Notes from the Jury Box: My Week on Federal Jury Duty

a federal fraud case involving the COVID relief Paycheck Protection Program (PPP) loans

{8 a.m. in the jury room}

Braves second basemen Ozzie Albies smiles up at me and my fellow jurors from a billboard in the parking lot of the Richard D. Russell Federal Building. The wall of windows in the jury room behind Judge Steven D. Grimberg’s 17th-floor courtroom offers a sweeping view of the Atlanta skyline and we gather here often. In one sense, it grounds us to reality; the viewpoint, however, feeds the collective illusion we enter an alternate universe each day.

We the jury—five females and nine males—did not ask for this job that wrecks our schedules for six of the ten weekdays before Christmas, but we take our service seriously. (When closing arguments conclude and deliberations begin, they release one man and one woman—our alternates—and we become a jury of twelve.) Before the lawyers select us from fifty-something citizens who received an official summons, we listen to a presentation on jury duty. My takeaway: it’s difficult for some professions (doctors, truck drivers, etc.) to take time off work, but you could be on trial someday, and wouldn’t you want someone like you on the jury? (Our family filed a suit in another state that could go to trial next year, so this hits home for me.)

It’s after 3 p.m. on the first day when the jury is selected, but we launch into opening arguments for the prosecution and defense and hear the state’s first two witnesses. I did not expect this. It already feels like a long day and I’m tired (during the trial, I go to bed and get up three hours earlier than usual and it takes time to adjust), but I grab my notepad and start writing. Eventually, I will take twenty-nine pages of notes.

During the trial, most of us arrive at least an hour before the 8:45 a.m. start time, outsmarting Atlanta traffic. I drive an hour to court and an hour and a half home. Because federal court pulls jurors from ten area counties, I’m not the only one. But it could be worse. We enjoy each other’s company, forced though it may be, and grow fond of the marshals who oversee us and Judge Grimberg, who appears impartial and decisive, praises our punctuality and thoroughness, has a sense of humor, and sends doughnuts to the jury room.

We are expected to render a verdict on a federal fraud case involving COVID relief Paycheck Protection Program (PPP) loans, which the government began distributing with great speed and little oversight in April 2020. This is not a simple task, especially since, as I learn, federal criminal trials require unanimous jury decisions. A fellow juror asserts—and I agree—that innocent people sit in prison because the jury didn’t understand the charges or instructions. We must decide whether the government proves its case against the defendant—an Atlanta lawyer, business owner, and former police officer—beyond a reasonable doubt. They had three years to prepare, but don’t make it easy for us.

Forged documents and printed emails, where we can’t confirm the sender or forger, complicate our job. We deliberate over two days, for nearly thirteen hours, lining the window sill of the jury room with documents and manilla file folders. Our decision on at least one of five charges comes down to a small amount, possibly a single piece, of incontrovertible evidence. We analyze. Play devil’s advocate. Remind ourselves to presume innocence until the defendant is proven guilty.

The defense insists it offered the government access to the defendant’s phone and computer and they didn’t take it. After the trial, when members of the jury agree to return to the courtroom and answer questions from both sets of attorneys, a fellow juror says additional information would have helped us. I mention the lack of access to the defendant’s files, which would have been huge. (My notes say they never looked at the personal computer of the government’s key witness, who made a plea deal, either.) An attorney for the government shrugs it off, suggesting we have to accept the defense’s word that they offered it. (She appears as annoyed with me as she was, at times, with the defense.) But, hello? Files from the defendant’s devices weren’t presented and I find it hard to believe the government couldn’t get them if they tried. I told the government’s lawyer it made them look sketchy. Were they afraid to encounter evidence that didn’t support their case?

At times during the trial, I noted the government’s attorneys appeared aggressive, petty, or displayed body language communicating anxiety or defensiveness. Mickey Haller, the fictional Lincoln Lawyer, can show a little swagger because we’re invested in his character. I don’t recommend it for real life lawyers because we don’t know you and this behavior doesn’t build trust with the jury.

Once I left the building each night of the trial, the case didn’t leave my mind. I mulled over different things:

• If these two women—the defendant and her best friend, the state’s key witness who signed a plea agreement—knew PPP loans would destroy their friendship, would they have behaved differently?

• The state’s key witness, who signed a plea deal, testified she didn’t tell her husband she applied for a PPP loan in his name even after the money was deposited in their bank. I had trouble believing her and if she lied about this, what else did she lie about? (She was comfortable with and admitted to multiple instances of fraud.) On the other hand, if I believe her, it demonstrates how completely consumed she’d become by greed (she filed at least eight PPP loan applications and enjoyed “getting one over on the government”).

• How hard/easy is it to fake some else’s email signature? If we’d been able to view the email message headers, could we prove conclusively who sent them?

{The 5:25 p.m. skyline on 12/19/23, moments after the verdict is read.}

Now I’m home, scrambling to prepare for Christmas. We rendered a verdict less than seventy-two hours ago, but the case lingers in my mind. I stand by our decision, but the state’s chief witness bears as much or more guilt as the defendant. The human element interests me as much as the legal. It’s a cautionary tale of broken trust, the power of greed, and the consequence of government flinging away taxpayer money with minimal scrutiny and wild abandon.

I’m thirty-five thousand words into my first novel. Part of me wants to pause and write a true crime story about this case, but it would be a huge undertaking and I wouldn’t have access to the witnesses and information I’d need. Today I’m plotting a future novel about a trial and its jury, which sounds more likely to be written.

I never again want to have that much power over another person’s life, and if I ever find myself on trial, I pray for a jury who takes their duty as seriously as we did.