We know a bit about why the Bill Cosby jury deadlocked. Some of it sounds sadly familiar to me.

I was a juror in a notorious Dallas County rape trial. I've served in three other cases as well. I'm also a journalist who has covered hundreds of crimes, trials, lawsuits and legal proceedings and has studied the jury system. The Cosby mistrial underscores what I've found: Jurors' prejudices and confusion over facts and arguments can't be fixed in a courtroom. They're windows on society.

A Cosby juror, an older man, told philly.com the encounter must have been consensual because, Cosby claimed earlier, accuser Andrea Constand showed her midriff and gave him gifts. The juror also suggested that 60 women, strangers, separately decided to pile onto, of all people, America's Dad. And he said the jury couldn't find legal terms such as "reckless" and "severely impaired" in the evidence, apparently thinking justice requires keywords. His comments, the report said, "seemed to echo the trial defense Cosby's lawyers sought to present."

Dean Rohrer/NewsArt.com ( / )

Lawyers often tap jurors' biases. Many people are unprepared to resist — to suppress bias and treat arguments as the nonfactual, non-evidentiary spin that they are. We see this in politics, cable news and online. We should recognize it in criminal justice.

Journalism and jury service share skills: You sift facts, accounts and advocacy. Courthouse and newsroom folklore says reporters never get onto juries. Prosecutors see bleeding hearts or cynical nihilists. Defense attorneys, more willing, still see wild cards. The real reason rests on firmer ground: Reporters know most courtroom tactics and can spot a dissembling witness, shaky narrative or tortured argument. Lawyers prefer an open field.

Still, I've made the cut four times. Or rather, I wasn't cut. Jury selection is rejection: Excuse the least desirable and empanel the first 12 remaining. Attorneys can't pick jurors, but each side can boot a set number for no stated reason, called peremptory challenges, and a set number for cause, telling the judge why.

Challenges come for good reasons and bad, and from open and hidden motives — including society's worst. A 2005 Dallas Morning News investigation that I helped edit found that each side manipulated juries' racial makeup. Prosecutors targeted blacks and defense attorneys, whites. None admitted it. One prosecutor told a judge he rejected a black man because, in his experience, people with gold teeth aren't truthful. Such dodges are attempts to evade Batson v. Kentucky (1986), in which the Supreme Court banned racial, ethnic or gender bias in criminal jury selection. Jurors are still struck for venal, racist or superstitious reasons, but less often for insufficient thinking.

I first served in a strong-armed robbery case in Florida. We stood in a jammed hallway awaiting voir dire, or the questioning of prospective jurors. Chained inmates came through. "They sure look guilty, don't they?" a fellow juror said. I replied that handcuffs and stenciled jump suits would brand anyone, including him and me. He shrugged.

The prosecutor didn't want me but needed a cause. My answers provided nothing. Finally, he asked for my favorite president. Roosevelt, I said. He smiled smugly, but froze halfway to his seat: "Which one?" Either, I said, but today I'd go with Teddy. Moments later I was on the jury.

We convicted.

The rape case in which I served four years ago involved a nighttime attack on a woman delivering a pizza. Ferrious Cannon, 18 at trial, placed an order to an empty house in Grand Prairie using a fake caller ID. He planned a robbery. When a woman arrived, he added rape.

Cannon videoed the assault. The video vanished, but police secured reluctant testimony from those he showed it to. They had known of his plan. News media covered the crime and trial.

For us, unlike the Cosby jury, conviction was simple. We had a thorough investigation, clear evidence, and a victim whose testimony was detailed, consistent and — for all who heard it except, it seemed, the defendant — wrenching.

It was during penalty deliberations that the power of argument appeared. Aggravated sexual assault and aggravated robbery, each with a deadly weapon, carried from five to 99 years. We had to weigh justice for the victim, society's safety and the prospect of locking up a young man for life.

No choice seemed automatic to me except rejecting probation. The defense attorney, appointed to a seemingly hopeless case, had dutifully listed the conditions: check-ins, random drug tests, warrantless search, no weapons or criminal associates, sex-offender status, travel limits and prison for violations.

To some, that sounded like virtual jail and was worth discussing. I knew from experience that such conditions were no assurance. Violent crimes by violent probationers, I said, were too common for all to make the news. But the lawyer had hit his target: jurors who might consider swapping the case's factual core — a woman was raped and the rapist bragged about it — for an unprovable argument.

Talk of probation also undermined the case's moral core. The victim had trusted a dozen strangers with her worst past and best future. One juror said probation sounded tough enough to keep anyone's behavior in check. Throughout the trial, however, I had watched the defendant for any sign of fear, nervousness, anger at injustice or even interest. I saw none.

Given the damage and danger, I decided I could accept no less than 25 years. That's where we settled after 1 ½ days of difficult, respectful debate. Afterwards, speaking informally, the prosecutor told us 25 years seemed fair to her but was not enough to make the victim feel safe. The defense attorney told us that the judge, in a post-conviction sidebar, asked if his client had expressed any remorse. "None whatsoever, your honor," the lawyer said.

Other cases have taught me different lessons. A female juror couldn't sympathize with the female victim of a man's threats and stalking because "she looks trashy." Only her last-minute vote change saved us from an embarrassing, Cosbyesque deadlock. Another juror called a slip-and-fall claim a naked money grab with a thin factual basis. We concurred. That outspoken juror was a white Vietnam War veteran. So was the plaintiff who made the claim. The defendant, a store owner, was a Vietnamese immigrant. His surprise at our finding and his mouthed "thank you" affirmed that good jurors aren't mere robots ruled by race and background.

Judges can't correct all shortcomings. We can't have psychologists profile all jurors. Since Henry II's mandate in 1166 — "twelve of the more lawful men ... [shall swear] upon oath that they will speak the truth" - voir dire has performed better in concept than in its particulars.

After watching thousands of my fellow Americans in courtrooms as a reporter, and deliberating with dozens of them in locked jury rooms, I've concluded that the only solutions to ill-equipped jurors are obvious but hard: Nurturing skills in our schools, homes, politics and culture. Telling fact from feeling, evidence from argument, and science from sophistry. Learning to gag when fed public poisons.

And recognizing our lesser natures and caring enough to elevate them. With that, we might see at last, in and out of the jury room, that rape victims weren't asking for it, a woman's look doesn't mark her worth, and a man's dentistry doesn't define his character.

Randy Lee Loftis is a journalism lecturer at the University of North Texas and a former Dallas Morning News reporter. Email: randyloftis@gmail.com

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