Grand Juries, Petit Juries, One Special Grand Jury, Eight Real Life Jurors, A Real Life Judge, George Clooney And Me

© Jeffrey Robinson 2025

The envelope that arrived in the mail last month had a familiar look to it. I’d seen it before. The sender was The New York County Clerk, Division of Jurors, with bold letters on the front announcing, “Jury Summons Enclosed.”

But unlike previous notices, inside were the words, “Grand Jury.”

America’s Grand Jury system is a vestige of the British judicial system that we inherited after (rightly) dumping their tea in Boston Harbor. Since then, the Brits have abandoned the Grand Jury system but we haven’t.

Except, a few states have.

The idea of a Grand Jury is not to decide guilt or innocence. It is a check-and-balance on the prosecution to determine if they have sufficient evidence to bring a person accused of a felony before a “Petit Jury” which is a regular criminal trial. It is a system used federally, and in 23 of the 50 states. Of the remaining 27 states, 25 have laws that permit prosecutors the discretion whether or not to seat a Grand Jury, or to bring felony charges directly. In two states, Connecticut and Pennsylvania, Grand Juries have been abolished, although both States retain provisions for investigative Grand Juries.

The way it works is 23 citizens, sworn to secrecy, sit in a secure room where the prosecutor presents his case. The defense is not usually present. There may or may not be witnesses presented by the prosecutor to bolster his case. In some cases the defendant can testify, but that’s unusual.

Again, this is not to determine innocence or guilt. It is only to decide if the evidence is worthy enough for a trial.

If the Grand Jury votes “A True Bill,” the defendant is “indicted.” A trial follows. If they vote “No True Bill” the charges are dropped, the defendant walks. Or, the Grand Jurors can ask the prosecutor to come back with a fuller explanation of the charges.

It is an understatement to say that most of the time, Grand Juries vote to indict. On the federal level, it supposedly occurs at a rate of over 99%. On the state level, while figures vary per state, is thought to be around 90%. Hence the expression that a Grand Jury would indict a ham sandwich.

Frankly, that gives the Grand Jury system an unfair reputation. Nor does it say much for ham sandwiches.

Still, knowing that about Grand Juries - because I’ve been writing about them for so long, and also because we watch “Law and Order SVU” - I was pleasantly surprised to find out that I was being summoned to sit on not just any Grand Jury.

Mine was going to be a Special Grand Jury.

It made me feel very grown up.

*****

Here I digress to say I have, for years, been endlessly fascinated by juries, and writing about them in non-fiction and in novels.

It began when I first saw “Twelve Angry Men” nearly 70 years ago. One of the best depictions of the criminal justice system ever put on film, it starred Lee J. Cobb, Henry Fonda, Marty Balsam, Jack Klugman, Ed Begley, Jack Warden and E.G. Marshall, among others. Not to be missed, the story revolves around the changing attitudes of a jury, as expressed opinions turn into a fierce battle of ideas.

As one critic wrote, the film depicts, “How personal experiences, discrimination, and emotion can impede the American justice system, and how reason, logic, and compassion can protect and uphold due process.”

That fascination was reinforced a few years later, reading Harper Lee’s absolutely brilliant 1960 novel, “To Kill A Mockingbird.” And two years after that, seeing an equally brilliant Greg Peck in the film adaption of Lee’s novel.

But it didn’t really come to a peak until 60+ years later when I privately interviewed a real jury.

I’m writing a big new non-fiction book - hopefully to appear next year - about an horrific 13 year-long case of Medicare fraud, where prosecutors (I believe, maliciously) pursued a cardiologist in an attempt to criminalize medical judgement.

His first trial, seven or eight years ago, ended with a jury conviction. That jury conviction was overturned by the judge. The government appealed and the appeals court overruled the judge. So that judge, who’d been previously convinced that the government had not proven guilt, sent the doctor to prison for five years.

It then came to light that the prosecution had withheld from the appeals court a serious Brady violation – evidence that could be deemed exculpatory – so the appeals court now overruled itself and freed the man after serving nine months, and ordered a second trial.

At that trial, late in 2023, the jury returned one count of not-guilty and was hung on the other charges. By then, the jury had disintegrated into yelling and screaming and near fisticuffs. The judge declared a mistrial, the prosecution gave up and the defendant walked away a free man.

So last year, I went to Kentucky to interview jurors. Eight of the 12 agreed to sit down with me.

I was fascinated, but not necessarily surprised, how nearly all of them gave me different descriptions of what went on in the jury room during those deliberations.

But then, I was surprised – in fact, near-shocked – when the majority of those who’d voted guilty could not articulate the specifics of any crime the defendant had supposedly committed, but still voted guilty because, “He made too much money, so there must have been a crime somewhere.”

I can’t help but think that while a jury system might be the best we’ve got, it seems worryingly fallible to the whims of prejudice, stupidity, myopia, bullying and injustice.

*****

On the designated Monday, I reported, as required, at 10 am to the New York County Criminal Court House downtown on Center Street. Several hundred of us, who’d also received this summons, were ushered into a large courtroom where a smiling woman suggested none of us should think of this as having lost the Lotto, but rather we should be proud of the fact that we, as citizens, have duty, a right and a privilege to serve.

Hardly anyone believed her. But I did. After all, spending a few days every four or six or eight years like this is one way every citizen supports the system of justice that contributes to the benefits of being a citizen. It’s a way of giving back.

Next, a young Assistant District Attorney (ADA) explained that this was a Special Grand Jury convened to hear three very complicated, and very violent, criminal conspiracies. Therefore, instead of serving for, say, two to four weeks, this Special Grand Jury would sit for six months. The collective groan of possibly jurors was loud enough to be heard all the way to Brooklyn.

But there’s good news, he went on. First, jurors will be paid $40 a day. (The fellow next to me whispered, “I’d give them $80 a day not to appear.”) Then, the ADA announced that this Special Grand Jury would only meet twice a week, with time off for legal holidays and the summer, and that jurors would only sit for three hours each day. On top of that, he promised, everyone who serves will be excluded from any further jury for eight years.

Unfortunately, for him - and for the system - the good news was not good enough to overshadow the reality of the situation, that this would take up six hours a week, not counting travel time on overcrowded Q Trains, until the end of the six-month term. And then, the State of New York would only pay you that $40 a day if your employer wouldn’t.

At the bottom of the summons was a small detachable coupon with your name and address and jury identification number on it, which we all detached and which the lady clerk collected. There was also a form to fill out, for which she handed out pens. I took one – it was an official (albeit cheap) ball point with a logo from the New York County Grand Jury – and I mumbled, “Great, a souvenir.”

She said to me, loud enough for everyone to hear, “The State of New York is broke, you have to give it back.”

Once she’d collected that detachable square, she put them all together and did a roll-call, asking everyone to respond, “Serve. Or, Application.”

To everyone’s delight, suddenly, this was turning out to be a voluntary process.

Sort of.

If you said “Serve,” she put your detachable coupon on one side of the table and said, thank you. If you said, “Application,” she said you might be able to get out of this Special Grand Jury but would have to serve on another Grand Jury within the next six months. Most of the people in the room said, “Application.”

I responded, “Proudly serve” at which time she said, “You can keep the pen.”

Because she had nearly 60 “Serves” – more than enough to fill the 23 required seats of a Grand Jury - the Application people quickly disappeared, most of them seemingly happy to fight another day. The rest of us were told to return the next day.

Honestly, I was not only happy to serve, I was looking forward to hearing these cases because when you write for a living, some stories you hear become grist for the mill. Sure, Grand Juries are held in secrecy, and you have to swear that you will keep the secrets. But these were intriguing cases which would come complete with intricate plots, inside stories of police work, great characters plus all the twists and turns of criminal behavior. And like whipped cream on top of a sundae, there would be taIes of money laundering. I knew from experience I could use this eventually, somewhere, without breaching my oath of secrecy.

But that’s when a niggling doubt crept into my head that I might have a conflict of interest.

Since writing The Laundrymen, more than 30 years ago, I have had personal and professional relationships with certain people in the New York District Attorney’s Office. They are sources of more grist for the mill. It’s much the same with various US Attorneys’ Offices, plus law enforcement agencies all over the world, including the NYPD. After all, the job of an author is not just to tell stories, you need to spend the time developing and maintaining contacts so you can harvest their stories.

Accordingly, I approached the ADA and said that while I wanted to serve, I might be conflicted. I told him, “The last thing I want is to vote A True Bill only to have some defense attorney later claim that the presence of an author with sources inside the DANY polluted the Grand Jury.”

He understood and said he would take it up with the attorneys who would be presenting case.

The following day, we 60-chosen-“Serve” folks assembled in another courtroom, where a clerk took attendance and invited anyone who had decided, for whatever reason, they could not serve, to raise their hands. Around 20 were told they would be excused, this time to select a more convenient date to serve on a Petit Jury.

The rest of us were then shown a couple of short videos about Grand Jury service, after which the clerk roll-called the 40 or so remaining, to come up with 23 Grand Jurors. My name was called as Number 20.

That’s when the ADA came up to me and whispered, “After the judge explains what is expected of the Grand Jury, and before she swears them in, she will speak with you privately.”

In fact, she heard from three of us. One woman went into a private room with the judge, but came out quickly – I don’t know what she said or why she was referred to the judge – but she sat down again with the jury. Then a young man was called in. He’d told me that a relative had been a gang member and had been killed and thought that might disqualify him from hearing a gang case. The judge said no, and he also returned to the jury.

Then I went in.

I was disappointed that this was not in her chambers, like you see on television. Instead, it was an old, tired and dusty conference room. The judge was seated at the side of a table. Two clerks were standing, as was the ADA. So were two large uniformed men with guns.

I introduced myself and the judge said she knew who I was.

When I mentioned my book The Laundrymen, she said she remembered it.

I asked if she’d bought a copy at the time or simply borrowed one. She said she couldn’t remember. I explained that if she would, from now on, please be kind enough buy my other books, I’d appreciate it because this late in life my goal is to make my wife a wealthy widow. She said she would remind her husband about such a worthy ambition.

I briefly explained my relationship with the DANY and she said, “I know about that and I believe that your association with DANY is disqualifying. I don’t want you on my jury.”

So I was officially bounced.

While suffering the Q Train home, I assured myself that the bright side of this was being recognized by the judge, exactly the way that would happen if George Clooney showed up for jury duty.

My wife assured me, “That’s as far as the resemblance goes between you and George Clooney.”

We’ve been married long enough that I know when to give up. But under my breath

I quietly mumbled, “No, it’s also that George Clooney never wrote The Laundrymen.”

*****