December 21, 2007
Tainting the jury pool
I drove home from work the other night, enjoying the display of Christmas lights that turned my neighborhood into a sparkling, twinkling Winter wonderland.
Southern California lacks distinct seasons -- something I miss about the East Coast, where the huge changes in the weather helps mark the passage of time. Here in the Southland, it's mainly the visual things, like Christmas lights -- and the songs playing at the local Target -- that tell you whether its Spring, Fall, Winter or Summer.
So, the weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas are when Christian homes go through a metamorphosis, emerging from their Yule-tide cocoons looking like glittering, bejeweled butterflies.
And it makes this Jewish kid from Brooklyn smile, year after year.
Anyhow, as I pulled up to the mailbox, I saw three police cars arrive with great haste, the cops quickly moving in and talking to some people on the sidewalk.
My neighborhood is a quiet one, filled with young families in well-maintained homes, all built within the last few years. It's a low-crime district; stuff like this is unusual.
Curious, I strolled over, still in my formal D.A.-wear, to see what was going on. A shadowy figure had been speaking with two cops, appearing to be very agitated; as I got closer, that person turned and ran to a house down the street. The police then walked 50 feet and joined another cop who was standing with one of my neighbors, a young woman.
I stood on the corner, about 30 feet from the three cops who were speaking with her, my hands in my pockets, unable to hear anything being said. I noticed a fourth cop across the street, talking to a relative of the young woman.
Suddenly, a voice boomed out.
"Can I help you, sir?"
I looked at the group of three cops talking to my neighbor. The tallest of three had barked out the inquiry in hard, command tones, the law enforcement equivalent of a shot across the bow. The "sir" at the end of his question dripped with hostility, suspicion and what sure sounded like contempt.
Surprised by the reaction, I did a mental self-assessment:
Black wing-tips?
Check.
Dark-grey wool suit pants?
Check.
Conservative dress shirt?
Check.
Boring, D.A.-appropriate necktie?
Check.
Dirty clothes, gang attire, threatening behavior or signs of intoxication or drug use?
Uh, no.
"No, thanks," I replied, using a neutral tone of voice. "I just live in the neighborhood and wanted to see what was going on."
The cop stared at me. My cooly-delivered response seemed to piss him off.
"Nothing. That. Concerns. You." he said, in a voice that added the unspoken coda, "So go in your dirty, little house and pound sand, douchebag."
I turned and walked away.
Here's the problem.
I don't give a darn about the fact that he was rude to me; he didn't know me from Adam, had no idea that I'm part of the criminal justice community.
When I first became a deputy district attorney, I received a sage bit of wisdom: when you leave the office, you're surrounded by people who will someday end up in the jury box, trying to decide whether or not they believe the witnesses, evidence and arguments put to them by the attorney standing in the well.
A trial lawyer is always on stage, his behavior in and out of the courtroom affecting his case -- for good or ill.
Encounters like this poison the pool of potential jurors; when cops treat law-abiding members of the community like criminals, the seeds of mistrust are planted.
I -- or any other person -- had a perfect right to stand on the sidewalk and watch the cops at work, so long as I kept my distance and did not try to interfere with their investigation. Remember, I didn't get closer than about eight to ten yards, never said anything to distract.
Had I wanted to, I could have gone back to the house, fetched a camcorder and returned to videotape the goings on.
There is simply no reason for the cops to be rude to the general public, and moments like this serve to make it harder for prosecutors to find jurors who haven't had a negative encounter with the police.
And that's unfortunate, because most cops are great at community relations, unfailingly polite in their encounters with civilians.
All it takes is one jerk to taint the well.
Nice work, officer.
Posted by Mike Lief at December 21, 2007 07:07 AM
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Comments
After he did that, you should have presented your credentials, pulled him aside, and chewed his ass good for that very reason. Every cop I've ever met has, and let me try to put it delicately, had the personality of 20 grit sandpaper.
Posted by: sonarman at December 21, 2007 08:36 AM
It would have been a bad idea to present credentials and chew the guy on the spot.
Satisfying, but wrong.
The way to fix this is to write a polite letter to the chief. You don't have to request an investigation. Just describe the incident with sufficient particularity that even ... Internal Affairs can figure out the names of the officers who responded to the call in your neighborhood.
IA will investigate ALL of them. Even if IA does not discipline the actual culprit, the other officers who had to endure the process will express their disappointment to the jerk who was the cause of their pain.
Or you can settle for venting into the blogosphere, which will be as effective as peeing into the ocean.
Posted by: The Little Coach at December 21, 2007 12:16 PM
TELL IT TO YOUR CASEWORKER
Posted by: DOUG at December 27, 2008 02:31 AM