Opinion: The Mehserle Jury Got It Right

(July 9) -- The death of Oscar Grant seems clear cut. Lying face-down on a BART train platform in Oakland, he was shot in the back by a uniformed security officer and killed. Thursday, the trial of the shooter, Johannes Mehserle, concluded. The verdict: guilty -- of involuntary manslaughter.

The result: protests in the streets.

Involuntary manslaughter isn't murder. Not in a legal sense, not in the heft of the words themselves. "Murder," we understand. If Mehserle were convicted of murder, there's a moral valuation that comes with that. In that case, we are confident that Mehserle killed Grant, meant to and must be punished. "Involuntary manslaughter" sounds like it's trying to be politically correct, like Grant's death was no one's fault, really.

But in this case, involuntary manslaughter was the right call.

At least, that was the determination of the only objective group of observers who were privy to all of the evidence, who considered that evidence in light of the legal definitions of the charges. In other words: the jury.

It's very easy to malign the jurors based on their decision. I ought to know. Last year, I served as a juror on a high-profile case in New York City, and afterward read any number of comments on news sites questioning my morality, my intelligence and my competence as a human being. I didn't understand the issues, I learned, or perhaps had missed a key piece of evidence that the writer knew would have changed my mind.

The jurors in the Mehserle case are already hearing similar feedback -- but to a much stronger degree. Do a Google search for "Oscar Grant jury" and append any pejorative you want. Something will turn up. In addition to insults, the conviction on the lesser charge is blamed on the victim's skin color or the shooter's; on that uniform; on the composition of the jury. Anything, it seems, but on a reasoned consideration of the evidence.

The jury saw the video that we all saw. But they also heard from dozens of witnesses, testifying under oath, cross-examined by the defense and prosecution. They saw physical evidence, heard boring discussions of frames of mind, learned detailed information about what makes a Taser feel different than a gun.

More importantly, they were instructed about the minute and critical differences between a charge of involuntary manslaughter and one of murder. The evidence in a trial is not presented to make a broad case for guilt, but rather to satisfy the specific requirements of the charges brought. (Here are the California penal codes for murder (187), and manslaughter (192).) These jurors, regular citizens selected at random, were asked to decide between charges that have only subtle differences, differences couched in very stylized legal language.

There's one last complication to bear in mind. The jury is instructed, repeatedly, to remember that the burden of proof is on the prosecution. That Mehserle was in fact innocent, until such time as they unanimously decided that he was guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.

And they did so. All 12 decided that they had no rational doubt that Mehserle met the standards of involuntary manslaughter. That doesn't mean that they all thought he wasn't guilty of murder. Eleven of them may have. Or they all may have felt that this was a murder, but that the prosecution left open an element of doubt. The bar for conviction is unbelievably high -- and the jurors passed it.

It's rare that we are asked to consider justice in such a pure form, setting aside biases and initial reactions, just considering raw evidence within a particular set of constraints. Many of us are never challenged to do so. The jurors in the Mehserle case didn't ask to be on the jury. Most of them probably didn't want to be. But they were. They did the job we asked of them. And they found Johannes Mehserle guilty of criminally ending the life of Oscar Grant.

The very least we owe them is a modicum of respect for their decision.

Philip Bump is a columnist for Mediaite.com focusing on technology, the media and politics. A former political and communications consultant, he lives in New York City with his wife, China, and his dog, Lucy.


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