Why I Laughed During the Murder Trial

…And Why the Jury Hated Me

There was absolutely nothing funny about any of it.

There we sat, just feet away from the monster who plotted and carried out the savage murders of two good men - one of whom was my husband.

Nothing about seeing him, hearing all the testimony about his hatred for the commanding officer and all the times he threatened violence was funny.

Being blindsided with blown up images of my husband’s body was definitely not funny.

Being away from my kids, imagining over and over what my husband went through, hearing how preventable it all was, watching the judge cripple the prosecution’s every move, hearing how the killer stood outside the room his victims were being treated and enjoyed it, was nauseating.

And hearing about the actual last hours of my husband’s life decimated me, over and over again.

So why did I sit there each day in the front seat of that courtroom and pass jokes back and forth with the other widow? Why did I crack inappropriate jokes with the MPs? Why did I almost never behave how I truly felt?

Two reasons:

First; In my mind at the time, I was determined not to give that piece of shit any more satisfaction. I knew he’d already be enjoying hearing of the pain and suffering he caused Lou and Phil. I knew he loved seeing the pictures. He was proud of himself. So I was determined not to let him ever see how much he’d broken me. And I wanted him to believe we were confident the military would strap him to a gurney and end his life.

So I saved my tears, hyperventilating, and collapses for the bathroom and my temporary apartment, and made sure to appear as if I was in a constant state of happiness as I imagined his demise.

Or so I thought in my own traumatized mind.

Which brings me to the second reason: Trauma.

I was in fact so completely overwhelmed with my pain, and the trauma of what we sat through in court each day was so enormous, that if I didn’t find some way to block some of it I would not physically have been able to show up.

When I was alone in the apartment, I fell apart. It took more strength than I express to get dressed and walk into that courtroom each day, and to be on my feet to walk back out.

Laughter is a powerful distraction. I wasn’t about to get hammered each morning - although plenty of wine was consumed each night and it didn’t help, anyway.

No, I knew that if I let myself break- even for a moment-in that courtroom, I would not recover. And it was too personal. Those moments were for private. So in the absence of anything else, I clung to laughter like it was a lifejacket tossed to me in the middle of the ocean. It was my method of survival.

I made the unfortunate mistake of not checking to make sure the bathroom was empty on one break, after some more grueling testimony. A family member took one stall. I took another, and I cracked a dumb joke about the family who pees together gets to watch an execution together, or something equally unfunny.

And we laughed.

Until the other stall door opened and one of the most unfriendly jurors walked out, having heard it all.

This juror, incredibly, was married to another juror. I nicknamed her husband “Captain Angry” because he looked mad all the time. They both emphatically stated they would never convict anyone if it meant that person would receive the death penalty.

The second day of their questioning, their responses to each question was identical to one another. They both stated that even if their own son was murdered, they would vote against the death penalty.

Tell me any other trial - anywhere - with a married couple on the jury.

I’ll wait…

But I digress.

This juror actually rolled her eyes at me the day I gave a brief testimony. (I wrote about that in my books, Front Toward Enemy, and What Not to Wear to a Murder Trial). It was a crippling moment that made me want to turn and run before I even made it to the stand.

She definitely felt nothing but contempt for me. And some other biases played in as well.

So that day in the bathroom, I knew that if her vote was not already made, it was then.

To this day I sometimes wonder if my behavior in that courtroom - and the bathroom that day- made it easier for those jurors to do what they did.

I know for certain that outside of the courtroom, the things I did out of fatigue, desperation, confusion, anger - all of it - made it easier for people to pass judgement than appreciate that those behaviors were more of a cry for help than anything else.

So it makes sense that the jurors did, too.

No sense dwelling in it, I know. But I do allow myself to draw the lesson out.

I do my very best now, not to make snap judgements about people. If someone is rude, or careless, or reacts to an event in a way I don’t like, I catch myself before I fall into the judgement trap.

I have no idea what goes on in their worlds, behind closed doors, beyond social media.

I know there are many layers to a story. I know that most of the time, those stories are none of my business.

And I know that grief and trauma appear in several forms.

If you’re grieving or healing from trauma, show yourself some grace. Don’t be afraid to ask directly for help instead of attempting to self medicate with distractions of all kinds.

And if you are tempted to believe the worst of someone because they don’t live through their pain the way you think they should, or you think they should be “over it by now,” maybe try some grace, yourself.

—
Barb Allen
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