most impacted by having two more dogs overnight.
PS from Susan: Got a voice mail when cell reception came back: the keys were found in Korie's car, which I had entered only for a second to turn off the dome light, and which two guests had then borrowed as theirs had died.
We had a Thanksgiving that was wild, not by Jack's job interview stories (delayed flight, personal note from Donald Trump), but a good one nonetheless. We drove 3 hours to Susan's sister Korie's home on the Russian River, where Sturmz, I and a macho little dog named Max were the only males among 16. Korie was seen with a knife. (Turkey may have been male too!)
Max peed on the floor when he arrived, Sturmz stole hostess Bella's bed, but then Sturmz waited until the peak of post-dinner poetry reading to begin howling for leftovers while farting out the other end. Naturally, this ruined the mood and cleared the room. I offered to take Sturmz to the car (along with Aspen, who as usual didn't quite realize she is too big to be under the table).
When I got to the car, I discovered we couldn't get in. This began a 3.5 hour search for Susan's car keys. Channeling great Dad searches for glasses or keys, we even laid out the garbage and sorted through it. Korie had converted her garage with some very cool wall hangings into the dinner space. We took the place APART! No keys.
So we stayed over. Highly amped AAA tow truck driver next door helped look for the keys. He is Korie's next door neighbor. We decided he might tow us home the next morning. But AAA sent him to Oakland (thank heaven!) and we got a former Napa-kin who now lives on an ocean bluff a half- hour south of Korie. He loaded the car onto the flatbed for 3 hour ride on winding blufftop road to Fort Bragg. Susan has AAA Plus, so 100 miles of the 107 were covered. He gave us the final 7 for free.
Seemed beyond ridiculous to me, but Dan, the driver said he does this all the time, towing people with perfectly good cars when only the keys are missing, Keyless cars get towed all the time and he recommends avoiding them. As we pulled out in the tow truck, the horn began honking on the car up on the flatbed, occupied by Sturmz and Aspen. Dan said, "I think they want us to go faster!"
I looked in the side rear-view mirror and could see Sturmz standing up on the driver's seat, paws on the steering wheel, barking and barking. After three sessions of horn-honking in about 5 minutes, the beeping ceased.
When we got to the gas station in Jenner, Dan discovered he had forgotten his wallet at home. He left the four of us for an hour while he went to get it.
We got coffee and Susan went off somewhere. The other three of us met a husky youngsta. She was bowing to Sturmz, but Aspen doesn't quite have the art of dealing with overly energetic puppies. She wants to herd them but then chaos ensues.
So on we went, past the most incredible scenery anywhere, cliffs are even higher than in FB.
Dan and I swapped Napa stories, even got to debate the veracity of valley rumors about a secret military base in the Macyacamas. Story is true -- there were tridents there at one time, and there were black helicopters there in 1990s, for whatever that is worse. Susan would have drifted off mid-conspiracy, but she was working too hard in the middle seat to keep from getting the gearshift slammed into her knee. Anyway, we got home.
Thanks to Korie for dinner and the fun and for giving up her bed! Gracie the cat may have been most impacted by having two more dogs overnight.
PS from Susan: Got a voice mail when cell reception came back: the keys were found in Korie's car, which I had entered only for a second to turn off the dome light, and which two guests had then borrowed as theirs had died.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
The "thousand things" delusion
We've all seen them, the books like "One Thousand Places to See Before You Die," with variations "One Thousand Books to Read," "Pieces of Music," "Works of Art," etc, all before you shuffle off this mortal coil and theoretically miss your chance. Cool. At first glance it looks like folks might be giving a nod in the direction of their own mortality.
But first let's do the math. One thousand places. Unless you're independently wealthy, you have a day job, and you get the American average of 13 days paid vacation per year. So, at the outside you might get to 2, 3, or 4 of the must-see locations in a year, what with home repairs, the cost of gasoline and plane tickets, and taking the dog to the vet. One-thousand divided by 4 is 250. Anyone you know living to 250 years these days?
Far from actually coming up against the fact that this life and its opportunities are temporary, the Thousand Things genre feeds the illusion that we are immortal. It's definitely a young person's gig. No real choices necessary, it's all possible.
On the cusp of five and a half decades, I have been feeling strongly that the concepts of "choice" and "priority" are looming large. At the same time, thanks to the wonders of menopause, I've never felt more scattered. Goals have always given me trouble, with no faster way to wipe every thought from my mind than the dreaded questions "What's your five-year plan?" "Where would you like to be in 10 years?"
So here in the next month I will be working on my own version of a Thousand Things list, suitably modified to fit my station in life -- by that I mean, I'll be thinking hard about what's important to me, what's doable, and what I want to put my time, energy and passion into.
Thanks for reading. If you have some experience with setting and accomplishing goals, including what inner obstacles, if any, you overcame to do so, I'd be grateful to hear from you.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
The dog who knew Santa
Aspen, the dog who's full of surprises, surprised us again this weekend. Frank happened to catch some of it on film.
A fundraiser, pet photos with Santa, held at a feed store to benefit the beleaguered county animal shelter on the coast. I'm paying for the photos, and Frank, Sturmz (his 15-year-old shepherd/husky mix), Beth (my 11-year-old "little" in the Big Sister program) and Aspen head back toward the Santa mash-up.
As Frank describes it, Aspen leaves Beth's side and dashes up to where Santa's sitting, waiting for the next visitor. She jumps up next to the jolly old elf and snuggles right in close. The photographer, who seemed ill-suited to the task and the chaos associated with it, stands with hand on hip, exuding impatience, wondering where her next real customer is.
Then I get there with the receipt and we descend on Santa en masse. For the first paid pic, Frank and I are snuggled next to Santa, Aspen sitting proudly in front of me, and Sturmz decides to show his butt to the camera -- no matter what. Sturmz' feet drop into the cracks between the straw bales, panicking him -- which he shows by wide-mouthed "heh-heh-heh" panting. Frank hauls him around several times, and each time Sturmz' tail is prominently featured. Santa, presumably having a bit of experience with the situation, finally grabs both dogs with a ho-ho-ho and a hug, and finally the flash goes off.
The second paid pic features Beth and me with Santa and Aspen, and it goes off without a hitch. But then it's time for Aspen to say goodbye to Santa, and she just can't. Her immensely strong tail is wagging in circles, and it doesn't help that Santa knows exactly where to scratch her.
I imagine the initial recognition that Aspen showed for Santa as a variation on "It's a Wonderful Life," two incarnate angels comparing notes on their work here on earth. "How many bells have rung on your watch? Have trouble bringing anyone down off the railing?"
On the way out we meet James, an elegant retired greyhound, and Aspen is impressed.
A fundraiser, pet photos with Santa, held at a feed store to benefit the beleaguered county animal shelter on the coast. I'm paying for the photos, and Frank, Sturmz (his 15-year-old shepherd/husky mix), Beth (my 11-year-old "little" in the Big Sister program) and Aspen head back toward the Santa mash-up.
As Frank describes it, Aspen leaves Beth's side and dashes up to where Santa's sitting, waiting for the next visitor. She jumps up next to the jolly old elf and snuggles right in close. The photographer, who seemed ill-suited to the task and the chaos associated with it, stands with hand on hip, exuding impatience, wondering where her next real customer is.
Then I get there with the receipt and we descend on Santa en masse. For the first paid pic, Frank and I are snuggled next to Santa, Aspen sitting proudly in front of me, and Sturmz decides to show his butt to the camera -- no matter what. Sturmz' feet drop into the cracks between the straw bales, panicking him -- which he shows by wide-mouthed "heh-heh-heh" panting. Frank hauls him around several times, and each time Sturmz' tail is prominently featured. Santa, presumably having a bit of experience with the situation, finally grabs both dogs with a ho-ho-ho and a hug, and finally the flash goes off.
The second paid pic features Beth and me with Santa and Aspen, and it goes off without a hitch. But then it's time for Aspen to say goodbye to Santa, and she just can't. Her immensely strong tail is wagging in circles, and it doesn't help that Santa knows exactly where to scratch her.I imagine the initial recognition that Aspen showed for Santa as a variation on "It's a Wonderful Life," two incarnate angels comparing notes on their work here on earth. "How many bells have rung on your watch? Have trouble bringing anyone down off the railing?"
On the way out we meet James, an elegant retired greyhound, and Aspen is impressed.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
The Daily Slug Toss: Some instruction
1) Locate the banana slug and pick it off the front door/window/wall/azalea plant
2) Grasp the slug with two fingers, not too firmly because the slime doesn't come off easily, and not too lightly because that will mess up the trajectory
3) As you either curse or say a prayer of gratitude for the fact that you are a bleeding heart/a Bhuddist/a wannabe/have a weak stomach
3a) Hurl the banana slug as far into the ivy/grass/redwood sprouts as possible
4) As you wipe the inevitable deposit of slime off your thumb and finger on a least visible part of your clothing/wall/door mat
4a) Search out the next traveler
5) Repeat as necessary
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Other duties as assigned
After a numbing 2-hour meeting this morning, and after the hour-and-a-half drive back, it evolved that one of the social workers couldn't find a cleaner for a certain client's apartment, which is piling up with garbage. He's used to living outside, camping, being "free," but now he has a terminal illness and lives in Fort Bragg's only single-room occupancy building, and he lets the trash pile up. And he is in danger of being evicted. So my colleague went and bagged up unidentifiable items for an hour.
Just before I left for the day, another social worker stopped by my desk with a black plastic bag. "____'s clothes. You want to wash them or shall I throw them out?" Our friend with the previously-maggot-infested feet had gotten wet in the rain and she had given him dry clothes. I took the wet ones home.
Just this week Frank had reminded me of the verse in the New Testament about what we were supposed to do to help "the least of these" -- "...hungry and you fed me, thirsty and you gave me drink..." to which I silently added today, "...dying and you cleaned my apartment, incontinent and you did my laundry."
We held our noses, but we did it. For today, that was enough.
Monday, November 09, 2009
Hazel's revenge
Hazel has been reminding me that Aspen has been getting ALL the attention, just for following a few stupid commands. "Whatever happened to the value of independent thinking?" she asked, none too rhetorically. So her day in the sun, or on the blog, has come, and not because I feel guilty. Just because she's such a diva
Sunday, November 08, 2009
Doggie Training, part two!
Aspen and I started in a new class yesterday.
One of the behaviors we worked on was "back up," paired with a wave of the hand, fingers down. She already knew how to back up when she came to us, and we figured she was raised in a trailer, because she was expert at backing down the hallway in our our narrow park-model travel trailer. So it's a matter pairing the hand signal and the voice command with her behavior. We practiced for about 5 minutes in class.
Last night, we had both dogs in the van, and Aspen came forward out of her rear seat and stood next to Sturmz' seat, panting. Frank gave her the fingers-down wave, and she backed up and got back on her seat. Smart puppy!
One of the behaviors we worked on was "back up," paired with a wave of the hand, fingers down. She already knew how to back up when she came to us, and we figured she was raised in a trailer, because she was expert at backing down the hallway in our our narrow park-model travel trailer. So it's a matter pairing the hand signal and the voice command with her behavior. We practiced for about 5 minutes in class.
Last night, we had both dogs in the van, and Aspen came forward out of her rear seat and stood next to Sturmz' seat, panting. Frank gave her the fingers-down wave, and she backed up and got back on her seat. Smart puppy!
Thursday, November 05, 2009
I hate Blogger's new templates
As a former graphic artist, I'm horrified by the look of the title of my blog.
I clicked on "Customize" to jigger to look of the page, and up popped a box that warned me I could lose changes I'd made before. New and improved, of course.
I clicked OK and my blog title was never the same. I had three choices regarding the photo in the title space: Put the type over the photo, delete the photo, or replace the type with the photo. Huh!?!?!?
Also the profile section looks painfully dorky.
Not sure if the "fashion police" in my background can allow this look for long. I may be site shopping....
I clicked on "Customize" to jigger to look of the page, and up popped a box that warned me I could lose changes I'd made before. New and improved, of course.
I clicked OK and my blog title was never the same. I had three choices regarding the photo in the title space: Put the type over the photo, delete the photo, or replace the type with the photo. Huh!?!?!?
Also the profile section looks painfully dorky.
Not sure if the "fashion police" in my background can allow this look for long. I may be site shopping....
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
A slice of social services life
I had left my cup of decaf in the car, and I went out to get it. On my way back into the building, I ran into a guy carrying a giant backpack and an armful of fluffy puppy. “Quite a load you have there,” I said.
“You wanna dog?” he asked. “I’m tryina get rid of him. I’m suicidal and I can’t handle him.”
“He’s gorgeous. You don’t think he can keep you alive?”
“I think a lot of people are putting that on me. He barks at night and I think I’ll slit his throat.”
Oh God.
“Well, if you’re serious about getting rid of him, I can call the Humane Society and they can find him a home.”
“Nah, he’s not goin’ to the Humane Society.”
“They wouldn’t put him down. They’d find him a home. It’s way more efficient than walking down the street asking people if they want a dog.”
“Hmm.”
“I can hear that you’re feeling really bad. Have you had a chance to talk with anyone about it?”
“I have an appointment with the bald f**ker who works here. I’m about done with all of it though. Next stop for me is off the bridge.”
(I knew he needed a referral to the county mental health office, but we have not had the best of luck sending people there. If the client has been self-medicating with street drugs or alcohol, they are rejected for having a substance-abuse problem. If the client is over 60, they are rejected for having dementia.)
“What’s your name?”
“My name don’t matter. My name is death.”
“Well, let me call the Humane Society and see if they’ll take him, OK?”
“Yeah, go ahead. He doesn’t need to be with me, ‘cause I’m gonna take him with me off the bridge if I keep him.”
I went inside and spoke to M, the notoriously soft-hearted receptionist, about the situation. She shot out the door and started talking to man and dog. I called the “bald f**ker” to warn him about his prospective client’s mood. M called me to say the puppy was a littermate of the one she had rescued yesterday, and that she would be taking it. About a half-hour later the phone in our unit began beeping to let us know someone had dialed 911. The read-out said it was the “bald f**ker” who had called. Yeah, someone said later, he had a jumper...
“You wanna dog?” he asked. “I’m tryina get rid of him. I’m suicidal and I can’t handle him.”
“He’s gorgeous. You don’t think he can keep you alive?”
“I think a lot of people are putting that on me. He barks at night and I think I’ll slit his throat.”
Oh God.
“Well, if you’re serious about getting rid of him, I can call the Humane Society and they can find him a home.”
“Nah, he’s not goin’ to the Humane Society.”
“They wouldn’t put him down. They’d find him a home. It’s way more efficient than walking down the street asking people if they want a dog.”
“Hmm.”
“I can hear that you’re feeling really bad. Have you had a chance to talk with anyone about it?”
“I have an appointment with the bald f**ker who works here. I’m about done with all of it though. Next stop for me is off the bridge.”
(I knew he needed a referral to the county mental health office, but we have not had the best of luck sending people there. If the client has been self-medicating with street drugs or alcohol, they are rejected for having a substance-abuse problem. If the client is over 60, they are rejected for having dementia.)
“What’s your name?”
“My name don’t matter. My name is death.”
“Well, let me call the Humane Society and see if they’ll take him, OK?”
“Yeah, go ahead. He doesn’t need to be with me, ‘cause I’m gonna take him with me off the bridge if I keep him.”
I went inside and spoke to M, the notoriously soft-hearted receptionist, about the situation. She shot out the door and started talking to man and dog. I called the “bald f**ker” to warn him about his prospective client’s mood. M called me to say the puppy was a littermate of the one she had rescued yesterday, and that she would be taking it. About a half-hour later the phone in our unit began beeping to let us know someone had dialed 911. The read-out said it was the “bald f**ker” who had called. Yeah, someone said later, he had a jumper...
Aspen, the rescue mutt, is a Canine Good Citizen!
After 6 weeks of Saturday classes, and not really enough practice in between, Aspen, the 90-pound rescue dog from Lake County Animal Shelter, passed her AKC Canine Good Citizen test. I promised her and Frank that I would feature her triumph here.
Read here about what's involved in the test.
Next week we start in a "tricks and service dog" class.
Meanwhile she's having a well-deserved rest.
Monday, November 02, 2009
So why write this, then, if it's dangerous?
First, I don't think it is. The circles I run in don't intersect much with the witnesses in this trial.
Second, I realized that this is part of my dance with the dark side -- long walks on the beach poking dead things with a stick.
Third, I decided that the experience was important enough to me to risk whatever happens by writing about it on my obscure little blog.
And fourth, but perhaps most importantly, I'm my father's daughter. He believed in doing what he could to stand up against bullies, whether it was the Hitler Youth of his boyhood, to whom he stood up by not collecting money for them in his neighborhood, or racism in the US South, which he countered by annual donations to the NAACP up till his death. He countered his fears by doing and saying what was in his heart. Now I have too.
When the next chapter unfolds, I will write an update.
Meanwhile, as we discussed at our last lunch as jurors, I'll be focusing on more uplifting aspects of my life now.
Second, I realized that this is part of my dance with the dark side -- long walks on the beach poking dead things with a stick.
Third, I decided that the experience was important enough to me to risk whatever happens by writing about it on my obscure little blog.
And fourth, but perhaps most importantly, I'm my father's daughter. He believed in doing what he could to stand up against bullies, whether it was the Hitler Youth of his boyhood, to whom he stood up by not collecting money for them in his neighborhood, or racism in the US South, which he countered by annual donations to the NAACP up till his death. He countered his fears by doing and saying what was in his heart. Now I have too.
When the next chapter unfolds, I will write an update.
Meanwhile, as we discussed at our last lunch as jurors, I'll be focusing on more uplifting aspects of my life now.
All's quiet, and then ....
I didn't hear from ADA Tim Stoen again for some weeks, then emailed him asking what was happening -- Neither the Red Giant nor I had heard from the defense. Could I assume they had switched tactics?
Yes, he wrote, they had. A new defense attorney had gotten a statement from the defendant's wife saying she had seen contact between jurors and witnesses on several occasions. She had not mentioned these to the judge during the trial, so Tim didn't think her statement would be accepted now. Attached to that statement was another request to have juror information made public.
Tim sent me three other documents -- a copy of his opposition to disclosing juror information, citing the murder of witness Michael Peacock, which I read with complete shock;
a declaration by the DA's investigator as to the condition of the Big Red Dog, implying that the defendant's wife had committed perjury in describing where the toy had been;
and a declaration by a gang expert that
1) through Richard Peacock and his Peckerwood connections, the defendant had likely involvement in the Aryan Brotherhood white supremacist gang; and 2) among the photos retrieved from the defendant's camera was one of him posing in front of a speedboat with the license plate "Rogers Klan," suggesting another white supremacist connection.
Tim said he would argue against the release of our info, that our safety would be threatened.
Well, I was deeply affected by the turn this had taken -- the murder of the shooter's brother, Aryan Brotherhood and Klan connections? It was all feeling very surreal.
I wrote back to Tim Stoen that my information had already been made public. Did I need to worry? (I was worrying already, of course.)
No, he said, for one thing this was all worst-case strategy. For another, if Michael Peacock was killed for testifying, it would have been planned while the defendant was still out on bail. Now he is confined to the Mendocino County Jail, and his calls and visits are closely monitored.
Indeed the judge denied the request to have (everyone else's) information released. The story ran in the Ukiah Daily Journal, and is for some reason now unavailable in a search.
Yes, he wrote, they had. A new defense attorney had gotten a statement from the defendant's wife saying she had seen contact between jurors and witnesses on several occasions. She had not mentioned these to the judge during the trial, so Tim didn't think her statement would be accepted now. Attached to that statement was another request to have juror information made public.
Tim sent me three other documents -- a copy of his opposition to disclosing juror information, citing the murder of witness Michael Peacock, which I read with complete shock;
a declaration by the DA's investigator as to the condition of the Big Red Dog, implying that the defendant's wife had committed perjury in describing where the toy had been;
and a declaration by a gang expert that
1) through Richard Peacock and his Peckerwood connections, the defendant had likely involvement in the Aryan Brotherhood white supremacist gang; and 2) among the photos retrieved from the defendant's camera was one of him posing in front of a speedboat with the license plate "Rogers Klan," suggesting another white supremacist connection.
Tim said he would argue against the release of our info, that our safety would be threatened.
Well, I was deeply affected by the turn this had taken -- the murder of the shooter's brother, Aryan Brotherhood and Klan connections? It was all feeling very surreal.
I wrote back to Tim Stoen that my information had already been made public. Did I need to worry? (I was worrying already, of course.)
No, he said, for one thing this was all worst-case strategy. For another, if Michael Peacock was killed for testifying, it would have been planned while the defendant was still out on bail. Now he is confined to the Mendocino County Jail, and his calls and visits are closely monitored.
Indeed the judge denied the request to have (everyone else's) information released. The story ran in the Ukiah Daily Journal, and is for some reason now unavailable in a search.
My personal info becomes public
Assistant District Attorney Tim Stoen emailed me a list of what would likely happen at the September 11th (!) hearing -- the defense would move for juror questionnaires to be be released based on possible juror misconduct (mine), but he felt sure that wouldn't go anywhere.
The day before the hearing, the Red Giant dropped a sheaf of papers by my office and said it had been his paper's court correspondent who had leaked our connection to the DA, who was then obligated to inform the defense. It made sense that Don would have assumed we were married: He and the Red Giant have in common a background in fundamentalist Christianity -- he's a minister, and my honey has fallen away. So of course the assumption would be that the Red Giant would never live in sin...
On the day of that hearing I was on my way to Ashland, Oregon, for an annual weekend family reunion and a surfeit of Shakespeare.
When I returned, the Red Giant sent an email saying that he and I and our relationship were written up in the Anderson Valley Advertiser, more or less accurately, he said.
The Anderson Valley is home to Booneville, a linguistic fascination that during the late 1800s had its own language. It could be described as isolated. The Anderson Valley Advertiser cannot really be described as a journalistic endeavor, although it takes the form of a weekly newspaper. The flamboyant editor is prone to emotional screeds full of character assassination and guilt by association and implication. I was not hopeful that the story would be remotely accurate.
But, it was submitted by the same Humboldt County reporter who did the good summary referenced earlier. It named both of us and described what I had said to the investigator almost verbatim. Hmmm. Well, I wasn't too worried. Yet.
The day before the hearing, the Red Giant dropped a sheaf of papers by my office and said it had been his paper's court correspondent who had leaked our connection to the DA, who was then obligated to inform the defense. It made sense that Don would have assumed we were married: He and the Red Giant have in common a background in fundamentalist Christianity -- he's a minister, and my honey has fallen away. So of course the assumption would be that the Red Giant would never live in sin...
On the day of that hearing I was on my way to Ashland, Oregon, for an annual weekend family reunion and a surfeit of Shakespeare.
When I returned, the Red Giant sent an email saying that he and I and our relationship were written up in the Anderson Valley Advertiser, more or less accurately, he said.
The Anderson Valley is home to Booneville, a linguistic fascination that during the late 1800s had its own language. It could be described as isolated. The Anderson Valley Advertiser cannot really be described as a journalistic endeavor, although it takes the form of a weekly newspaper. The flamboyant editor is prone to emotional screeds full of character assassination and guilt by association and implication. I was not hopeful that the story would be remotely accurate.
But, it was submitted by the same Humboldt County reporter who did the good summary referenced earlier. It named both of us and described what I had said to the investigator almost verbatim. Hmmm. Well, I wasn't too worried. Yet.
Finally! Someone wants my side of the story
The ADA had told me I might be contacted by one or both sides of the case about my relationship with the Red Giant. Arriving back at my desk from a home visit, I found a voice mail from an investigator at the DA's office. I had liked him when he testified, and I happily called him back.
We went over all the basics -- I had indeed lived with the reporter in question, but had moved out of our shared space in January of '09. We are not and have not been married. I did not discuss the case with him while I was a juror. I told him how relieved I was that I could tell my side of the story, and put an end to the rumors. We joked that before the defense was done telling the story, I was sure to have been blogging from the jury box.
When I hung up, the co-worker in the neighboring cubicle "prairie-dogged" over the partition and said, "THAT sounded like an interesting phone call!" I filled him in.
We went over all the basics -- I had indeed lived with the reporter in question, but had moved out of our shared space in January of '09. We are not and have not been married. I did not discuss the case with him while I was a juror. I told him how relieved I was that I could tell my side of the story, and put an end to the rumors. We joked that before the defense was done telling the story, I was sure to have been blogging from the jury box.
When I hung up, the co-worker in the neighboring cubicle "prairie-dogged" over the partition and said, "THAT sounded like an interesting phone call!" I filled him in.
A naïf shows up for sentencing: “Why are you here?”
Thinking I would simply set the record straight about not being married to a journalist, I felt kind of good being back at the courthouse. On a restroom visit, I noted that the courthouse had the same leaking soap dispenser as other county bathrooms, with the same garbage can underneath it to catch the drips.
“L” and I had a great wide-ranging conversation of the way over, and she suggested we let the DA’s office know we were there. I thought the right room was on the second floor, but I followed “L” up to the fourth, where we entered the District Attorney's Office of Victim/Witness Services. “L” told the receptionist why we were there, and we were asked to wait. A moment later the victim/witness worker appeared and asked us to wait in the hall. We sat there for 10 minutes or so, then she came back and said, “Why are you here?” Her tone was icy and perplexed. I felt myself wither. I have worked with her in cases involving some of my clients and have found her unfailingly warm and supportive. I was in the middle of some kind of faux pas, I decided.
“I thought I would be able to tell the court that I’m not married to a journalist. All this is happening because of a falsehood.”
She looked perplexed. “Sit right here,” she said. “I’ll let the ADA know you’re here and see what he says.”
Another long 15 minutes, during which Alan Simon and his supporters passed by several times, then disappeared down the stairs. I heard Alan say to someone on the steps, “Ahh, it’s something about one of the jurors. He was SUPPOSED to be sentenced today, but defense is moving for a mistrial.” Oh. Crap.
Finally the victim/witness worker reappeared, accompanied by a public defender, the very one that Richard Peacock had rejected. “I’m here to tell you about your rights,” the attorney said, and my stomach did another swoop of panic. This was bizarre.
Any juror, she told me, once they’re dismissed, is a private citizen, with the right to refuse to discuss the case with anyone who asks.
But I wanted to set the record straight.
Attorney and victim/witness worker exchanged glances. Victim/witness worker said, “Well, you have the right to be in the courtroom as a private citizen. We could get a couple of extra bailiffs to be between you and the gallery.” Huh?
Slowly, as if she were a teacher in a special-needs class, the attorney said, “This is a very emotional case. If you go into the courtroom, you may be exposed to hostility from the defendant and his family, and also, truthfully, from the people of Westport. They were hoping to see a sentence passed today.”
I felt about 2 inches tall. It seemed at once so unfair that I couldn’t just say my piece, and also so humiliating that I had not thought of all this before I came. Of course she had had me wait in the hall – she had had Alan Simon in her office, probably going off about how disappointed he was that there was a jury mess-up and his assailant was not going to be sentenced today.
As I sat there nonplussed, trying to sort out my emotions and decide what to do, the attorney excused herself, and the victim/witness support worker said, “Think of it as a chess game. This is just one more move.” With that, I decided to drive back home with “L” without going into the courtroom. I realized that I was holding on too tightly to the outcome. Tough as it was, I needed to let it go.
“L” and I had a great wide-ranging conversation of the way over, and she suggested we let the DA’s office know we were there. I thought the right room was on the second floor, but I followed “L” up to the fourth, where we entered the District Attorney's Office of Victim/Witness Services. “L” told the receptionist why we were there, and we were asked to wait. A moment later the victim/witness worker appeared and asked us to wait in the hall. We sat there for 10 minutes or so, then she came back and said, “Why are you here?” Her tone was icy and perplexed. I felt myself wither. I have worked with her in cases involving some of my clients and have found her unfailingly warm and supportive. I was in the middle of some kind of faux pas, I decided.
“I thought I would be able to tell the court that I’m not married to a journalist. All this is happening because of a falsehood.”
She looked perplexed. “Sit right here,” she said. “I’ll let the ADA know you’re here and see what he says.”
Another long 15 minutes, during which Alan Simon and his supporters passed by several times, then disappeared down the stairs. I heard Alan say to someone on the steps, “Ahh, it’s something about one of the jurors. He was SUPPOSED to be sentenced today, but defense is moving for a mistrial.” Oh. Crap.
Finally the victim/witness worker reappeared, accompanied by a public defender, the very one that Richard Peacock had rejected. “I’m here to tell you about your rights,” the attorney said, and my stomach did another swoop of panic. This was bizarre.
Any juror, she told me, once they’re dismissed, is a private citizen, with the right to refuse to discuss the case with anyone who asks.
But I wanted to set the record straight.
Attorney and victim/witness worker exchanged glances. Victim/witness worker said, “Well, you have the right to be in the courtroom as a private citizen. We could get a couple of extra bailiffs to be between you and the gallery.” Huh?
Slowly, as if she were a teacher in a special-needs class, the attorney said, “This is a very emotional case. If you go into the courtroom, you may be exposed to hostility from the defendant and his family, and also, truthfully, from the people of Westport. They were hoping to see a sentence passed today.”
I felt about 2 inches tall. It seemed at once so unfair that I couldn’t just say my piece, and also so humiliating that I had not thought of all this before I came. Of course she had had me wait in the hall – she had had Alan Simon in her office, probably going off about how disappointed he was that there was a jury mess-up and his assailant was not going to be sentenced today.
As I sat there nonplussed, trying to sort out my emotions and decide what to do, the attorney excused herself, and the victim/witness support worker said, “Think of it as a chess game. This is just one more move.” With that, I decided to drive back home with “L” without going into the courtroom. I realized that I was holding on too tightly to the outcome. Tough as it was, I needed to let it go.
Aftermath, part 1
The evening of the verdict I got this email from the Red Giant (Kate is his editor. He had started to write about the verdict.):
-----------------------------------------
From: Red Giant
To: "Susan Fernbach"
I think this has something to do with why Kate didn't want me to do the story
---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: David Markham
Date: Mon, Jul 27, 2009 at 5:24 PM
Subject: RE: Reporter with question about kenny rogers trial
To: Frank Hartzell
Mr. Hartzell,
I recently learned your wife was on the jury in this case. I would be interested in speaking to her if she is willing. I am always interested in getting feedback from jurors in any case I try. Please let me know if she would be interested in speaking to me.
Thank you,
David Markham
--------------------------------
Who the hell had dropped that bit of inaccurate info?
My stomach took a downward swoop, and over the next days I spent hours googling “juror misconduct,” just in case the questionnaires were released as the defense was requesting, and my parsing got me in trouble. I read about jurors cited for contempt and verdicts thrown out, and I was near puking from anxiety. All that work. All our dedication. Potentially wasted due to my clever word games, my love of hair-splitting, someone's wrong-headed idea of my relationship?
Two days before sentencing was scheduled, feeling really awful, I ran into a fellow juror, “L,” in Safeway and mentioned what was going down. She called the ADA and, I learned later, told him I had not tried to influence any other jurors with whatever knowledge I had of the case from knowing the Red Giant. "L" and I talked on the phone and agreed to go to the sentencing together.
-----------------------------------------
From: Red Giant
To: "Susan Fernbach"
I think this has something to do with why Kate didn't want me to do the story
---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: David Markham
Date: Mon, Jul 27, 2009 at 5:24 PM
Subject: RE: Reporter with question about kenny rogers trial
To: Frank Hartzell
Mr. Hartzell,
I recently learned your wife was on the jury in this case. I would be interested in speaking to her if she is willing. I am always interested in getting feedback from jurors in any case I try. Please let me know if she would be interested in speaking to me.
Thank you,
David Markham
--------------------------------
Who the hell had dropped that bit of inaccurate info?
My stomach took a downward swoop, and over the next days I spent hours googling “juror misconduct,” just in case the questionnaires were released as the defense was requesting, and my parsing got me in trouble. I read about jurors cited for contempt and verdicts thrown out, and I was near puking from anxiety. All that work. All our dedication. Potentially wasted due to my clever word games, my love of hair-splitting, someone's wrong-headed idea of my relationship?
Two days before sentencing was scheduled, feeling really awful, I ran into a fellow juror, “L,” in Safeway and mentioned what was going down. She called the ADA and, I learned later, told him I had not tried to influence any other jurors with whatever knowledge I had of the case from knowing the Red Giant. "L" and I talked on the phone and agreed to go to the sentencing together.
A special kind of meaning
In being on the jury, I felt like I was doing something that, in addition to completely absorbing my attention, would ultimately "make a difference." This is in frequent contrast to my county job.
Example: A homeless alcoholic man, classified as a dependent adult due to alcoholic dementia, fell into my ongoing caseload. He was hospitalized with maggots in his feet. After discharge he was prescribed whirlpool sessions to help his feet heal, so I was tasked with driving him to the physical therapy department of the local hospital. While I had no quarrel with this assignment - he's a pleasant enough guy - I had no illusions that my time and effort would result in any major change in his life. He's still a homeless drunk, but his feet are healing.
The polar opposite was true of the trial.
Example: A homeless alcoholic man, classified as a dependent adult due to alcoholic dementia, fell into my ongoing caseload. He was hospitalized with maggots in his feet. After discharge he was prescribed whirlpool sessions to help his feet heal, so I was tasked with driving him to the physical therapy department of the local hospital. While I had no quarrel with this assignment - he's a pleasant enough guy - I had no illusions that my time and effort would result in any major change in his life. He's still a homeless drunk, but his feet are healing.
The polar opposite was true of the trial.
Deliberations, day 3, and the verdict
The two jurors who had more than reasonable doubts about proof of the defendant’s guilt had their questions answered by a reading of Michael Peacock’s testimony, oddly more revelatory in the read-back without his meth-fed mannerisms.
Before we adjourned to lunch before our final appearance in court, I told my fellow jurors how much I appreciated the fact that all of us were taking this with the same degree of seriousness, no one was hurrying us to a verdict so we could be dismissed, and no one took the task lightly, even though it inconvenienced all of us daily. It was, I told them, a welcome antidote for the river of sleaze we’d been swimming in for the past 3 weeks. We all agreed we were the kind of jury we’d want for ourselves or a loved one.
At lunch four of us compared reactions over the past 3 weeks. We all found we needed as much beauty and harmony as we could pack in, in order to compensate for all the darkness we’d seen and heard about. The drive to the coast provided that for 2 of us, and a third mentioned how much her garden meant to her now. We all marveled at how, with no real structure or instructions on HOW to do it, we had become a working jury with minimal conflict, and we had come up with a verdict.
After lunch we filed back into the courtroom for the last time. In the gallery, the defendant’s wife and sons held hands and prayed. It struck me that it was too late for that – their prayers should have been said at the time there was a choice about which actions to take. Again, I was reminded of the deity to whom I myself pray, and how incongruous some of my supplications must seem – too little, too late. The defendant himself sat with his head bowed and hands folded. When the foreperson read our verdict, guilty, and the judge asked each of us if that was our verdict, the defendant dropped his head to the table, then looked at us and mouthed, “I didn’t do this.”
The judge thanked us, and we were dismissed. The ADA attempted to shake our hands, something I felt uncomfortable with. We ran a gauntlet of defense team members handing out business cards and asking us to call them to discuss the trial. The youngest juror spoke for all of us when she said, “I just spent 3 weeks of my life on this, I doubt I’ll be talking to you.”
Walking into the hallway a private citizen, I felt like a hot-air balloon that had lost its tether – weightless, suddenly free but not sure which way the wind might take me. I wandered down to see the jury coordinator and get a document saying I really was there all that time. I thanked her for helping us through this experience with such humor and grace. She said we did the right thing, because “There was a lot you didn’t hear.” I told her the experience had been amazing, life-changing really. She smiled as though she heard that a lot.
Sentencing was set for August 14, a Friday.
Before we adjourned to lunch before our final appearance in court, I told my fellow jurors how much I appreciated the fact that all of us were taking this with the same degree of seriousness, no one was hurrying us to a verdict so we could be dismissed, and no one took the task lightly, even though it inconvenienced all of us daily. It was, I told them, a welcome antidote for the river of sleaze we’d been swimming in for the past 3 weeks. We all agreed we were the kind of jury we’d want for ourselves or a loved one.
At lunch four of us compared reactions over the past 3 weeks. We all found we needed as much beauty and harmony as we could pack in, in order to compensate for all the darkness we’d seen and heard about. The drive to the coast provided that for 2 of us, and a third mentioned how much her garden meant to her now. We all marveled at how, with no real structure or instructions on HOW to do it, we had become a working jury with minimal conflict, and we had come up with a verdict.
After lunch we filed back into the courtroom for the last time. In the gallery, the defendant’s wife and sons held hands and prayed. It struck me that it was too late for that – their prayers should have been said at the time there was a choice about which actions to take. Again, I was reminded of the deity to whom I myself pray, and how incongruous some of my supplications must seem – too little, too late. The defendant himself sat with his head bowed and hands folded. When the foreperson read our verdict, guilty, and the judge asked each of us if that was our verdict, the defendant dropped his head to the table, then looked at us and mouthed, “I didn’t do this.”
The judge thanked us, and we were dismissed. The ADA attempted to shake our hands, something I felt uncomfortable with. We ran a gauntlet of defense team members handing out business cards and asking us to call them to discuss the trial. The youngest juror spoke for all of us when she said, “I just spent 3 weeks of my life on this, I doubt I’ll be talking to you.”
Walking into the hallway a private citizen, I felt like a hot-air balloon that had lost its tether – weightless, suddenly free but not sure which way the wind might take me. I wandered down to see the jury coordinator and get a document saying I really was there all that time. I thanked her for helping us through this experience with such humor and grace. She said we did the right thing, because “There was a lot you didn’t hear.” I told her the experience had been amazing, life-changing really. She smiled as though she heard that a lot.
Sentencing was set for August 14, a Friday.
Deliberations, day 2
We arrived to a box of 2 dozen Danish from the bailiff assigned to us. “Make it a good day,” said the sticky note on top. Great. Twelve people, high anxiety and 24 Danish. I had been doing pretty well with my newly-diagnosed type-2 diabetes -- I had steered clear of temptation for over a month. This did not bode well for my blood sugar… But, my, were they good.
We had no access to transcripts of the testimony. We could, and did, ask the court reporter to read back sections to us, a task she clearly did not relish. She read extremely fast and seemed to forget what she was actually doing. The identifying “question” and “answer” tags soon got misplaced, and it came out like this:
“Yes. Question.”
“What did you see then? Answer.”
“Nothing. It was dark. Question.”
She reacted impatiently to a request to slow down, and it seemed that hearing the re-reading took more focus than the original testimony.
We asked for the presence of the Big Red Dog, described previously.
When we left, close to 6 pm, we found the lead detective and Alan Simon and several others waiting down the hallway from the jury room. We hurried past them, and left the building. As I waited to cross the street in front of the courthouse, an over-sized pickup was waiting at the light. Mexican music blared from the cab, and a long flowered couch occupied the bed. Looking at the driver and his passenger I thought, “I’ll bet there’s a pretty good chance those folks have not been dealing with issues of life and death all day. Boy, do I envy them.”
We had no access to transcripts of the testimony. We could, and did, ask the court reporter to read back sections to us, a task she clearly did not relish. She read extremely fast and seemed to forget what she was actually doing. The identifying “question” and “answer” tags soon got misplaced, and it came out like this:
“Yes. Question.”
“What did you see then? Answer.”
“Nothing. It was dark. Question.”
She reacted impatiently to a request to slow down, and it seemed that hearing the re-reading took more focus than the original testimony.
We asked for the presence of the Big Red Dog, described previously.
When we left, close to 6 pm, we found the lead detective and Alan Simon and several others waiting down the hallway from the jury room. We hurried past them, and left the building. As I waited to cross the street in front of the courthouse, an over-sized pickup was waiting at the light. Mexican music blared from the cab, and a long flowered couch occupied the bed. Looking at the driver and his passenger I thought, “I’ll bet there’s a pretty good chance those folks have not been dealing with issues of life and death all day. Boy, do I envy them.”
More about deliberations
The first few hours of deliberation were one big spew – We had seen and heard things over the past days that had made big impressions, but we had not been able to talk to each other about them.
We covered a white board with a list of questions, many having to do with the order in which events had occurred. Because the time-line was not actually a piece of evidence, we were not allowed to have it in the deliberations. Soon most questions were answered by other jurors, and we had a whole list of new ones.
But it was time to go home and lie awake feeling the import of the decisions we were making. I felt a great flood of compassion for the defendant and for his family, and yet at the same time I knew that justice demanded that he experience the consequences of his actions. It was a humbling experience, a glimpse of what judges and perhaps even the old-testament deity may have felt in similar circumstances....
We covered a white board with a list of questions, many having to do with the order in which events had occurred. Because the time-line was not actually a piece of evidence, we were not allowed to have it in the deliberations. Soon most questions were answered by other jurors, and we had a whole list of new ones.
But it was time to go home and lie awake feeling the import of the decisions we were making. I felt a great flood of compassion for the defendant and for his family, and yet at the same time I knew that justice demanded that he experience the consequences of his actions. It was a humbling experience, a glimpse of what judges and perhaps even the old-testament deity may have felt in similar circumstances....
Sunday, November 01, 2009
Instructions and beginning deliberations
On Monday of the third week, the judge told us we would begin deliberate on Tuesday. Closing arguments that day included one more run-through of the time line the ADA had so carefully constructed, and a PowerPoint presentation by the defense attorney, delivered in the same half-bored manner as much of his questioning.
In his instructions, the judge reminded us to render a verdict without regard to possible penalties. He reminded us that we did not have to find guilt or innocence beyond a shadow of a doubt, only beyond a reasonable doubt. He again told us not to read or watch or listen to news reports on the case, and not to discuss the case with anyone.
We left the courtroom one more time, said good-bye to the alternates we'd spent each day with, and went up to the fourth-floor jury room. It had the disused look of a temporary storage room. Most cases in our county don't go to a jury trial -- they are settled out of court by various means -- and now the room showed that. A jumble of audio and video equipment filled one corner, backed by stacks of extra chairs and a few bookshelves. We sat down at the long conference table and began to talk for the first time in two and a half weeks about all we'd seen and heard. There was very little structure that first afternoon -- we were too full of images and impressions we had not been able to share with anyone. We did elect a foreperson, a pleasant, low-key middle-aged man who favored Hawaiian shirts, who turned out to have just the right combination of tact and organization to keep us on track and make sure everyone had their questions addressed. The youngest member of the jury had volunteered to be foreperson, but another member pointed out that the discussions we would be having called for "a bit of maturity."
In his instructions, the judge reminded us to render a verdict without regard to possible penalties. He reminded us that we did not have to find guilt or innocence beyond a shadow of a doubt, only beyond a reasonable doubt. He again told us not to read or watch or listen to news reports on the case, and not to discuss the case with anyone.
We left the courtroom one more time, said good-bye to the alternates we'd spent each day with, and went up to the fourth-floor jury room. It had the disused look of a temporary storage room. Most cases in our county don't go to a jury trial -- they are settled out of court by various means -- and now the room showed that. A jumble of audio and video equipment filled one corner, backed by stacks of extra chairs and a few bookshelves. We sat down at the long conference table and began to talk for the first time in two and a half weeks about all we'd seen and heard. There was very little structure that first afternoon -- we were too full of images and impressions we had not been able to share with anyone. We did elect a foreperson, a pleasant, low-key middle-aged man who favored Hawaiian shirts, who turned out to have just the right combination of tact and organization to keep us on track and make sure everyone had their questions addressed. The youngest member of the jury had volunteered to be foreperson, but another member pointed out that the discussions we would be having called for "a bit of maturity."
Things get old
By the end of the second week, I wanted my life to go back to normal. As fascinating as the court procedure and its poetry were, I missed my co-workers, I hated the hot weather, the hour-and-a-half one-way drive was getting to me, the river of sleaze we were bathing in was making me sick, and I was tired of it all. I drove home on Thursday glad for the weekend.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
The 911 Call
We read along from copies of the transcript as the tape was played.
"911. What’s your emergency?"
Then Alan Simon's voice explaining that someone had been pounding on his door, very aggressive, yelling something about Kathy.
The operator asking him his address and whether the person was still there.
The sound of Alan opening his front door, saying something, then the "pop," Alan cursing in surprise, the door slamming, then the rapid "pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop."
Alan’s shocked voice saying, "He SHOT me"" The operator inquiring as to his injuries, asking if the man was still there.
Alan asking where the sheriffs were, couldn't they please hurry, maybe call the Westport fire department and get them to turn the fire siren on to scare the shooter away, just in case he was still there.
Her patient voice explaining it would take at least 20 minutes for the sheriffs to get from Fort Bragg to Westport, that the Westport fire department couldn't come yet because it might not be safe – the shooter might still be in the area.
The call lasted probably 15 minutes, ending when a sheriff arrived at the door and identified himself and the operator verified that it was indeed a sheriff, and not the shooter.
There was something visceral about Alan's shock, and about hearing first the adrenaline in his voice and then hearing his speech slow down as the jolt began to wear off.
Everyone on the jury agreed, the operator had done a wonderful job calming him down and staying with him, although he still must have felt very alone. Not a job any of us wanted, we all said.
"911. What’s your emergency?"
Then Alan Simon's voice explaining that someone had been pounding on his door, very aggressive, yelling something about Kathy.
The operator asking him his address and whether the person was still there.
The sound of Alan opening his front door, saying something, then the "pop," Alan cursing in surprise, the door slamming, then the rapid "pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop."
Alan’s shocked voice saying, "He SHOT me"" The operator inquiring as to his injuries, asking if the man was still there.
Alan asking where the sheriffs were, couldn't they please hurry, maybe call the Westport fire department and get them to turn the fire siren on to scare the shooter away, just in case he was still there.
Her patient voice explaining it would take at least 20 minutes for the sheriffs to get from Fort Bragg to Westport, that the Westport fire department couldn't come yet because it might not be safe – the shooter might still be in the area.
The call lasted probably 15 minutes, ending when a sheriff arrived at the door and identified himself and the operator verified that it was indeed a sheriff, and not the shooter.
There was something visceral about Alan's shock, and about hearing first the adrenaline in his voice and then hearing his speech slow down as the jolt began to wear off.
Everyone on the jury agreed, the operator had done a wonderful job calming him down and staying with him, although he still must have felt very alone. Not a job any of us wanted, we all said.
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
The Red Dog
During his trial for the shooting of Alan Simon, Richard Peacock got an anonymous note at the jail. It said in part, "I will get the Red Dog to your kid." Richard Peacock burst out in open court with "Red Dog is a gun! They're gonna kill my daughter!" The prosecution's contention was that Richard Peacock was correct. The defense of course had something else in mind.
On about the third day of the trial, we entered the courtroom to face a 5-foot stuffed replica of Clifford the Big Red Dog. I knew things were about to get very interesting.
The defendant's wife testified that day that Kenny Rogers had won the big toy at Great America by climbing a rope ladder. The dog had spent some time with other prizes he'd won -- a unicorn and an octopus -- in their kids' bedrooms, in a storage space and in the office of their Sacramento auto body shop. She testified that because she had "fallen in love with" Richard Peacock's baby daughter, she and her husband had talked over the years about giving her the Red Dog. (This was the same daughter, it turned out, who was present at Kenny Rogers' property during pot harvest season.)
So, the Red Dog was either a gun with a red handle that had a dog logo on it (prosecution) or a giant stuffed animal (defense). The Red Dog took up residence in the jury deliberation room, the goofy tongue-out grin presiding as the twelve of us discussed. In some ways it was inconsistencies about the giant dog that decided the case. Here is some of what was said:
"That's not just any red dog, that's Clifford. Anyone who has a kid at home would call this thing 'Clifford.'"
"If this was in a kid's room for any length of time, it wouldn't look this clean."
"It sells musty, like it's been in storage longer than they said."
"If it had been stored in an auto detailing shop, even in the office, it would have grime and dust on it."
To us it was unlikely that the Red Dog was this toy.
On about the third day of the trial, we entered the courtroom to face a 5-foot stuffed replica of Clifford the Big Red Dog. I knew things were about to get very interesting.
The defendant's wife testified that day that Kenny Rogers had won the big toy at Great America by climbing a rope ladder. The dog had spent some time with other prizes he'd won -- a unicorn and an octopus -- in their kids' bedrooms, in a storage space and in the office of their Sacramento auto body shop. She testified that because she had "fallen in love with" Richard Peacock's baby daughter, she and her husband had talked over the years about giving her the Red Dog. (This was the same daughter, it turned out, who was present at Kenny Rogers' property during pot harvest season.)
So, the Red Dog was either a gun with a red handle that had a dog logo on it (prosecution) or a giant stuffed animal (defense). The Red Dog took up residence in the jury deliberation room, the goofy tongue-out grin presiding as the twelve of us discussed. In some ways it was inconsistencies about the giant dog that decided the case. Here is some of what was said:
"That's not just any red dog, that's Clifford. Anyone who has a kid at home would call this thing 'Clifford.'"
"If this was in a kid's room for any length of time, it wouldn't look this clean."
"It sells musty, like it's been in storage longer than they said."
"If it had been stored in an auto detailing shop, even in the office, it would have grime and dust on it."
To us it was unlikely that the Red Dog was this toy.
Reluctant witness: The shooter's brother
A witness for the prosecution, Michael Peacock had been granted immunity in exchange for his testimony. Thin and jumpy, he looked like he could have used a shower.
From the moment he took the stand, I felt like Mr. Spock in the old Star Trek episode when he mind-melded with a rock (which was actually a sentient being) and when his hand touched it he wailed, "Pain!" This man was frightened, he spoke in many unique phrases, and he seem accustomed to being trapped:
"Is this the car owned by your brother's girlfriend?"
"I'm not for sure she owns it. She was driving it, but whether it's her car or not I can't say."
"Did you testify on Friday that you saw your brother on the day before the shooting, and that he told you he was bringing a gun to Westport, just in case?"
By the end of the long complex questions the ADA asked, Michael Peacock forgot what the question was and vamped with a bunch of filler: "I'm not for sure, uh, that is, it might have happened that way, but I don't recall exactly."
The prosecutor began to get impatient, raising his voice and repeating the questions with exactly the same confusing clauses.
Defense attorney: "How did you feel when Kenny kicked you off his property?"
Michael Peacock: "I felt unjusted by the whole thing."
ADA: "What was the relationship of your brother and Miss ___ ?"
Michael Peacock: "I'm not for sure what you mean?"
ADA: "What was Miss ____ to him?"
Michael Peacock: "One night stand."
Although I can't recall the context now, a phrase he used many times was "That's a horse of a different color." During deliberations, we had many examples of "on the one hand, on the other hand," and several times a few of us said in unison, "Now that's a horse of a different color!"
About six weeks after the verdict, Michael Peacock was found dead in this Placer County travel trailer. Homicide is suspected.
From the moment he took the stand, I felt like Mr. Spock in the old Star Trek episode when he mind-melded with a rock (which was actually a sentient being) and when his hand touched it he wailed, "Pain!" This man was frightened, he spoke in many unique phrases, and he seem accustomed to being trapped:
"Is this the car owned by your brother's girlfriend?"
"I'm not for sure she owns it. She was driving it, but whether it's her car or not I can't say."
"Did you testify on Friday that you saw your brother on the day before the shooting, and that he told you he was bringing a gun to Westport, just in case?"
By the end of the long complex questions the ADA asked, Michael Peacock forgot what the question was and vamped with a bunch of filler: "I'm not for sure, uh, that is, it might have happened that way, but I don't recall exactly."
The prosecutor began to get impatient, raising his voice and repeating the questions with exactly the same confusing clauses.
Defense attorney: "How did you feel when Kenny kicked you off his property?"
Michael Peacock: "I felt unjusted by the whole thing."
ADA: "What was the relationship of your brother and Miss ___ ?"
Michael Peacock: "I'm not for sure what you mean?"
ADA: "What was Miss ____ to him?"
Michael Peacock: "One night stand."
Although I can't recall the context now, a phrase he used many times was "That's a horse of a different color." During deliberations, we had many examples of "on the one hand, on the other hand," and several times a few of us said in unison, "Now that's a horse of a different color!"
About six weeks after the verdict, Michael Peacock was found dead in this Placer County travel trailer. Homicide is suspected.
The 3-hour "45-minute break"
I felt exhausted from paying such close attention -- every detail seemed vital because I couldn't tell what would be important in the long run.
Each piece of evidence followed a similar pattern. "Do you recognize this?"
("Yes.")
"What is it?"
("Front door, Ruger, shell casings, bullet fragments.")
"How did you first encounter this piece of evidence?"
("Night of the shooting, processed it according to protocol.")
Glacially, the narrative crept along, slowly, gradually building into a coherent story.
Several times the jury was "excused" (read: invited to leave the courtroom) while legal maneuverings were carried out. The most memorable of these was when the shooter himself was called to testify.
Already convicted and serving a sentence of 70 years to life, Richard Peacock (all the "Clue" jokes have already been made) was wheeled into the courtroom handcuffed and shackled to a wheelchair. He wore an orange jumpsuit with a black-and-white striped vest over it. He looked many pounds more gaunt than the man in the photo glaring balefully from the back of a sheriff's car.
He nodded to the jury. "Hiya. How's it going?" As the lawyers conferred with the judge, the bailiff unlocked one cuff and applied a band-aid to a bloody scrape on Mr. Peacock's wrist.
Conference finished, the shooter was sworn in and declared that he wanted an attorney and an hour to meet with him so as not to do or say anything to jeopardize his appeal. A female public defender's name was read out, and Mr. Peacock went ballistic. "Nah, nah, nah, nah!" he bellowed. "I wouldn't take that broad for all the tea in China!"
The judge told him to keep a civil tone, and then said to us, "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we'll need to conclude some legal business, so take a 45-minute break."
That break stretched to three hours, and the only other time I saw Richard Peacock was when he was being wheeled into the elevator by a deputy. He was laughing and cheerful.
That night on Yahoo! News I saw a local headline, "Alleged Mendocino Hit Man Refuses to Testify." I recalled the judge's daily admonitions about avoiding media coverage of the trial, and I forced myself not to read the article.
Each piece of evidence followed a similar pattern. "Do you recognize this?"
("Yes.")
"What is it?"
("Front door, Ruger, shell casings, bullet fragments.")
"How did you first encounter this piece of evidence?"
("Night of the shooting, processed it according to protocol.")
Glacially, the narrative crept along, slowly, gradually building into a coherent story.
Several times the jury was "excused" (read: invited to leave the courtroom) while legal maneuverings were carried out. The most memorable of these was when the shooter himself was called to testify.
Already convicted and serving a sentence of 70 years to life, Richard Peacock (all the "Clue" jokes have already been made) was wheeled into the courtroom handcuffed and shackled to a wheelchair. He wore an orange jumpsuit with a black-and-white striped vest over it. He looked many pounds more gaunt than the man in the photo glaring balefully from the back of a sheriff's car.
He nodded to the jury. "Hiya. How's it going?" As the lawyers conferred with the judge, the bailiff unlocked one cuff and applied a band-aid to a bloody scrape on Mr. Peacock's wrist.
Conference finished, the shooter was sworn in and declared that he wanted an attorney and an hour to meet with him so as not to do or say anything to jeopardize his appeal. A female public defender's name was read out, and Mr. Peacock went ballistic. "Nah, nah, nah, nah!" he bellowed. "I wouldn't take that broad for all the tea in China!"
The judge told him to keep a civil tone, and then said to us, "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we'll need to conclude some legal business, so take a 45-minute break."
That break stretched to three hours, and the only other time I saw Richard Peacock was when he was being wheeled into the elevator by a deputy. He was laughing and cheerful.
That night on Yahoo! News I saw a local headline, "Alleged Mendocino Hit Man Refuses to Testify." I recalled the judge's daily admonitions about avoiding media coverage of the trial, and I forced myself not to read the article.
Three generations in the courtroom
For several days I saw an elderly couple in the front row of the gallery. The woman listened to the proceedings with an audio-enhancing device provided by the court. The man wore the scowl of bewilderment I have seen on many old faces. These were the parents of the defendant. Like his son, the father was lean and probably extremely handsome in his younger days. Now he looked tired and pugnacious, sported the same sneer at times, a certain curl of the lip.
Watching that couple and the two young men sitting with the defendant's wife, I thought about how families' philosophies are passed down wordlessly, a strange amalgam of parents' actions and their interpretation by immature minds. I wondered whether Dad had, unwittingly or otherwise, taught the defendant a "might-makes-right" view of the world, and also whether the defendant's two sons had inferred it from their father's behavior.
The majority of jurors said they spent some time sleepless over the effect of the verdict on the defendant's parents.
After we rendered the verdict and had been dismissed, we read in the Santa Rosa Press Democrat an exact answer to my musings about fathers and sons: After we left the courtroom, the defendant's first-born let loose a string of obscenities at the lead detective, the dominant theme being, "You were out to get my dad. If it hadn't been for you - " Another generation learns to lay blame and take no responsibility.
Watching that couple and the two young men sitting with the defendant's wife, I thought about how families' philosophies are passed down wordlessly, a strange amalgam of parents' actions and their interpretation by immature minds. I wondered whether Dad had, unwittingly or otherwise, taught the defendant a "might-makes-right" view of the world, and also whether the defendant's two sons had inferred it from their father's behavior.
The majority of jurors said they spent some time sleepless over the effect of the verdict on the defendant's parents.
After we rendered the verdict and had been dismissed, we read in the Santa Rosa Press Democrat an exact answer to my musings about fathers and sons: After we left the courtroom, the defendant's first-born let loose a string of obscenities at the lead detective, the dominant theme being, "You were out to get my dad. If it hadn't been for you - " Another generation learns to lay blame and take no responsibility.
"Jury will disregard"
We heard from Alan Simon, the man whose front door, bookshelf, scalp and wrist had felt the effects of 9 nine-millimeter bullets.
At one point the DA apologized for a delay springing from technical issues with an overhead projector. "No problem," said Alan. "I've waited 4 years, what's another 10 minutes?"
He described how the defendant had come to his home and asked Alan to remove his name from the recall petition. Alan refused.
"What happened then?" asked the DA.
"You want to know what happened next?" Pause. He looked genuinely uncomfortable, took a deep breath.
"Mr. Rogers said, 'Do you want a nigger running this town? Do you want this town run by VB, who's sucked the c***k of every man up and down the coast?'"
Defense counsel, in a bored voice, said, "Objection. Hearsay."
Judge: "Sustained. Jury will disregard."
DA: "Tell the jury what happened after that."
Simon: "I said to him, 'You don't know how I was raised. You don't know what I believe. It's not what you believe. Now get out of my house.'"
I admit I've never understood how exactly a jury manages to disregard something they've already heard, and it didn't get any clearer for me in this case. Alan Simon's words stuck with me, wormed their way into my psyche. The contrast between the defendant's cordial courtroom demeanor and that reported spew of racism and misogyny shook me to my core. I admit it stayed in my consciousness as we deliberated. A few other jurors said the same thing. Later I came back to Alan Simon's testimony as a confirmation that we had made the right call.
(My recollection of this exchange is different from that of the reporter in the summary here. The reporter recalls that the defense counsel was questioning Alan Simon when he told of the racist and sexist comments. I remember it as the ADA doing the questioning.)
At one point the DA apologized for a delay springing from technical issues with an overhead projector. "No problem," said Alan. "I've waited 4 years, what's another 10 minutes?"
He described how the defendant had come to his home and asked Alan to remove his name from the recall petition. Alan refused.
"What happened then?" asked the DA.
"You want to know what happened next?" Pause. He looked genuinely uncomfortable, took a deep breath.
"Mr. Rogers said, 'Do you want a nigger running this town? Do you want this town run by VB, who's sucked the c***k of every man up and down the coast?'"
Defense counsel, in a bored voice, said, "Objection. Hearsay."
Judge: "Sustained. Jury will disregard."
DA: "Tell the jury what happened after that."
Simon: "I said to him, 'You don't know how I was raised. You don't know what I believe. It's not what you believe. Now get out of my house.'"
I admit I've never understood how exactly a jury manages to disregard something they've already heard, and it didn't get any clearer for me in this case. Alan Simon's words stuck with me, wormed their way into my psyche. The contrast between the defendant's cordial courtroom demeanor and that reported spew of racism and misogyny shook me to my core. I admit it stayed in my consciousness as we deliberated. A few other jurors said the same thing. Later I came back to Alan Simon's testimony as a confirmation that we had made the right call.
(My recollection of this exchange is different from that of the reporter in the summary here. The reporter recalls that the defense counsel was questioning Alan Simon when he told of the racist and sexist comments. I remember it as the ADA doing the questioning.)
So, what exactly is "a piece of junk"?
They passed around the 9mm Ruger that was used in the shooting. Each of us got to heft and inspect it through the saran wrap as it nestled in its cardboard bed. It was shiny and seemingly well-cared-for. So it surprised me to hear three witnesses refer to it as "a piece of junk."
One described staying in a trailer on the defendant's property and being wakened from a sound sleep with the muzzle of that gun in his face. "He didn't like my snoring, told me to sleep outside. So I went and slept in the bushes that night."
"Describe the gun."
"It was a piece of junk, that one there."
I figured he was just saying what the prosecution wanted, and it was a different gun he'd seen. But a tall sad-faced man in prison orange, a defense witness serving time for felony drunk driving, referred to the gun the same way, and so did Michael Peacock.
It wasn't until we were deliberating that a young buzz-cut Mexican-American man, "C," said, "I'd call it piece of junk too."
Middle-aged and illiterate in firearms, the majority of us hung on his words. "Why is a piece of junk?"
"It's old," he replied. "What is it, 1980s or something? It's heavy, and the barrel is long. Now they make 'em this big" (he spread the fingers of one hand to demonstrate) "and way lighter. Yep, definitely a piece of junk."
One described staying in a trailer on the defendant's property and being wakened from a sound sleep with the muzzle of that gun in his face. "He didn't like my snoring, told me to sleep outside. So I went and slept in the bushes that night."
"Describe the gun."
"It was a piece of junk, that one there."
I figured he was just saying what the prosecution wanted, and it was a different gun he'd seen. But a tall sad-faced man in prison orange, a defense witness serving time for felony drunk driving, referred to the gun the same way, and so did Michael Peacock.
It wasn't until we were deliberating that a young buzz-cut Mexican-American man, "C," said, "I'd call it piece of junk too."
Middle-aged and illiterate in firearms, the majority of us hung on his words. "Why is a piece of junk?"
"It's old," he replied. "What is it, 1980s or something? It's heavy, and the barrel is long. Now they make 'em this big" (he spread the fingers of one hand to demonstrate) "and way lighter. Yep, definitely a piece of junk."
The front door
They brought the front door of the shooting victim's house into the courtroom. The burly detective and a bailiff lugged it to a spot near the witness stand and leaned it against the wall. Painted a deep purplish-blue, it had a small window in the upper center with a beveled-glass diamond shape surrounded by smoky-looking glass. Nine bullet holes marred the surface -- one at head-level had shattered the viewing glass, the rest formed a downward arc from right to left. The small bullets had pierced the front metal and left inverted pockmarks on the back.
We were impressed.
But what made even more of an impact (pun intended) was the photo and testimony about the shelf of cookbooks - one bullet pierced first the front door, then the side of a wooden bookshelf, then went through several paperbacks and one hardcover and came to rest in a space on the shelf between books. Tiny bullet (9mm), deadly force.
We were impressed.
But what made even more of an impact (pun intended) was the photo and testimony about the shelf of cookbooks - one bullet pierced first the front door, then the side of a wooden bookshelf, then went through several paperbacks and one hardcover and came to rest in a space on the shelf between books. Tiny bullet (9mm), deadly force.
The charges
Kenny Rogers was charged with attempted murder and conspiracy to commit murder.
The ADA took pains to impress upon us that a person could be convicted based on only circumstantial evidence -- it is just as valid as direct evidence -- and also that a defendant has the absolute right not to testify on his own behalf. The defendant, he told us, got into a murderous rage because he felt he had been disrespected, and had arranged with an employee who was also a felon, to kill the person who had humiliated him. The ADA's intro to the whole matter was appropriately dramatic and black-and-white -- the defendant is a bad guy and we should find him guilty. The defense attorney's presentation was perfunctory and delivered in a monotone, the gist being that there were multiple misunderstandings and that we would see that his client was not guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.
Reasonable doubt was a big topic. We heard several times that "beyond a reasonable doubt" is not beyond a shadow of a doubt, or beyond a minor doubt, but doubt that a reasonable person would draw from hearing the facts. I both liked this angle and felt some anxiety about it. Remember, daily the judge reminded us that we were not allowed to discuss anything with other jurors until the deliberation phase, and that we were not to discuss the trial with ANYone -- spouses, friends, religious advisers, therapists -- so my self-doubt and basic insecurity went undiluted for two and a half weeks, long enough for the inner voices to get pretty loud.
The ADA took pains to impress upon us that a person could be convicted based on only circumstantial evidence -- it is just as valid as direct evidence -- and also that a defendant has the absolute right not to testify on his own behalf. The defendant, he told us, got into a murderous rage because he felt he had been disrespected, and had arranged with an employee who was also a felon, to kill the person who had humiliated him. The ADA's intro to the whole matter was appropriately dramatic and black-and-white -- the defendant is a bad guy and we should find him guilty. The defense attorney's presentation was perfunctory and delivered in a monotone, the gist being that there were multiple misunderstandings and that we would see that his client was not guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.
Reasonable doubt was a big topic. We heard several times that "beyond a reasonable doubt" is not beyond a shadow of a doubt, or beyond a minor doubt, but doubt that a reasonable person would draw from hearing the facts. I both liked this angle and felt some anxiety about it. Remember, daily the judge reminded us that we were not allowed to discuss anything with other jurors until the deliberation phase, and that we were not to discuss the trial with ANYone -- spouses, friends, religious advisers, therapists -- so my self-doubt and basic insecurity went undiluted for two and a half weeks, long enough for the inner voices to get pretty loud.
Hyperbole: It's our job
The assistant district attorney painted the events in Westport as an epic encounter between forces of good and evil. It's what Shakespeare plays, soap operas and novels are made of: ambition, pride, perceived humiliation, revenge. The fact that the battle took place in a town of about 300 residents, that several of the main characters were habitual criminals, that one was the head of the rural county's Republican party, are mere details.
Those details also provide some insight into the fickle nature of the American media. When the shooting first happened, in 2005, and the murder-for-hire charges were filed, several news outlets picked it up, including the Associated Press and Reuters, under their "Odd News" heading. Four years later, when he was finally tried and convicted, there was not a word of follow-up. Westport was just the punch line to a big-city media joke.
A good summary of all the drama can be found here.
Those details also provide some insight into the fickle nature of the American media. When the shooting first happened, in 2005, and the murder-for-hire charges were filed, several news outlets picked it up, including the Associated Press and Reuters, under their "Odd News" heading. Four years later, when he was finally tried and convicted, there was not a word of follow-up. Westport was just the punch line to a big-city media joke.
A good summary of all the drama can be found here.
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
The ladies and gentlemen of the jury will be seated
Each time we filed into the courtroom and entered the jury box, everyone stood. The attorneys kept their eyes on their notes or on the floor; the lead detective was always smiling, like this was something he really enjoyed; and the defendant smiled and looked each of us in the eye, greeting whoever would meet his gaze. As one of the jurors put it, "It's like he's welcoming us to his backyard barbecue!"
I recalled something I'd read (or seen on a crime drama) that members of a jury would not look at a defendant if they were inclined to find him guilty. Perhaps this was some sort of reverse psychology -- "If they look me in the eye, they won't convict me."
Filing into the jury box ended up an elaborate dance. We were assigned to our numbered seats and invariably the people seated at the far ends of the two rows were the last to enter the courtroom, so those of us at the near ends of the rows would lean against the bullet-proof window that separated us from the gallery. Each time I stood there, the thought crossed my mind, "Does this jury box make my butt look big?" For the verdict, I wanted us to file into the jury box in order, so no one had to wait, but others didn't share my enthusiasm for choreography, so we did the daily do-si-do to the end.
I recalled something I'd read (or seen on a crime drama) that members of a jury would not look at a defendant if they were inclined to find him guilty. Perhaps this was some sort of reverse psychology -- "If they look me in the eye, they won't convict me."
Filing into the jury box ended up an elaborate dance. We were assigned to our numbered seats and invariably the people seated at the far ends of the two rows were the last to enter the courtroom, so those of us at the near ends of the rows would lean against the bullet-proof window that separated us from the gallery. Each time I stood there, the thought crossed my mind, "Does this jury box make my butt look big?" For the verdict, I wanted us to file into the jury box in order, so no one had to wait, but others didn't share my enthusiasm for choreography, so we did the daily do-si-do to the end.
Diverse jury, with stairs and trees
We turned out to be quite a diverse jury: Six middle-aged Caucasian women, one Mexican-American man, one pacific islander man, one Fillipina woman, one Asian man, one Caucasian man, and one Latina woman. The alternates were a Latina, and two Caucasians -- a man and a woman.
We noticed immediately that only people who were securely employed (salaried with paid jury leave), unemployed or retired could afford to be on a jury, wondering what that meant for "jury of one's peers." We had diverse employment among us too -- home care worker, printer of wine labels, construction worker, gardener, grocery store cashier, bank publicity expert, stay-at-home mom. In addition, two were retired and two were County workers.
We spent all day together, from about 9 am to 4 pm. We listened to testimony, we heard strange and awful things, and we couldn't talk about any of it with one another until deliberations. This made for some interesting social interactions. I noted that the male jurors clumped together on breaks without saying much of anything.
The two youngest women were smokers who raced outside at every break to get the nicotine flowing and check on partners and children via cell phone.
That left the rest of the women together or in smaller groups, and we found out a lot about each other. "L" had had back surgery 6 months or so ago and was ecstatic to be able to walk up and down stairs, of which there were four flights in the courthouse. "S" was a thin, pale, vocal Christian who wore long-sleeved, high-collared lace blouses in the 90-plus-degree heat. "V" was a consultant in disability and independent living, and was looking to change careers. "M" did gardening for the family of a famous movie director, recently deceased. "F" showed us a cell phone photo of her two-year-old daughter getting her nails done, looking bored.
The first few days of the trial, the weather was kind to us, with clear skies and temperatures in the high 70s and low 80s, soft breezes. The section of Ukiah that the courthouse is in has pleasant shaded streets with a small downtown shopping district -- funky boutiques and a cool bookstore. We non-smokers walked around outside on every break.
As the second week of the trial started, the weather became more characteristic of Ukiah -- temperatures soared into the high 90s and low 100s. Walks outside became almost painful, especially for those of us who, like me, were used to the natural air conditioning of the Coast. So, we counter-acted the sedentary nature of jury duty by developing an indoor circuit of stairs that we traipsed up and down on every break. "Just like a stair master," one of us puffed, "except you end up somewhere else."
On the third floor we could look out at the twin four-story magnolia trees, likely planted when the foundation was laid in the late 1800s. As the weeks passed, and we heard about more and more antisocial behavior, I grew to love those trees.
We noticed immediately that only people who were securely employed (salaried with paid jury leave), unemployed or retired could afford to be on a jury, wondering what that meant for "jury of one's peers." We had diverse employment among us too -- home care worker, printer of wine labels, construction worker, gardener, grocery store cashier, bank publicity expert, stay-at-home mom. In addition, two were retired and two were County workers.
We spent all day together, from about 9 am to 4 pm. We listened to testimony, we heard strange and awful things, and we couldn't talk about any of it with one another until deliberations. This made for some interesting social interactions. I noted that the male jurors clumped together on breaks without saying much of anything.
The two youngest women were smokers who raced outside at every break to get the nicotine flowing and check on partners and children via cell phone.
That left the rest of the women together or in smaller groups, and we found out a lot about each other. "L" had had back surgery 6 months or so ago and was ecstatic to be able to walk up and down stairs, of which there were four flights in the courthouse. "S" was a thin, pale, vocal Christian who wore long-sleeved, high-collared lace blouses in the 90-plus-degree heat. "V" was a consultant in disability and independent living, and was looking to change careers. "M" did gardening for the family of a famous movie director, recently deceased. "F" showed us a cell phone photo of her two-year-old daughter getting her nails done, looking bored.
The first few days of the trial, the weather was kind to us, with clear skies and temperatures in the high 70s and low 80s, soft breezes. The section of Ukiah that the courthouse is in has pleasant shaded streets with a small downtown shopping district -- funky boutiques and a cool bookstore. We non-smokers walked around outside on every break.
As the second week of the trial started, the weather became more characteristic of Ukiah -- temperatures soared into the high 90s and low 100s. Walks outside became almost painful, especially for those of us who, like me, were used to the natural air conditioning of the Coast. So, we counter-acted the sedentary nature of jury duty by developing an indoor circuit of stairs that we traipsed up and down on every break. "Just like a stair master," one of us puffed, "except you end up somewhere else."
On the third floor we could look out at the twin four-story magnolia trees, likely planted when the foundation was laid in the late 1800s. As the weeks passed, and we heard about more and more antisocial behavior, I grew to love those trees.
Thursday, October 01, 2009
Jury Selection: the next phase
The following Sunday evening, I called the jury line as instructed and heard that we were all required to come back on Monday. Oh, well, another day off work.
Once again the jury room was packed, and after waiting about an hour we were all herded into Courtroom B, a place we would get to know well in the next weeks. Eighteen of us were directed to sit in the jury box, and the rest sat in the gallery along the side of the room. I got my first look at the defendant, Kenny Rogers, who was watching each of us carefully. He was wearing what would become a familiar outfit -- khaki pants, a button-down oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up, loafers.
Then the questions began.
Both Tim Stoen, the assistant district attorney, and David Markham, the defense attorney, had copies of our questionnaires in ring binders. Tim Stoen also had a sticky note corresponding to each person in the jury box, arranged, as we were, in two rows of nine. The two men alternated questions. At the end of each round of questions, one of the attorneys could ask for the potential juror to be excused.
One man was asked if his notation on the questionnaire that he "did not feel qualified to judge another human being" meant that he could not be a fair and impartial juror. (He said he could not.) A woman was queried about her family member who worked as a sheriff's deputy. (She said she knew she would be thinking of the situation from a sheriff's point of view.) As a potential juror was excused, Tim Stoen moved his yellow sticky notes around to remind himself who was left. Each time a person was not objected to, the judge asked him or her to move to a certain numbered chair. A fast game of legal musical chairs.
David Markham asked me about my response that I had read the story in our local paper, The Fort Bragg Advocate-News. Had I discussed the story with other people? (Yes, I had, it was an unusual occurrence on the coast, and everyone had talked about it.) Did I recall any facts about the case? (Yes.) Did I feel like I could be a fair and impartial juror? (I believe so, yes.)
The judge asked me to move to seat number eight.
A while later, after some more eliminations and musical chairs, the judge said, "We have a jury." The young woman next to me began a quiet freak-out. She didn't have child-care, her job would only pay for 3 days of jury duty, but she insisted she didn't want to say anything.
We were sworn in.
Once again the jury room was packed, and after waiting about an hour we were all herded into Courtroom B, a place we would get to know well in the next weeks. Eighteen of us were directed to sit in the jury box, and the rest sat in the gallery along the side of the room. I got my first look at the defendant, Kenny Rogers, who was watching each of us carefully. He was wearing what would become a familiar outfit -- khaki pants, a button-down oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up, loafers.
Then the questions began.
Both Tim Stoen, the assistant district attorney, and David Markham, the defense attorney, had copies of our questionnaires in ring binders. Tim Stoen also had a sticky note corresponding to each person in the jury box, arranged, as we were, in two rows of nine. The two men alternated questions. At the end of each round of questions, one of the attorneys could ask for the potential juror to be excused.
One man was asked if his notation on the questionnaire that he "did not feel qualified to judge another human being" meant that he could not be a fair and impartial juror. (He said he could not.) A woman was queried about her family member who worked as a sheriff's deputy. (She said she knew she would be thinking of the situation from a sheriff's point of view.) As a potential juror was excused, Tim Stoen moved his yellow sticky notes around to remind himself who was left. Each time a person was not objected to, the judge asked him or her to move to a certain numbered chair. A fast game of legal musical chairs.
David Markham asked me about my response that I had read the story in our local paper, The Fort Bragg Advocate-News. Had I discussed the story with other people? (Yes, I had, it was an unusual occurrence on the coast, and everyone had talked about it.) Did I recall any facts about the case? (Yes.) Did I feel like I could be a fair and impartial juror? (I believe so, yes.)
The judge asked me to move to seat number eight.
A while later, after some more eliminations and musical chairs, the judge said, "We have a jury." The young woman next to me began a quiet freak-out. She didn't have child-care, her job would only pay for 3 days of jury duty, but she insisted she didn't want to say anything.
We were sworn in.
"You can't be on this jury -- I'm a journalist!"
When the Red Giant finally looked up from his laptop and registered what I told him about the case, his eyes got big. "We talked about that when he got kicked off the water board! You know too much about this case. You can't qualify for this jury, hon."
I shrugged. I rejected out-of-hand that I couldn't be an objective juror because he'd written a story about a raucous water board meeting. Truth is, I hadn't allowed the details to take up permanent residence in my brain. The Red Giant writes a lot of stories, full of technical detail, and I often read them for egregious grammar errors. But I don't retain what I've read. So, I walked, open-hearted, forward into the process.
I shrugged. I rejected out-of-hand that I couldn't be an objective juror because he'd written a story about a raucous water board meeting. Truth is, I hadn't allowed the details to take up permanent residence in my brain. The Red Giant writes a lot of stories, full of technical detail, and I often read them for egregious grammar errors. But I don't retain what I've read. So, I walked, open-hearted, forward into the process.
The jury duty notice
I opened the envelope from the Jury Commissioner and groaned. I was supposed to report to the superior court in the county seat, an hour-and-a half drive away. Oh, well, I thought, all the other times I had called the night before and didn't have to go.
This time was different. I called on Sunday night and heard the recording say, "All groups must report." Oh, well, a day off from work.
There were at least a hundred of us in the jury room. We heard a bare-bones summary of the case, and immediately my interest was piqued. We were handed a 15-page questionnaire to weed out people with obvious biases. The questions were remarkable: What did we like to read? Did we watch crime dramas on TV? Did we know any of a list of about 100 people involved in the case? Did we know anything about the case? If so, where did we learn it?
For some reason, more than anything, I wanted to find out what this process was like, so I wanted to get past the first elimination round. Was anyone in my household involved in the media? This one I admit to parsing. I had lived with a journalist for a few years, and had just moved into my own place in January. There are probably a few lawyers and judges among my ancestors, and I admit to enjoying occasional hair-splitting. This would come back to haunt me.
This time was different. I called on Sunday night and heard the recording say, "All groups must report." Oh, well, a day off from work.
There were at least a hundred of us in the jury room. We heard a bare-bones summary of the case, and immediately my interest was piqued. We were handed a 15-page questionnaire to weed out people with obvious biases. The questions were remarkable: What did we like to read? Did we watch crime dramas on TV? Did we know any of a list of about 100 people involved in the case? Did we know anything about the case? If so, where did we learn it?
For some reason, more than anything, I wanted to find out what this process was like, so I wanted to get past the first elimination round. Was anyone in my household involved in the media? This one I admit to parsing. I had lived with a journalist for a few years, and had just moved into my own place in January. There are probably a few lawyers and judges among my ancestors, and I admit to enjoying occasional hair-splitting. This would come back to haunt me.
Sumary of this summer's trial
Rogers trial summary
The link above provides a really good summary of the trial on which I spent 3 weeks as a juror this summer.
Following posts are my takes on the experience.
The link above provides a really good summary of the trial on which I spent 3 weeks as a juror this summer.
Following posts are my takes on the experience.
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