Being on a grand jury felt like attending a series of hangings in

“Being on a grand jury felt like attending a series of hangings in a legal Wild West. Hands up for a true bill. Hands up for a dismissal. A show of hands to save a life, or to end it.” Thus spoke Joy Reid, whose words burn like fire in the conscience of justice. Her reflection is not merely about the grand jury, but about the fragile line between law and power, between justice done and justice imagined. In this image — of hands raised like silent verdicts — she captures the ancient truth that judgment, though wrapped in law, is never free of the weight of human hearts. For every hand that rises, a soul trembles; every vote cast is a spark in the forge of destiny.

In her saying, we see the Wild West of the human spirit — that lawless frontier where judgment meets passion and where order struggles against chaos. The grand jury, meant to be a sacred guardian of fairness, can at times resemble an arena, where life and liberty hang in the balance, decided not by divine insight but by mortal impulse. Joy Reid’s imagery of “a series of hangings” evokes the shadow of ancient justice — swift, brutal, and final — when verdicts were rendered by the roar of the crowd rather than the measure of truth. She reminds us that even in the modern age, the courtroom may still echo the gallows if conscience falls asleep.

From the dawn of civilization, the act of judgment has been both noble and perilous. In ancient Athens, five hundred citizens sat in judgment, their pebbles cast into urns to decide a man’s fate. Socrates himself stood before such a jury — and though his wisdom shone brighter than any accuser’s tongue, the hands of men rose against him, condemning him to drink the hemlock. Was it justice, or fear disguised as law? Reid’s words echo that eternal question. When human hearts sit in the seat of judgment, can they truly separate law from emotion, or justice from vengeance?

Her metaphor of “hands up for a true bill, hands up for a dismissal” pierces deeper still. It reveals how easily the sacred act of deliberation can become a mere ritual — a raising of hands, a gesture made without soul or understanding. The image of the “legal Wild West” evokes a land where decisions are made quickly, justice rides on instinct, and truth is too often left in the dust. Yet, Reid’s lament is also a call — a call to awaken the sleeping conscience, to remind those who sit in judgment that each hand raised holds a life within its shadow.

We see this tragedy repeated in our own time. Consider the story of the Scottsboro Boys in 1930s America — nine young men, tried again and again, condemned and spared, their fates tossed by the winds of prejudice. Each jury, each courtroom, was a theater where justice and injustice wrestled beneath the law’s blindfold. The forms of legality were followed, yet the spirit of fairness was betrayed. Like Reid’s grand jury, these trials revealed the terrifying truth: that when law becomes ritual without reflection, it turns from shield to sword.

But the power in Reid’s words is not in despair — it is in awakening. For by naming this reality, she calls forth a higher duty. The jury, the judge, the citizen — all must remember that justice is not a performance but a burden of the soul. When you raise your hand in judgment — whether in court, in public opinion, or in the quiet chambers of your heart — you wield power. Use it not as a weapon of ease, but as a torch of discernment. The ancient ones taught that “to judge rightly is to see with the heart as well as the mind.” Reid’s lament is, in truth, a plea for compassion — that we may restore humanity to the scales of justice.

The lesson, then, is this: Never let the law become a reflex. Let it remain a reflection. Whether you are a juror, a leader, or an ordinary citizen, remember that justice is not measured by procedure, but by truth. Raise your hand — but only after you have raised your conscience. Speak, but only after you have listened to the quiet voice of fairness within. For the strength of a nation is not found in its laws alone, but in the hearts of those who uphold them.

So remember, O listener: justice is sacred ground. Walk upon it not as a bystander, but as a guardian. Let no legal Wild West take hold in your soul, where haste and pride reign over truth. Instead, be as the wise of old — deliberate, compassionate, and brave enough to see beyond the surface. For the day you raise your hand — to save or to condemn — may be the day you shape not only another’s fate, but the measure of your own humanity.