Author Archives: Michael Froomkin

A Brooklyn grand jury has something to teach us about the rule of law — and about the CIA's secret prisons and Guantanamo too.

The author of the essay that follows, John Sifton, is an attorney and private investigator, and the director of One World Research, an investigation firm specializing in human rights and public interest cases. He posted the essay that follows to a mailing list I belong to. I liked it and asked him if I could link to it, but it turned out that it hasn't been published anywhere. John has graciously allowed me to publish it here for the first time.

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Grand Jury Brooklyn: Due Process, from NYC to CIA

By John Sifton

A few months ago, in the waning days of summer, I experienced the privilege-and the banality-of serving on a criminal grand jury in Brooklyn.

For two weeks, sworn to secrecy, my fellow jurors and I heard indictments in a catalog of felony cases: murder, assault, sexual abuse, drug and weapon possession, robbery, larceny, and sundry other violations of the New York Penal Code. We listened to testimony from victims, witnesses, police officers, and alleged perpetrators and alibi-providers, and we deliberated on whether to issue indictments. It was an edifying ordeal.

My jury of 23 was a classic Brooklyn bevy: various ethnicities, ages, races, and backgrounds. Our group included subway train drivers, sanitation workers, teachers, and various others from across the socio-economic ladder (but gravitating toward the lower end). The core of the jury was comprised of women, 18 in total: eleven black, two white, two Hispanic (one old and one young), a Russian matriarch, a two young woman of East Asian and South Asian descent. The remaining five males included three black men (including the foreman), me (“the white guy”) and a very young Israeli with dual citizenship who had just finished military service guarding border posts on the West Bank. During the two weeks of service, some interesting and unexpected cliques formed.

How I came to sit on this jury was a matter of controversy to my friends and employers.

“You couldn't get out of it?” friends asked. Colleagues were also incredulous. I am a human rights lawyer and a private investigator and I work on a lot of cases involving detainees at Guantanamo Bay or secret CIA prisons-facilities in which grand juries are not used. Few believed that prosecutors allowed me to serve. Others were amazed that I didn't lie outright in order to avoid service, as others apparently have. (Various lies suggested: “I'm a Quaker, etc.” “I'm a vociferous racist; I just can't be impartial,” and “I typically have to urinate every five to ten minutes.”)

The truth is, it isn't easy to get out of grand jury service. Grand juries aren't like trial juries. Unlike trial juries, there is no adversarial process, no judges and no lawyers for the defendants; the only officials present are Assistant District Attorneys (ADAs), who run the process with a subtle but steely fist. The ADAs aren't as anxious about particular jurors as attorneys might be with trial juries. Unlike with a trial jury, votes are not as momentous, and a single juror is not as vital.

After all, grand juries do not decide guilt. Instead, they vote to indict people, and the voting need not be unanimous, nor do those who vote to indict need to be convinced beyond a reasonable doubt that the accused committed a crime. All that is needed for an indictment is that a majority of the jury, 12 out of 23, believe that it is reasonably likely that the person accused of a crime actually committed it, based on the evidence presented. Twelve Angry Men, it's not. A single Henry Fonda character, or even a vacillating Hamlet, can't screw up an indictment.

So there was little chance of escape. In the initial excusal process, wardens excuse non-working parents with children under five, doctors, non-English speakers, certain small business owners, and people with serious health problems. Others postpone their service temporarily, as I did on three previous occasions. But there are few hopes beyond this. Once you-the hapless citizen of Brooklyn-receive your summons, you're snagged in a net from which extrication is impossible. If you're a citizen, have a pulse, and live in Brooklyn, you're going to be chosen. (And if you're not chosen-say, because the juries that day are filled-they'll call you back a few weeks later when they do need you.)

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What happens on a Grand Jury? I am forbidden by law to write about the details, as jurors are sworn to secrecy about the cases presented. But to generalize permissibly, the process goes like this on any given day:

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