July 23, Thursday
SEQUESTRATION HAD been the quiet threat looming at the back of every conversation in the courtroom—mentioned, clarified, carefully not dwelt upon. Today Judge Arnold moved it front and center.
"From day one I told you this trial was expected to last for six months.
In the questionnaires you filled out and during the in-court Q&A sessions, you were asked if being away from your home and your families for that length of time would create a hardship.
Now that we've narrowed down the jury pool, I want to make it very clear that if you're chosen for this jury, there is a high likelihood that you would be sequestered for the duration of the trial.
That means you would go home to pack clothing and necessities, then report back.
After that you would be housed in a hotel and shuttled to and from the courtroom.
You would not be allowed to go home, although you would be permitted phone calls with your families.
You would not be allowed visitors. You would be supervised at all times.
And you will not have access to your phones or other devices that connect to outside media.
Please take a few moments and think about how this would affect your life.
I'll hear your reasons to be excused one at a time. "
A man in his thirties explained that he was a recovering social media addict and that six months without access, was a mental health matter. He provided a note from his therapist. The judge thanked him and excused him.
A woman who had seemed composed all week suddenly wasn't. "I've been feeling increasingly claustrophobic with this whole process," she said. "I don't think I can be confined like that. I've been struggling to come back every day as it is." Excused.
A man who had been sitting quietly in the second row stood and said, with a steadiness that was clearly costing him something, that he had post-traumatic stress from the pandemic—from the isolation, the enforced confinement, the not knowing how long it would last. "This is starting to feel like that," he said.
"I need you to know that before you decide whether you want me here. " The judge excused him.
Then a woman near the aisle stood and said, without elaboration, "I simply couldn't be away from my family for six months." She didn't expand. She didn't need to. The judge asked a few follow-up questions, made notes, and after a thoughtful pause, excused her.
One by one, the judge made his way through the remaining pool. He looked at each face in turn and asked, "Do you believe you could be away from your family for six months?"
I had time to think about it before my turn came. More specifically—all the time after the missed therapy session from the previous evening. Maybe we could all use a little distance. Not forever. Just—enough to miss each other.
The judge reached me.
"Juror 247. Six months of sequestration. Do you believe you could manage that separation from your family?"
"Yes, I do."