In the civil fraud case brought by the state of New York — as opposed to the criminal fraud case that began Monday, April 22, in Lower Manhattan — former President Donald J. Trump complained that he was denied a trial by jury, even though his lawyers failed to ask for a jury trial.
Now Trump has his jury — seven men and five women of various races, ethnicities and professional backgrounds — and he, of course, is still not happy. It’s understandable. He’s forced to sit quietly — well perhaps not so quietly outside the courtroom and on Truth Social — listening to people say unpleasant things about him when he could be out on the campaign trail saying unpleasant things about others. (It’s the saying of unpleasant things in violation of his latest gag order that could net Trump fines or worse.) Life is not fair, he thinks. But then, how fare is it to jurors and the hush-money trial jurors in particular?
The United States District Court for the Southern District of New York, which includes Manhattan, is a tough, intimidating place, although everyone is perfectly professional and polite. When I was impaneled there for a drug case, I remember the judge being gracious to us but no-nonsense and firm, an iron fist in a velvet glove. We were even given lunch. And when there was some kerfuffle over having to remain in a small room — far too tiny for some 50 people — to eat it, the judge apologized afterward for the miscommunication.
I was too nervous to be upset over where we ate lunch. I had left the house at 5:30 in the morning to make the trip to Lower Manhattan. I wasn’t allowed to bring my phone. My underwire bra set off the metal detector.
You are asked to respond to a questionnaire. “Yes” answers are red flags. I had several and was asked to approach the judge, the prosecutors and the defense attorneys. It was both the longest and the shortest walk of my life as I realized that what I said then would determine if I were chosen for a complex capital case that involved an accidental murder and turned on the possibility of police entrapment — and whose proposed three-week schedule I could ill afford at work.
I told the judge that I had never been selected for a jury, in part because I had trouble sticking only to the evidence presented. “There are things that are legal that are immoral and things that are illegal that are moral.”
The judge laughed and said, “You know more about the law than most people. Tell me about yourself.”
So I told him that in order to sit on this case, I would have to work each night and leave at 5:30 each morning to get to the courthouse. The magazine I edited would be going to press just as the jury was expected to deliver a verdict. And for verification of all this, he could call the office manager.
The judge asked me to step back and consulted with the teams of lawyers, who looked like they were 12 with their mouths agape and their legal pads and pens poised. The judge handed me a slip of paper and sent me downstairs, where I ran into an ex-cop with a rolled up copy of the New York Post — what a character, I put him in my novel “Burying the Dead” — at a vending machine. This was the guy who had caused the commotion when he refused to be confined to our lunchroom and took on the bailiff.
“I seen ya up there,” he said, pointing at me. “I seen ya up there, and you were sharp.”
But I wasn’t sharp. I was a frightened individual who had just exposed her insecurities to a group of strangers. And that’s the thing about jury duty. Not only do people know what you are — where you live and work — but they know who you are, for you’re forced to lay bare your identity. What do you believe? How well do you perform under pressure? Could you withstand this pressure? Do you have the courage to do your civic duty and be fair even if your life were threatened?
Take my experience, magnify it a million times, and you have the hush-money trial jury, plus six alternates, whose identities are being kept as anonymous as possible for fear of reprisals. (Trump has already been reprimanded for gesturing toward one potential juror, who was dismissed.)
This is no mere fraud case. It’s being framed as conspiracy to commit election interference. And the fate of the next presidential election — indeed, our very democracy — may very well hang on its outcome.
When I look back on my jury duty, from which I was soon released, I remember the most moving moment was when we entered the courtroom. Everyone, including the judge, stood to greet us. Because that is how important a jury is, he said. That’s how much respect is owed.
The 12 men and women serving on the jury of the People of the State of New York versus Donald J. Trump are 12 brave souls. So are the six alternates. (They’re also a serious bunch, according to the press at the trial, taking copious notes and listening intently to instructions from Judge Juan Merchan.) I pray they can safely follow the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
So help us, God.