Courthouse full of butter beans

I spent most of yesterday waiting in the McLennan County Courthouse. It was my first jury summons, and I was fascinated to watch our great legal system in action. I don't say that tongue in cheek, either. Even though many of the potential jurors had other places to be and other things to do, we all appeared to take our duty very seriously and weighed each question before answering. We were faced with a teenager who pleaded guilty to intoxication manslaughter, and we were to determine her sentence. The lawyers couldn't tell us the details, but we knew the person who died was in the defendant's car and they were returning from a party. (Turns out it was her 19-year-old cousin.) She could receive anywhere from probation to 20 years and up to a $10,000 fine. From the responses during voir dire*, it was evident that the potential jurors were concerned not only about punishment but about rehabilitation for the girl. Most seemed aware that while intoxication manslaughter sounds like an open-and-shut case, it's far more complicated. She was guilty - no question there - but how do you rate what punishment she deserves? Does it matter if she were salutatorian or if she had a reputation of a drunk? Would it make a difference if she had never drunk alcohol before that night or if she had a history of DWIs? What about if her blood-alcohol level was just over the legal limit as opposed to twice the limit? That is why the law allows so wide a swath of penalties. And 12 everyday folks like you and me get to weigh the facts and decide what punishment we think is appropriate.

Ultimately I was dismissed with the thanks of the court, as most of us were, but I can't say for sure how I feel about it. While I wouldn't want to be part of deciding anyone's fate, I would want someone like me on the jury if I were accused of a crime. But whatever the outcome, I know one thing. Far worse than any punishment the state could exact is having to live with yourself after causing someone's death. Especially someone you loved.

Before I move on, let me make one note about courtroom decorum: When the judge pulls the lawyers into his chambers for a tongue-lashing, be mindful of who is in the courtroom with you. An air of lightheartedness and laughter surfaced in the jury pool while a grieving family waited to hear their loved one's fate, and it was painful to watch their grim faces while those around me chatted and chortled. It was unintentional on the part of the jurors, but it was hurtful nonetheless.

The bright spot of the day was a vibrant 84-year-old World War II veteran and retired volunteer firefighter who helped corral the herd of potential jurors first thing in the morning. He was delightful and funny and even sang us a song while we waited. I wish you could have been there to hear it, but read the lyrics and use your imagination. It's to the tune of "Just A Closer Walk With Thee," if that helps. He said he wants his wife to bury him with a can of butter beans. And if she's not too mad at him, she just might throw in a can opener, too.

Butter Beans

Just a bowl of butter beans.

Pass the cornbread if you please.

I don't want no collard greens.

All I want is butter beans.

Just a piece of country ham,

Pass the butter and the jam

Pass the biscuits if you please

And some good ol' butter beans.

Red-eye gravy is all right.

Turnip sandwich a delight.

But my children all still scream

For another bowl of butter beans

Some folks think that corn-pone's best

Some likes grits more than the rest

But if I was a man of means

I'd just want good ol' butter beans.

See that lady over there

With the curlers in her hair.

She's not pregnant as she seems

She's just full of butter beans.

When they lay my bones to rest

Place no roses on my chest

Plant no blooming evergreens

All I want is butter beans.

____________________

* Voir dire is supposed to be said with a French accent, vwahr (with nearly silent r) deer. Here in Texas, everyone from journalism professors to prosecutors call it vor (like four) dire (with a very twangy Y in the middle). Reminds me of high school French, where we were taught to pronounce monsieur as me-shure. It's a little embarrassing.