Entry 85. The Trial: Choices

The Sirius 4 courtroom was a carryover from Earthian customs and, specifically, the courts of the Europe and North American continents. Presided over by a judge in black robe, tables in front for the prosecutor and defense attorney, stern bailiffs by the door, clerical staff seated in front of – but below – the judge.

An area along the side held 14 comfortable-looking chairs for the 12-person jury and two alternates. At the end of the trial, two people who had listened to all of the testimony would be thanked for their efforts and dismissed. Or, if for some reason as many as two jurors were unable to continue, they had backup.

It appeared to me that almost no one in the room wanted to be there. As prospective jurors trickled into the gallery behind us, they spoke in hushed tones with one another and any laughter sounded to be of an ironic or grim humor. The bailiffs looked around the room with baleful eyes, and the clerks rarely looked up from their clerking.

I put on as friendly a face as I could muster, but none of the government workers made eye contact with me. The prospective jurors, on the other hand, looked me straight in the eye. Their expressions held mixed messages: encouragement, sadness, defiance, anger, embarrassment.

The murmuring undercurrent whispered into silence when the white-haired judge in his black robes appeared from behind a door no one had noticed near his high desk at the front of the room.

“All stand,” said the bailiff, and launched into a chant that has echoed down the centuries and across the stars: “Hear ye, hear ye, Public Court No. 17 is now in session, the Honorable Chandler Pearson presiding – silence is commanded.”

“Be seated,” muttered the Honorable Chandler Pearson. “This is the State of Sirius 4 versus Raymond Douglas Kaliber, case number 145-CF-389. The state is represented by Prosecuting Attorney Sandra Kim, and the defendant is present without legal counsel. Are we ready to proceed with the selection of the jury?”

“Yes, your honor,” Kim said.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said, fully aware that the proper response was “Yes, your honor.” The judge scowled at my breach of the ancient chant protocol.

“I thought I asked for a jury pool of 100,” Pearson said, scanning the gallery. “I see about 50 people here, if that many.”

“Notices were sent; we received a number of – objections – but they don’t account for this turnout. A number of jurors are simply not here.

“Objections? What do you mean by objections?”

“I’ll send them to your screens,” Kim said.

I scrolled the messages from jurors refusing to appear for jury duty. I saw with grim delight that all of them contained the words, “I choose not to participate,” or some variation.

The judge did not change his expression, but I noticed a flush to his cheeks.

“Let’s get on with it, then,” Pearson said. “The bailiff will draw the first name.”

The bailiff punched his screen and a number appeared at random.

“Juror number 31,” he intoned.

An older woman, white-haired, a little stooped, rose near the front row, steadying herself with a cane.

“Step forward and be sworn,” the judge said.

“No, your honor,” she said loudly and deliberately, leaning forward with both hands on the cane. “I was going to send a note, but I decided I wanted to come here and tell you in person: I choose not to participate.”

And with that she stepped into the aisle and began to walk to the back of the room.

One step. Two steps. Three.

“Guard, that woman is in contempt of court. Please arrest her and remove her from the courtroom pending further action.”

The guard nearest to the woman looked at her, winked – winked! – and called to the judge, “No, your honor. I choose not to participate.”

The guard opened the door for the woman, and they walked out together.

“Hank, go after them,” Pearson said. “Arrest them both.”

But Hank said, “I’m sorry, your honor, but I’m not going to participate, either.” And he started out of the room.

“I refuse to participate!” This was a young man who stood in the gallery and began to make his way toward the aisle.

“I choose not to participate!” This was a middle-aged woman whose voice broke on the word “participate.”

From all over the room came the call: “I choose not to participate!” Respectful and orderly, they rose and started going toward the door.

Pearson slammed his gavel and called for the doors to be locked and the courtroom sealed. One by one, each of the bailiffs and guards and clerks turned to the judge and said, “I choose not to participate,” and left the room. Some of them helped escort older prospective jurors out the door.

The judge turned red in the face and banged his gavel repeatedly, calling on his interlink for more guards. But the only response he got was “I choose not to participate,” over and over from different voices and different places. The prosecutor turned pale. Buffalo Springsteen grinned and held my hand. John Hemlock giggled like a little boy.

At last the three of us, Sandra Kim and the Honorable Chandler Pearson were the only ones left in the courtroom.

“It appears,” said the judge, “that the jury has chosen to nullify the charges against you, Mr. Kaliber. You’re free to go.”

“Your Honor?!”

“You saw what happened, Ms. Kim. Every one of the jury pool and most of my staff refused to participate. A jury is not going to convict this man. Case dismissed.”

Entry 84. The Trial: Arrival at the gates

Finally, there was the matter of putting me on trial for 35 counts of incitement to riot resulting in death. In a lifetime a person tries to share thoughts and insights with those around them, but you never really understand how much influence you have had. Oh, perhaps you’ll hear something you said or wrote repeated in another way, in another form, but the opportunities are few to gauge the impact of your life. That is why I look back on my trial with such gratitude.

The day broke with bright sunshine, a dazzling orange and blue display of beauty. The air itself felt sweet; as I wrote before, yes, it was the great machines at work, but I imagined the sweet smell of freedom on that day when a trial was to begin to determine whether I would spend the next several decades in incarceration.

As always Buffalo and John Hemlock accompanied me into the courtroom, she with her beautiful scowl and he with his peaceful grin.

“It’s an absolute crime that you’re the one who’s standing trial,” Buffalo said, looking back at the empty gallery that would soon be filled with prospective jurors, journalists and the curious.

“There’s a reason why everything happens,” John replied. “All things work to the good for those who believe.” I have to admit his confident smile may have begun to wear on my nerves. I wanted to tell him he wasn’t the one who might end the week serving a life prison sentence.

But: “I sure hope you’re right, John,” is what I actually said.

In hindsight it wasn’t that he was right, but how he was right, that makes me laugh telling the story.

Entry 80. Once a beautiful face

“Freeze it there.”

I didn’t really want to see it, but I wanted to freeze the recording there, an instant after the bullet struck Jaklyn Sanders in the bridge of her nose – just to confirm that it was a precision, carefully targeted shot.

The image was macabre. It was still clear that she was a beautiful woman – the bright and intelligent eyes, the high cheekbones, the carefully quaffed mane of hair – but those features were all out of place, like a jigsaw puzzle with the pieces broken apart but still close to each other. I couldn’t help but stare at her eyes, which still had a spark of light that was fading fast, one eye unnaturally an inch or two above the other and separated by a large, round, red hole with black around the edges.

One instant she was describing the sudden attack by government forces on unarmed protesters, and the next instant she was gone, simply gone.

“A shot like that, that’s a well-aimed shot,” I said. “Somebody took her out deliberately. This wasn’t random.” I sensed agreement around the room, but no one else spoke. They were all staring at the image, too, trying to make sense of the sight, their brains trying to re-assemble the face into its proper alignment.

The official story was that the officers had fired to defend themselves against an angry mob, that they just fired indiscriminately to drive off the rioters. I was charged with inciting the riot, never mind that it wasn’t an actual riot until the shots were fired.

But here was grisly but hard-to-dispute evidence that at least one shot wasn’t indiscriminate, and that particular shot happened to kill the reporter who was closest to the center of action, the reporter who could affirm to the world that the chaos and destruction was caused by the security force, not by the people who wanted nothing more than to go to work and to support the people who were reporting to their office.

My defense would depend on convincing a jury that my intentions were peaceful and nonviolent. At least, that was the strategy.