The Most Decisive Juror in Seattle History
A disheveled, reluctant man is pulled from the street to serve on a murder jury, and he reaches a verdict before the trial even begins.
The story, cleaned up
A cleaned-up reading of the newspaper page: spelling and layout repaired, one story lifted off a crowded page. It follows the original closely but it is not a transcription. The original page is below; read it if a detail matters.
Judge Gibson tells an amusing story of the way a juror went for conviction. He had been trying a murder case a few years ago in one of the Washington counties, and experienced great difficulty in getting a jury. After eleven jurors had been sworn in, a new panelist was brought in—a lank, leathery, cadaverous-looking fellow who had on one shoe, his pants were nearly above his knees, his shirt open both front and back, and the aforesaid trousers were held up by a single gallows (suspenders). The solicitor proceeded to ask the usual questions: 'Have you from having seen the crime committed, or having heard any of the testimony delivered under oath, formed or expressed any opinion as to the innocence or guilt of the prisoner at the bar?' And the single-gallows fellow, in a clear and distinct voice, answered, 'Not any.' 'Have you any prejudice or bias resting on your mind for or against the prisoner at the bar?' 'I hain’t.' 'Is your mind perfectly impartial between the State and the prisoner?' 'Hit air.' 'Are you conscientiously opposed to capital punishment?' 'I isn’t.' The State did not like the juror much, but it being late and jurors scarce, he was put upon the prisoner in the usual manner, the solicitor saying, 'Juror look at the prisoner, prisoner, look upon the juror.' The juror was quite near the prisoner, and when this command was given, he leant over him, scanning him from head to foot. The juror looked at the prisoner firmly in the face, and then turning to the judge, said, in a firm, solemn voice, 'Yes, judge, I think he’s guilty.'
“The juror looked at the prisoner firmly in the face, and then turning to the judge, said, in a firm, solemn voice, 'Yes, judge, I think he’s guilty.'”
While this anecdote from 1877 is played for laughs, it highlights the 'wild west' nature of early Washington's frontier judiciary. It serves as a reminder that the evolution of jury selection and due process—concepts we now take for granted—was a messy, human-centered struggle in the Pacific Northwest's early days.
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