I trudged off toward 601 Washington Street in Oakland, California, home of the criminal court, clutching my jury notice. Housed for convenience between police headquarters and the jail, the place was like an assembly line in a sausage factory. Cops dragged suspects in at one end, the courts ground them up in the middle, the jailers stored the final product in cells at the other end.

    It was a lovely fall morning. I decided to walk the seven blocks up from Jack London Square, where I live on my boat. I carried the morning’s San Francisco Chronicle and had stuffed a paperback mystery in my pocket. I figured I’d spend the morning reading and then get excused from jury duty. I figured wrong on both counts.

    No sooner had I arrived in the Juror Assembly Room than I was gathered up with sixty others and herded into a courtroom. No old oak paneling and high ceilings for Oakland Muni, as it was known. The petty criminals who stumbled through this place rated a courtroom that could have been designed by the same guy in charge of architecture for Motel 6.

    The bailiff rose, with some difficulty, from his seat. A jolly overstuffed fellow, he looked as if he had been inflated for the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. He announced that reading wouldn’t be allowed. I would be forced to sit for two straight days while a jury of twelve of my peers was laboriously selected.

    What to do? Recite the Rosary over and over in my head? I’m not a Catholic. Perhaps a mantra taken from an ancient Vedic text? A Sufi poem by Rumi? Nothing came to mind. And I don’t do well with nothings. That’s why I never took to meditation.

    I decided on a survival strategy. I would pay attention to the court proceedings. The challenge was to figure out, prior to the opening of the trial, what had happened late one night, some months earlier in an apartment in East Oakland. This became a mystery to solve.

    Tyrone Edwards, the defendant, wore a neat white shirt, open collar, and pressed black slacks. He sat, quiet and respectful, at a table on the left side of the courtroom. A handsome African American with broad shoulders, I guessed him to be in his late twenties.

    His lawyer, Robyn Steiner, had curly blond hair and wore a tailored striped gray pants suit, like they wear on Law And Order. Maria Martinez, an Assistant District Attorney, occupied a small table on the right side of the room. Long, straight, black hair, subdued make-up, black skirt suit, earnest brown eyes.

    Judge Ellen Dower, gray-haired, sculpted cheekbones, must have been pushing seventy. A serious woman, she was determined to educate us, the unwashed, in the ways of the judicial system. Scanning the blank expressions on the faces of the other prospective jurors as she lectured on, I felt a little sorry for her. The public really didn’t give a shit.

    The proceedings began with a reading of the charges by the Court Clerk, a matronly African American woman, whose computer screen saver featured a parade of puppies. Edwards had succeeded in potentially breaking three different laws in the course of a single evening’s activities. The DA claimed he had verbally threatened the unnamed victim, smashed up the furniture in an apartment, and physically abused her. The prosecution planned to call five witnesses, two police officers, a 911 employee, an emergency room doctor, and the victim. The defense would not produce any witnesses.

    The prospective jurors could be divided roughly into two basic types - those determined to get out of jury duty no matter what and those who approached jury selection like a job interview or a test in school. Typical of the first group were people with some rather peculiar physical incapacities.

    "I have this terrible headache," one middle-aged Asian woman said.

    "So take an asprin," Dower responded.

    "Won’t help. It’s stress related. Caused by being on a jury."

    "Maybe it will go away."

    "Not possible, Judge. It’s only going to get worse. I know because I’m a nurse."

    Dismissed.

    "My leg is becoming numb," another lady began. "It’s the jury chair. Hits in the wrong place. Once my leg got so numb from sitting in the wrong kind of chair that I was out of work for six weeks. I still suffer from recurrences."

    A savvy elderly gentleman with a goatee, who sat next to me, whispered, "I can't believe these excuses are working. Last time I was called, I had to postpone surgery because they wouldn't let me off."

    "I see what you mean," I responded. "When they call on me I’ll limp up to the jury box, hold my head, and mutter in Cantonese."

    Asked if they had personally witnessed or experienced domestic violence, at least half of the prospective jurors answered yes. African American, Hispanic, white, Asian, it made no difference. Fathers beat mothers, parents abused children, husbands smacked wives, boyfriends bashed girlfriends, stalkers hounded those who rejected them.

    A thin, frail white woman with an abundance of shoulder-length gray hair took the stand.

    "Is there any reason why you cannot serve on this jury?" Dower asked.

    "No. Yes. I..." she broke into torrents of tears, "can’t...handle it. Personal."

Dismissed.

    So much for family values. We live in one hell of a sick world.

    A picture began to emerge in my head of the events leading up to the trial. It’s not a crime to break up your own furniture. So it was a reasonable assumption that Edwards was at the victim’s home, not his own. Edwards was charged with threatening the victim with "grievous bodily harm." He purportedly smashed up her furniture. He was presumed to have smacked her around. Something sparked a powerful rage in Edwards, an outwardly quiet individual.

    I presumed Edwards to be guilty.

    For two days, however, Judge Dower explained patiently that we must presume the defendant to be innocent unless he is proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. Made sense. That’s the way I would want to be treated if I were a defendant. Can’t go by "feel." Got to go by fact.

    Yes, damn it, Tyrone Edwards deserved no less treatment. I would presume him innocent, if I were chosen as a juror. Unless Miss Martinez proved otherwise. But, I was not yet a juror. As a prospective juror, I intended to exercise my right to be judge and jury all wrapped in one. According to the court of my personal opinion, Tyrone Edwards was presumed to be guilty. I thought I had the matter resolved rather neatly in my head.

    The Court Clerk had been calling the names of jurors in some random fashion. The chaos principle. The body of prospective jurors dwindled until we were less than a dozen. Eleven of the twelve jurors had been decided upon. Then the Clerk called my name.

    "James Wolf."

    I was screwed. The logical construction I had erected in my head crumbled with each step I took towards the jury box.

    "Can you see any reason why you cannot serve on this jury?" Dower asked. She glared at me suggesting she had finally run out of patience with lame excuses.

    "No, Your Honor."

    I had been seized by the "determined to get on the jury" syndrome. Nobody was going to keep me off that damn jury. There was no fairer minded person on earth. No matter. They were running out of candidates. As long as I had one head and a tenth of a brain, I was a shoe-in.

    One last question from the judge. "Do you understand that our jurisprudence system is based on the precept that the defendant is presumed innocent?"

    "Oh, yes. The very foundation of our republic."

    Those words would return to haunt me. I meant them at the time. The only problem was I knew the bastard to be guilty.

* * *

    "Officer Owens and I entered..." Officer Joseph Lombardi said after a few preliminary questions, "Apartment 2b at 4008 MacArthur Boulevard, near the corner of 38^th Avenue on Saturday, August 25^th, at 2:34 AM. We were responding to a 911 call for assistance from a Brione Jones." Lombardi had the kind of tough good looks that could have gotten him a minor role in a noir movie.

    "What happened when you entered the apartment?" Martinez asked.

    "A man opened the door and let us in."

    "Is that man present here today?"

    "Yes, he's seated right there." The officer pointed to the defense table.

    "Let the record reflect that the witness has identified the defendant."

    "The record will so reflect," said the judge.

    "Officer, please describe the apartment as you saw it that night."

    "The place was a complete mess. Broken chairs, smashed dishes scattered around, a woman’s clothes and undergarments torn to shreds."

    "What did you do then?"

    "We asked for Miss Jones. Mr. Edwards nodded toward the bedroom. The door was locked. But after we explained who we were Miss Jones let us in."

    "Please describe Miss Jones’ appearance."

    "She had a black eye and swollen cheek, as if she was punched."

    "Objection as to ‘as if she was punched.’ Move to strike phrase on the grounds of prejudice."

    "Overruled."

    "What else did you observe?"

    "Bruises on her arms and legs, blood streaming from a cut on her forehead, nightgown ripped."

    "Have you experience with victims of beatings?"

    "Yes, I have, many times."

    "In your opinion were the markings on Miss Jones’ face consistent with what you have observed on others who have received repeated blows?"

    "Objection. Leading question."

    "Overruled."

    "Yes," The officer responded.

    "What did Miss Jones say to you?"

    "Objection," Steiner said. "Hearsay."

    "Sustained."

    "What did you then do?"

    "I placed Mr. Edwards under arrest and called for emergency medical assistance."

    Martinez turned to Steiner and said, "Your witness."

    "Officer Lombardi, you earlier characterized Miss Jones’s bruises - let me see whether I have the words right - " she looked down at her notes, "’as if she was punched.’"

    "Yes, that’s what it looked like."

    "Is it possible she got the injury some other way?"

    "It’s possible, but I don’t think..."

    "Yes or no, Officer. Is it possible she got the injury some other way?"

    "I don’t think..."

    "Your honor, would you instruct the witness to answer the question please?"

    "The witness will answer the question."

    "Yes, b..."

    "No further questions."

    Officer Owens, a thin athletic African American with a shaved head in his late twenties, repeated, almost word for word, what Lombardi had said. A young Indian doctor from ER at Highland Hospital gave a detailed medical description of Brione Jones’ condition. He stated that he found the bruises consistent with what he had observed on the many victims of beatings he had treated. However, he admitted that it was possible the bruises could have been caused in some other manner.

    The two lawyers approached the bench. Then the judge turned to the jury.

    "The Prosecution is going to play a tape for you supplied to the Court by the City’s 911 service. The defense attorney has heard the tape and does not challenge its authenticity."

    A clerk from the 911 Emergency Services record department explained the taping procedures and identified the tape and the time slot it covered. Martinez then brought out a tape machine and soon Brione Jones’ hysterical voice filled the courtroom.

    She gave her name and location and then said, "He’s smashed up all my furniture. Ripped up my clothes. Then beat me with a chair leg."

    "Who?" the operator asked.

    "Tyrone. He’s says he’s gonna’ kill me."

    There was a pause and then the operator said, "Police are on the way. Is he there with you now?"

    "He’s collapsed on the couch. I’m in the bedroom. Got the door locked."

    "Now don’t you unlock that door, Honey, until the cops arrive."

    The courtroom was still. It was all over, as far as I could see. I had no problem. I had presumed Tyrone Edward guilty and the prosecutor, with this tape, had proved him so.

    Brione Jones took the stand. A tiny, pencil-thin, twenties-something woman, Jones looked like a teenager. She had very dark skin, straight short black hair and the kind of face that could sparkle given the right circumstances. This day she seemed shell-shocked. She wore a black pleated skirt and white blouse. A large gold cross hung around her neck.

    I concentrated on her dolorous eyes. Her gaze never left Edwards as she testified. Adoring, genuflecting, filled with fear. I sensed she was begging Edwards for forgiveness. But for what? He was the one who had brutalized her.

    "That was your voice on that tape?" Martinez asked.

    "Yes, ma’m."

    Brione’s answer was so soft the judge has to lean in her direction to hear it. She stared at her feet.

    "No more questions."

    Steiner, startled, rose from her seat.

    "Miss Jones, does that tape reflect what really happened the night of August 25^th?"

    "No, it don’t ma’m."

    "Could you explain to the court what occurred?"

    "Me and Tyrone has this argument. He thinks I dissed him. But I would never dis Tyrone."

    "That’s all? Just an argument?’

    "Yes, ma’m."

    "How did your furniture get broken and clothes torn up?"

    "Tyrone did that cus he was mad. But those are my things. Don’t want to prosecute."

    "Your bruises?"

    "Don’t know about them. Maybe I tripped?"

    "Maybe?"

    "I tripped."

    "Then why did you call 911?" Steiner asked.

    "I was upset."

    "No further questions."

    Martinez rose slowly from her seat, shaking her head.

    "Do you always call 911 when you get into an argument?"

    "Sorry for botherin’ you’all."

    Martinez paused and looked down at her notes. "You were in bed when the defendant came home, weren't you?"

    "Yes."

    "And he dragged you out of bed, didn't he?"

    "No, I got out on my--"

    "Just answer 'yes' or 'no,' please. And he punched you, didn't he?"

    "No."

    "Isn't that how you got that black eye, from his hitting you?""

    "No."

    Martinez went slowly down a list of injuries in her notes, checking off items as she asked Jones. Jones responded in the negative each time, her voice quavering. She was a terrible liar.

    "Miss Jones, didn't you call 911 because you were afraid for your life?"

    "No."

    "And isn't that why you locked yourself in your room, because you were afraid the defendant would kill you if you didn't?"

    "No."

    "And isn't it true that you testified here today that you tripped because you're still afraid of the defendant?"

    Jones hesitated. She started to cry. She stole a glance at Edwards and then answered.

    "N...no. Tyrone loves me."

    Her soft voice sounded more like a plea than a statement of fact.

    I watched Edwards while she was testifying. His stone face softened. The corners of his mouth turned slightly upwards and the muscles in his neck relaxed. Was he pleased with the control he had over her?

    Steiner saved everything for her summary. And a persuasive one it was. There was only one witness to the events that had occurred on the night of the 25^th, Brione Jones, she explained. Regardless of how you evaluate what you heard on that tape, she now denies before the court that she had been attacked or threatened with bodily harm. Certainly Brione’s testimony today, Steiner concluded, raises more than a reasonable doubt of Edwards’ guilt.

    We, the jury, took less than an hour to arrive at a verdict...not guilty. I voted with the others. We had acted properly according to the law of the land. But, the bastard was guilty.

    I left the court shattered. I had bonded with Brione. I wasn’t sure why, but the emotion was overpowering. Maybe it was my own past. I was born to a poor single woman who, outside of color, could have been Brione. She didn’t have the means to raise me, so she gave me up for adoption. I never tried to find her. Yet she was part of me and I was part of her. Was my birth mother abused like Brione? I didn’t know. As a two year old child there wasn’t much I could do for my young mother. As a middle aged private investigator there should have been something I could have done for Brione. Instead I had betrayed her.

* * *

    A week later I sat on a barstool in my favorite hangout, Big Emma’s, on Jack London Square. I was surrounded by paintings of Nineteenth Century nudes who had never heard of Weight Watchers. My eyes, however, were on the svelte figure of Lori Mazzetti, the joint’s owner and my best friend. Platinum blond hair held up in a ponytail, blue eyes peered intently into mine. I attempted to explain to her why my jury experience had been such a downer.

    As I sipped my Oban single malt neat, I noticed a familiar figure on the television screen behind Lori.

    "There he is," I shouted. "Turn up the TV."

    She did as I requested.

    "Tyrone Edwards," the unseen announcer droned, "has just been arrested in connection with the brutal killing of Brione Jones. The young woman was bludgeoned to death with a leg broken off of a dining room table."

    Brione Jones’ words, "Tyrone loves me," echoed through my head. Justice, we are told, should be blind. Love, when it is blind, can kill. Certainly we, the jury, who sat in judgment of Tyrone Edwards were blind. Deadly blind.

    The TV cameraman segued into a headshot of Robyn Steiner, who stood beside him.

    "No comment at this time," she said, "other than to note that under our justice system the accused is presumed to be innocent unless a jury determines otherwise."

    "Shit."

    "Not your fault," Lori said. "You had to vote the way you did. It’s the law."

    "But it’s not my law."

    "What do you mean?"

    "We, the jury, did right by the law. But we didn’t do right by Brione Jones. I was part of the decision that let that killer loose. I’ve got to justify my actions to me."

* * *

    I pulled my black Taurus in front of the pink stucco façade of the Mexicali Rose Restaurant, across from the courthouse. I had no desire to return to what I had believed was the scene of my crime. My act in letting a killer loose on the streets of Oakland. But I had a call from Sandra Jacobs, an attorney I sometimes worked for. I was to meet her at the restaurant to go over a job.

    I noticed a crowd filing out from 601 Washington Street. Tyrone Edwards and Robyn Steiner emerged from the building surrounded by reporters. The arraignment must be over and they had let the murderer out on bail. I swung open the door of my car and dashed across the street. I heard brakes screech as an Oakland patrol car swerved to miss me. I didn’t care. Had to get the killer. He was my responsibility.

    I raged on, like a wounded wild boar, and plunged directly into Edwards, knocking him to the ground. I flung myself upon him and grasped him by the throat. I squeezed with all my strength. I felt my fingernails dig into Tyrone’s skin. All I could see was the dolorous eyes of Brione. So defenseless in her blinding love. I pressed harder, harder. I heard Edwards gasp for air. Then my eyes met his startled fearful eyes.

    "You killed Brione," I said, "you bastard. You killed the woman who loved you."

    "Let him go," Steiner said, from somewhere above me. She was pulling on my hands. "Leave it to the courts."

    "I left it to the courts. You know he will kill again."

    I felt my grip relax and my hands fell from Edwards’ neck. The killing frenzy drained from my body leaving nothing in its place. I fell over beside him. What had stopped me? I sensed that this maddened killer who was strangling the life out of Tyrone Edwards could not be me, Jim Wolf. I had been seized by some kind of poltergeist. I had finally realized that my hatred of Edwards was transforming me into him. But, I wasn’t him.

    Two cops grabbed my arms.

    "Do you realize," Steiner said with a small smile on her face, "you just committed what could be construed as attempted murder? With a good lawyer you might be able to plea it down to felonious assault."

    "Are you presuming me guilty of a crime?" I had to ask.

    "You’re learning," Steiner said.