It’s noon on Friday, and I’m pounding on the back door of the Green Wolf Tap Room.  Bob and the kids are next door at the library with a homeschool group, and I’m demanding that Justin, the owner, open up early and serve me whiskey for breakfast.   I haven’t eaten since lunch the day before.

He opens the door, I slip inside, and before he can even pour a drink my sobs are echoing through the walls of the empty barroom.  

At the core of my soul, I deeply love human beings, no matter how destructive and greedy we are as a species.  But on this day, for the first time in my life, that love is shattered.  And I don’t know how to face the world.

It started with the March For Our Lives.  On that day, the cafe filled up with customers seeking caffeine and fortification before they took to the streets of Cobleskill, daring to stand publicly in this ardently pro-gun, pro-Trump county, and demand better gun control laws.  Folks around here were nervous about standing up on this issue.  I watched them support each other in the cafe as they moved around the tables offering words of encouragement and bravery.  At closing, I let Saoirse and Ula drive down with Dad to  join them in the protest while Bob and I cleaned up.   It was on that afternoon that I received my summons for Jury Duty.  

I didn’t think it would come to much.  On the Monday morning when I had to report, the court was jammed with prospective jurors.  With this many people, the odds that I would actually have to serve on a case were slim.  Then the defendent entered the room, and the judge read the list of nearly thirty charges, all varying degrees of sexual abuse of a twelve-year-old girl.  The neighborly chatting in the room ground to a halt.  The first round of prospective jurors were brought forward and questioned.  A third of them pleaded to be excused from the case because they, too, had been victims of sexual abuse, and could not endure the emotional trauma of a trial.

Then the next round was called.  And one by one, another third admitted to suffering sexual abuse.  The next round came, and still more people had to admit they were victims.  The packed room was rapidly clearing.   It was late in the day, and the jury box was looking frighteningly empty.   I dreaded hearing my name.

But it was called.  And in the course of Voire Dire, I, too, had to publicly admit that I had been a target of a sexual assault as a minor.  But, I allowed, I did not see myself as a victim.  “Why’s that?” the DA asked.  

“Because when he came at me, I flipped him,” I explained.  My episode was not with a full-grown man, but with a power-hungry teenage boy who was having trouble understanding boundaries.  I had brute strength, a good education and luck all in my favor.  But in that moment in court, I became the only person who admitted suffering from a sex crime who was put on the jury. One other woman, who had recently retired from a career assisting the victims of sexual abuse, was also appointed.  

I thought I could handle it.  

The next day, we spent the entire day listening to the victim, who was twelve at the time of these crimes, testify about her relationship with her predator.  

The  accounts of confusion, manipulation and power struggles were sickening.   As the case unfolded, there became no doubt in my mind as to the perpetrator’s guilt.  

Jury members are not to discuss a case with anyone, not even each other, until all proceedings are finished.  So while the court was in recess, this group of twelve jurors and two alternates had to find other things to talk about.  The women talked about recipes, children and grandchildren, craft projects.  The men talked about  cars and guns.  

I was perfectly comfortable with the car dialogs.  A love for old technology, the way things are put together and work together, is a common passion around here.  But the gun conversations distressed me — the pride shared about quantities of weapons individuals collected, the ability to use them at a moment’s notice, the dismissal of the mass numbers of shootings we’ve endured as a country.  These were all affable men, and I considered engaging in friendly debate with them about the issues, but pushed away my urge. I didn’t want tempers to flare in there.  I didn’t want there to be animosity among the jurors over issues that had nothing to do with the case.  That would be unfair to the victim.  I gritted my teeth through it and kept my nose in my laptop, focusing instead on keeping up with farm business.

Thursday came, proceedings concluded, and we were locked in the room together until we could come up with unanimous verdicts on all of the charges.  That morning, I assured Bob I’d be home early enough for cafe prep.  In my mind, there was no way the deliberations could last more than a few minutes.

We filed into our seats around the table, the doors were closed behind us, and every one of those gun-toting pro-NRA men did not doubt for an instant the guilt of the perpetrator.  It was the words from a number of the women that shocked me.

“She knew what she was doing.”

“She set him up.”

“She kept going back.”

“Kids today, you can’t trust ‘em.  They’ll do anything to bring someone down.  This is all bullshit.”

“I won’t see another man ruined by some girl taking advantage.”

This was a form of hatred I’ve never seen in my life: woman-to-girl.  My breath left my lungs.  I didn’t know how to be cool; how to work through the situation sensiblly.  

“You’re putting the wrong person on trial!” I exclaimed across the table.  The woman who had been involved in advocating for victims of sexual abuse sat beside me, her jaw also agape.  “You’re blaming the victim!” She asserted.  But her words didn’t carry.

I didn’t think it was possible for there to be a stalemate in such a straightforward (in my opinion) case.  But we were locked.  In an effort to find common ground, we poured over every bit of evidence, created timelines on flip charts, and stared at each other for the coming hours.  Two of us women believed the defendent was guilty on all charges.  Several more women believed the victim was.   For all their talk about guns, those men were suddenly in a new position.  They had to find a peaceful resolution.  

One of them turned and spoke to me.  “I agree with everything you’re saying.  But if we don’t come to an agreement, this will go to mistrial.”

I thought about how humiliating this trial had been for the victim:  all the horrific details she had to divulge to complete strangers.  I couldn’t face the idea of making her go through this again.  

We went through each of the charges, paired with the evidence, one by one.  Of the nearly thirty charges racked up over the course of a year, we could only agree to find the defendent guilty of two.  At that was only because there was a text message found with an admission. There was no agreement on over twenty charges.  

Because there were no witnesses who watched as a girl’s life was ruined. 

Because the perpetrator didn’t write down what he did. 

Because the victim didn’t immediately have someone drive her to a medical exam proceeding each occurrence.

It’s no wonder so many people who had been victimized had to be recused from jury duty.  It’s got to be one of the easiest crimes to get away with.

When each juror was questioned prior to appointment, it was explained to us that in a case like this, there is no such thing as hard evidence.  The challenge for the DA was to “prove beyond a reasonable doubt.”  We were each asked if we could convict if this case was proven beyond a reasonable doubt.  We each said “yes.”

But here we were, locked in this room, and I learned the hard truth:  reasonable doubt is defined differently by everyone.  And I began to question my own convictions.  And I worried about the consequences for this child of not resolving the case.

We settled for two guilty charges.  All the rest were not guilty.

“He’s going away,” the man next to me whispered.  “He won’t be able to hurt her or anyone else  anymore.  That’s what matters.”

I sit at Green Wolf’s bar and swallow down my whiskey as I tell this story to Justin. I am so confused.  I’m so tired of guns, so tired of violence, so utterly shocked at the ability of those women on the jury to be so hateful.   “SHE’S A CHILD!”  My sodden voice is likely carrying out onto the streets of Middleburgh.  “SHE’S WASN’T THE GUILTY ONE!”  He listens quietly.  He knows I need to try to make sense of things.  He knows there is no sense to be made.  He just lets me wail and carry on.   When I’ve emptied out enough, he manages to say something to make me laugh.  A short while later, it’s time to leave and meet Bob and kids at the library.   

The next morning, I try to keep my despair in check.  Bob assures me that it might not be good for business to discuss the legalities of sex crimes with customers.  But two of our regular customers, Andy and Margaret, come up to the counter after finishing their breakfast.  

Margaret smiles.  “You were seen at the courthouse every day this week,” she says.  “Everyone knows where you were!”

I nod.  “Jury duty,” I say.  “And did you know that if a grown man is accused of a sex crime against a child, it is the child who must stand trial?”  My sadness has dulled now, leaving behind a viper’s tongue.  

Andy and Margaret nod knowingly.  “It happens all the time, Shannon.”

Then Andy asks me the strangest question.

“Did you find someplace safe to go?”

Safe to go?  “What do you mean?”

“A safe place to go,” Andy explains, “ —Some place where the people just let you be who you are and get it off your chest.  That’s why we come here.  We build up our strength, then we go back out again.”

And I realize just how fortifying that whisky for breakfast was for me.  

As a creative idealist, I want to use my words to paint an endless picture of wholesome, loving community.  But the truth is, while I live in an incredibly beautiful place, it’s also incredibly confusing:  where the gun rights activists might be the first to look out for the interests of a child; where the women swapping recipes might be the first to turn their backs on her.

But there are safe places.  There are places where neighbors and friends will listen to each other; where the the trees, hillsides and stone walls will absorb our sorrows; where a bowl of soup or a whiskey for breakfast will be laced with so much love, the weary find the strength to go back and face this troubled world once more.  And for all my confusion about that week in court, I hold these places sacred in my heart, and give thanks for them.