"Running Commentary"
Behind Closed doors
It’s hard to avoid the ongoing drama in Minneapolis, as the murder trial of a police officer for the death of George Floyd continues. The trial is being streamed live on TV and I’ve found the testimony riveting. The relentless narrative of life and death sucks me in. It’s hard to turn off.
Years ago, I was lead attorney in a similar case, although it wasn’t a murder trial. In the course of an arrest, a black man was severely beaten by two white Philadelphia police officers, even though he hadn’t resisted.
Civil Rights 101. The police have every right to use whatever objective, reasonable force is necessary to arrest someone, but that force can’t be excessive. They can’t willy-nilly beat a suspect to a pulp because they feel it. Civil rights are a fundamental component of a democracy, guaranteed to everyone, regardless of race, color or ethnicity.
Again, my case was civil, not criminal. A man was beaten; he didn’t die. And unlike the George Floyd trial, there were no witnesses – it was one man’s word against two police officers. My job was to convince an all-white jury that my client was telling the truth.
Today I’ll share fascinating insight into what transpired in the hallowed sanctuary of that jury room when deliberations began behind closed doors … how a verdict was achieved … and how Lady Luck played a prominent role in the decision.
It was 1976. I was three years out of law school when a federal judge appointed me to represent Bronson Purnell, a prisoner who had filed his rough, handwritten lawsuit with the aid of a jailhouse lawyer. Bronson demanded justice. He wanted the judicial system to make the officers accountable.
By the time of my appointment, I had experience as a trial lawyer. I had represented clients in cases that made big headlines in newspapers. Some of my cases were lead stories on evening newscasts on all the Philadelphia TV stations. Life in the big city.
Purnell’s case was different – nothing high-profile about it. No live television streams … no cell phone videos … no security cameras showing what happened. Only a few spectators watched the trial unfold – most of them from my office.
Was I nervous? A little. A federal case is a step up in stature from its cousin in state court, although the basics were the same – a judge, a plaintiff, two defendants and the attorneys. The police were represented by the Pennsylvania Attorney General’s office.
The jury was all-white because the jury pool for a federal trial reaches beyond the city into prosperous suburban counties. During jury selection, I didn’t object to having a lawyer serve as a member of the jury – a tweedy, distinguished looking man from an A-list town far away from the grit and grim of Philadelphia.
I predicted to my co-counsel that the attorney would be selected as foreman of the jury and that he would play a big role in the jury’s deliberations. My prediction would prove prophetic.
Purnell’s trial was relatively short, lasting only three days. Bronson was a perfect witness – quiet, humble and respectful. That was due to his being nervous. Scared half to death, he came across as very honest. Would the jury believe him? Did it matter?
My impression of the officers was the opposite – they were arrogant and cocky.
It all came down to my cross-examination of one officer – I discovered cleverly disguised details in the arrest report that were inconsistent with his testimony. My shining moment. I jumped on those inconsistencies like a cowboy clinging to a bucking bronco. Hammered them home and nailed it.
I had both officers dead to rights – they lied about Purnell’s injuries.
Would it be enough?
Deliberations dragged out, on and on. At the end of the day? WE WON! Well, … sort of. The jury found that the officers had physically assaulted Bronson in violation of his civil rights; however they awarded him a pathetic $100 for his injuries.
Afterward, I ran into the lawyer on the jury in the men’s room, and we chatted. He said deliberations were acrimonious and the verdict was a compromise. Why? Because two women said at the outset that they would never find in favor of any black man against a white police officer – no matter what the evidence showed. They were very open about their racist views and didn’t care what others thought. The jury was in a stalemate.
Just as I predicted, the lawyer was the-foreman and he worked out a compromise – find the officers guilty, but reduce damages to a nominal amount. It was the only way the two women would vote for a conviction.
And how did Lady Luck play a role? There was additional evidence nobody knew about. One of the jurors was an expert weightlifter, and he said the officers’ version of Purnell’s injuries didn’t jibe with physics. They could not have innocently hoisted Bronson up with his hands handcuffed behind him the way they testified. Further proof that the police lied.
Despite the paltry damage award, the verdict wasn’t pyrrhic. Why? Because Bronson didn’t care about money – all he wanted was to be heard. His injuries weren’t permanent. He merely wanted the world to know that the officers lied about how he sustained his injuries. They violated his rights.
Bronson wanted them held accountable.
They were.
Epilogue: Godspeed, my friends. I’ll see you in the newspaper – next Friday! Rmykl@yahoo.com