JURY DUTY

 

"What is past is prologue."

---William Shakespeare, The Tempest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Rotunda of the San Francisco City Hall

 

In June 1989, I had the privilege of serving on a jury—and it was a doozy. The trial concerned six-year-old Brendan O’Rourke, who had acquired AIDS from a blood transfusion at the time of his premature birth in 1982. His birth weight had been a meager one pound, thirteen ounces. His parents were suing the Irwin Memorial Blood Bank, two doctors, and San Francisco Children’s Hospital.

It’s hard to express the enthusiasm I felt over this chance to serve. While struggling to figure out the next phase of my life, to be on a jury sounded exciting.

I hiked down to city hall, located across the street from San Francisco Opera. The massive marble building and the magnificent rotunda were impressive. I felt pride that I would be participating in the judicial process.

The faces of nearly one hundred potential jurors greeted me as I entered the waiting room. We were funneled, twenty-five at a time, into the court room where a row of five lawyers and Judge Stuart Pollak faced us. Shortly, Brendan was asked to enter the room. He was a charming child who already showed the effects of the disease that would eventually kill him.

 Judge Pollak, who had a curious habit of fluttering his eyelashes, began to question each potential juror. “Did you have any feelings when you saw Brenden?” he asked a rough looking man down my row.

“No, none at all,” the man replied.

Appalled, I thought, that can’t be.Thus, when the same question was asked of me a few moments later, I replied: “Yes, I did. My heart scrunched and I don’t believe there is anyone in this room who didn’t feel the same.”

The courtroom erupted. The lawyers huddled. Both sides liked my answer. I was placed immediately in seat number one, right below the witness box, where I would look straight into the eyes of a long list of testifiers.

Each day I eagerly arrived at the court, took copious notes, and paid attention to the endless round of tedious testimony. Several weeks into the trial, the judge dismissed the case against the doctors and the hospital, declining to explain why. The trial continued with the blood bank as the only remaining defendant.

During lunch one day I noticed employees from Irwin Memorial Blood Bank accepting blood donations in the rotunda of the courthouse. This disturbed me. The plaintiffs were accusing the defendants of not properly testing blood and implied they collected from everybody. By setting up in the courthouse, they could be trying to sway the jury by demonstrating they collected from upstanding citizens, including people on the jury.

I had to say something. I flagged down the court assistant, an officious looking, tight-mouthed woman, who happened to be walking by, and blurted out my concerns. She hurried away without comment. But when the judge excused us for the day, the blood bank was gone.

The trial lasted six weeks. After closing arguments, the jury needed to be reduced by one. Thirteen numbers were juggled. My number was pulled. The lawyers groaned. I was off the jury and devastated. I had hoped to be foreman and chair the discussion.

The jury deliberated for two days and came down on the side of the blood bank. I agreed with the jury. The critical fact in the trial was that when Brendon received his transfusion, in October 1982, the cause of AIDS had not yet been discovered. How could the blood bank be at fault? Nevertheless, I felt sorry for the O’Rourke family. Fate had dealt a horrific blow—one no one deserved.

It helped me to learn that Brendon had met with Pope John Paul II in 1987 at Mission Dolores in San Francisco, and again at the Vatican a year later. The meetings had provided comfort to Brendon, who died in August of 1990 shortly before his eighth birthday.

Aside from my empathy for the family, why did the trial mean so much to me? What I didn’t know at the time was that the court process had stirred my memory and challenged my unconscious to reveal an event that took place forty-one years earlier, when I was nine, in a witness box, and looking down at a woman in jury seat number one. 

 

 MEMORY: TRIAL. (November 11, 1989, two months after my memory returned.)

I am in a witness box. 

The courtroom is empty.

There is a jury to my left.

A woman sits below me.

Two males sit next to their lawyer.

They smirk.

My lawyer approaches. 

"What is this?" he asks, holding up a glass vial.

"They used it to put bugs on me," I reply.

The woman below winces, and sucks in her breath.

I look at her.

I don't feel anything.

"What did they call you?" my lawyer asks. 

"Baby candy," I answer seductively.

Their lawyer approaches.

 "You're lying," he says

"No, I'm not!"

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not," I reply, frightened.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My lawyer asks, "What is this?"

 

In my book, I write about the little I remember of two trials in which I was involved.

 

Years later, I discovered this lawyer's name was Charles Vigil. I remember, as I 

stood next to my mother, him telling her, "I'm disgusted, but I can't do anything about it. 

The grand jury doesn't believe there is enough evidence to convict them. It's her word 

against theirs."

 

 Onward and upward.