Jurors' sound legal decision breaks their hearts

With a new feeling of confidence, we turned our attention from the table to the chalkboard. We'd let the evidence speak for itself. We spent most of the day simply listing every pertinent detail of the case.

By late afternoon, the chalk dust had settled. The answer was clear. Despite our gut instincts, we'd have to find the defendant "not guilty." Neither the logic nor the consensus was comforting.

One juror confessed that she'd been sexually abused as a child. She related the torment she endured over the years because no one had believed her at the time. She agreed in principle that "not guilty" was the right verdict, but she was emotionally unable to write the words. Tears from a well of hurt unhealed streamed down her cheeks. She lifted her head. "Does 'not guilty' mean we don't believe her?"

Her plaintive question struck me personally. Earlier, I'd wanted to give Sara a hug. Now my verdict felt to me as if it would be a slap in her face. I'd wanted to be blind to sentimentality - but I started to fear I was being blinded by hubris. I began to panic, worried about my part in bringing about this outcome.

Sara would soon hear our verdict. Almost all the jurors buried their heads in their hands, muffling sobs. There was a genuine yearning for a sense of peace, and before making the vote official, we took a break to gather our emotions. To assuage the feeling we were about to make a monumental error, the youngest juror tried his hand at consolation: "I'm a religious guy, and I know the defendant will never escape God's judgment."

The verdict we handed to the judge on the charge of indecent assault and battery on a child under the age of 14 had no asterisk explaining our reservations. In clear, emphatic tones, the judge read: "We the jury find the defendant ... not guilty."

Sara collapsed into her mother's arms. Most of the jurors broke down, too, shaking as they left the room.

The judge came back to console us: "You are to be commended for your conscientious attention to this case. I should probably tell you now ... this defendant is facing additional charges of sexual assault in a separate case this fall."

The bottom fell out: Grown men, already in tears, lost all composure. Amid bursts of profanity, we confronted the fear that had haunted us all along: "What if we set him free and he hurts another child?"

* * *

I recently bumped into the jury forewoman on the street.

"How could we be so wrong?" she implored.

She's right in a sense.

Four years ago, a psychiatrist almost certainly sexually assaulted a fragile 7th-grade girl under his care.

Two months ago, I helped him leave court judged innocent.

Today, I stand trial before my conscience, charged with doubt and guilt. I also stand by my verdict. Sara's tears - and her suffering - may have been real. And I'm not proud of my cocksure argumentation. But in a court of law, my decision was sound.

• Joshua S. Burek, a graduate student at Harvard Divinity School, is on the Monitor staff.

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