New York City © 2008 Craig Dahlberg
Both sides had presented compelling arguments. Then, we were bussed to the accident site to examine the gasoline tanker truck’s black tire marks — long, abstract streaks of rubber distorted across the concrete, and a chaotic map of the truck’s doomed path. The twisted metal had shrieked against the concrete guardrail, and the explosion that followed had incinerated the truck.
The judge had commissioned the jury to untangle another mess: what caused the horrific accident, and who was at fault? The driver, for driving recklessly? Or the state, for an ill-conceived offramp?
The twelve of us jurors traded uneasy glances, unsure how to arrive at a verdict or how to even select a presiding juror. We fidgeted, we meditated, we evaluated, we fumbled. We were all new to this.
At last, I found myself seated in the presiding juror’s chair. I had been selected to bring twelve diverse perspectives together, and to guide us toward a unanimous verdict.
The youngest juror squirmed uncomfortably in her chair. During the courtroom proceedings, she had listened carefully as the truck driver’s family poured out their grief, speaking of the driver’s character and the void left by his absence. They wanted justice for his death.
So even before our deliberations began, she had already reached her own verdict.
But the case was not so straightforward.
The truck driver had overturned his truck while exiting a curiously designed freeway offramp. Instead of a gradual, predictable curve, its radius tightened like the ridges of a human ear. For an inattentive or a speeding driver, it was a disaster waiting to happen.
We had to decide—was the driver at fault for mishandling his truck? Or did the state bear responsibility for designing a dangerous offramp?
There was a complicating dilemma: Could both be partially at fault? If so, in what proportion?
We deliberated, drifting like a boat on an invisible tide. Blame shifted back and forth. But gradually, confusion collided with the evidence. The ramp may have been poorly conceived, but a clearly posted speed limit sign stood at the entrance to the offramp. If the truck had traveled at the posted speed, it could have safely navigated the offramp. But the truck was traveling at least fifteen miles per hour over the limit.
The driver was speeding.
We, the jurors, were nearly unanimous. All agreed that the ill-fated driver was at fault—all of us except the young juror, who eyed me with suspicion.
“I don’t agree,” she said, her voice firm. “This should have had a different outcome. The offramp design was fatally flawed. The state is to blame.”
I struggled. Yes, I felt compassion for the truck driver’s family. But I also wanted true justice, not simply an act of pity.
What is justice? I wondered. Where is the place of mercy?
We tried to reach a compromise for our split decision. A bidding war began—me against the young juror. I held the driver’s fault at 51%. She settled on 49% fault for the state. I won the bidding war.
But it felt like a hollow victory.
Yes, I believed that justice had prevailed. But I also desired comfort for the bereaved family, who had lost their loved one.
So I was left with questions that were difficult to answer.
When does compassion collide with justice? When does justice override compassion?
And perhaps most importantly:
Does prevailing by doing the “right thing” lead us to pride? Or can compassion and justice lead to a straightforward, ethical offramp that is both truthful and rich in mercy?