A San Francisco jury this summer found David DePape, the man who in 2022 broke into Nancy Pelosi’s Pacific Heights home and bludgeoned her husband with a hammer, guilty of five felony charges.
I was one of the jurors.
The trial that followed DePape’s conviction and sentencing in federal court left me emotionally drained, revisiting gory evidence in my nightmares and agonizing over whether I’d correctly interpreted the subjective concept of “beyond a reasonable doubt.” Yet I emerged deeply grateful for the opportunity to be a citizen participant in the judicial process.
Being a juror wasn’t a job I wanted, especially on a high-profile trial expected to last weeks and include bloody images (the attack left Paul Pelosi with a fractured skull and traumatic brain injury) and testimony about conspiracy theories that underscore the country’s deep and disturbing divides. A number of jurors worried about maintaining their privacy during such a politically charged case and felt rattled by the press gathered just outside the San Francisco courtroom.
The other jurors ranged in age from 22 to 64 and live in neighborhoods across the city, from the Excelsior to Cole Valley, the Richmond to the Castro. As it turns out, Zach, the foreman, lives four blocks from me, a new familiar face in the neighborhood.
The jury included Matthew, a platform developer at a biotech company focused on cancer research. On breaks, we talked about his work and laughed about other potential jurors whose jobs require high levels of critical thinking, yet they suddenly became incapable of it when asked whether they could be fair and impartial. One woman said she couldn’t consider the facts objectively because she’s morally opposed to violence (as if the rest of us support it).
I thought of the bonds I’d forged with my fellow jurors during the trial’s darkest moments, such as when Paul Pelosi testified from the witness box just feet away from me. He recounted the October night when he woke to the sight of DePape looming over his bed, wielding a hammer and demanding to know where his wife was. Following the violent attack, he testified, he had to learn to walk again and still struggles with balance and dizzy spells. My dad suffered a traumatic brain injury that changed his life forever, so those details hit me extra hard.
Another difficult moment came when the court clerk read the guilty verdict on one charge that had initially divided the jury down the middle. As the verdict was delivered, my hands shook, and I saw tears in the eyes of another juror. We had pored over the evidence and debated the definition of words like “intent,” but knowing we were thorough didn’t lessen the enormity of holding sway over another person’s life.
The defendant had struggled with mental health issues and lived a difficult, isolated life, the defense told us in opening arguments. But it was only after we delivered the verdicts and left the courthouse that I learned a guilty ruling on the aggravated kidnapping charge means DePape faces a life sentence without possibility of parole.
DePape committed a horrible crime, but he had already been sentenced to 30 years in an earlier federal trial. I knew additional sentencing was the judge’s job, not mine, but I couldn’t help wondering whether my decision had ruined any chance the defendant had of a life beyond his crime. (The sentencing hearing will take place in late September at the earliest.)
Because of this, for weeks following the trial, I ruminated on the concept of “beyond a reasonable doubt” as it related to the charge that would likely land DePape in prison for good. I felt better when a relative who’s a lawyer reminded me that “beyond a reasonable doubt” doesn’t mean no doubt. All humans have doubts.
‘I felt like I was being attacked’
The American Psychological Association has found that 50% of jurors experience post-traumatic stress, especially when cases involve graphic evidence, and that condition can last months. One of my fellow jurors described a dream so terrifying that he consulted a therapist specializing in trauma. “I felt like I was being attacked,” he told me. “My nightmare was vivid and real.”
For me, the monthlong experience had a cascade of lighter effects. It got me out of my work-from-home yoga pants into real pants and pushed me beyond the cozy confines of my neighborhood.
To my surprise, serving as a juror reawakened my affection for the city I’ve lived in and loved for more than 25 years but had grown distant from as I spun deeper into my personal “doom loop,” fueled by seemingly endless headlines of a descent into urban decay. Jury duty reintroduced me to the optimistic sides of San Francisco.
Some days, I’d stroll home through Civic Center Plaza, contemplating trial evidence as I stopped to watch strangers hunched over a chess board or playing table tennis. One unseasonably hot June afternoon, I detoured to the main San Francisco Public Library and marveled at the beauty of the lobby spectacularly drenched in sunlight. I hadn’t visited that branch in years.
Best of all, I got to know a diverse group of San Franciscans I would never have met had chance not filed us into a windowless courtroom with a momentous assignment. Spurred by their serious commitment to jury duty, disruptive as the task can be, I watched the mayoral debates with renewed interest and began reading more about our city’s web of problems, including fentanyl addiction and homelessness.
At first it was odd not seeing my fellow jurors daily after sharing such an intense and singular experience. But we reunited one recent Saturday at a Mission bar, and the afternoon ended with talk of where we’d hold our next gathering. Alex, one of the alternate jurors, gifted everyone a bottle of his homemade hot sauce. That night, praise of it dominated our group chat.
More than two months after the trial, the sense of power and responsibility I shared with these San Franciscans remains with me, and it will for a long time. So too, I hope, will my revitalized appreciation for the city I call home.