I guess I should have rejoiced when the notice came in the mail.
After all, I was only being asked to serve on jury duty, I wasn’t
being summoned as a main character in a court trial.
I guess I should have rejoiced when the notice came in the mail. After all, I was only being asked to serve on jury duty, I wasn’t being summoned as a main character in a court trial. But like most people I inwardly rolled my eyes, hesitantly called the number on the paper, held my breath hoping I wouldn’t have to show up, then wrestled with my thoughts of civic responsibility and my own selfishness. Finally, I settled on the realization that if I was picked to serve on a jury, I would do the best I possibly could.
So one recent Wednesday morning I found myself joining dozens of others as we crowded into the courtroom. As far as representing the local community, we were a good mix – everyone from ranchers to local growers, business people to homemakers, the articulately dressed and those wearing torn jeans.
Most of us blended into the scenery, not wanting to be singled out for anything – all but one guy who looked to be in his 40s but did a wonderful impression of a spoiled 2-year-old not getting his way. Though none of us were bouncing up and down with joy at being there, he did everything possible to pout and let the world know he was too good for this gig.
First off, he stood outside the doorway, peering through the window resentfully. When he finally did come in he stood by the door until the bailiff asked that he find a seat. By that time the jury box was the only place left, so he grudgingly sat down, sighing loudly and resentfully. Arms folded, shades on, he looked like an angry biker. When the bailiff asked him to remove his shades unless they were prescription, the look he gave was childish. I found myself liking the bailiff immensely.
When we were asked as a group if anyone had any reason for not serving on this particular case, this guy practically waved his hand off. “Good riddance” could be mentally heard around the courtroom.
After a break, we were back in the courtroom, our numbers greatly diminished. Then 12 people were called to the jury box with another six seated in chairs in front of the box. I was one of the 12 sitting in the jury box. I’ve never sat there before and worked hard to contain the childish urge to swivel back and forth in the chair.
The two lawyers looked us over carefully. I was tempted to play the stare-back game but remembered the last time I tried to stare down a professional. That was back when Clinton was president and came to CSUMB. I decided to stare thoughtfully at a Secret Service agent. I ended up with two agents standing behind me and a very creepy feeling that the situation was about to get out of hand. Instead, I made my body language relaxed, yet attentive.
Now, maybe I’m remembering the old cowboy movies of my childhood where fair juries were supposedly made up of 12 peers, representing a general mish-mash of ideas, but it seems as if we’ve moved far away that ideal. After listening to the intense questioning of the lawyers for both sides, I realized there is a real art to sculpting juries to fit the needs of both the prosecutor and the defense attorney. Simply put, it’s understood that people come with their own sets of pre-judgments. Trying to weed through those tendencies and end up with 12 rather impartial jurors is a daunting task.
Unlike some potential jurors, I didn’t have anything in my history that red-flagged me for a round of questioning. While some potential jurors answered one question after another, I was asked only two. Eventually we quit for lunch. I braced myself for the fact that this time, I might actually end up being a juror.
After lunch the judge told the attorneys that this was the time they could excuse potential jurors. We weren’t to take this personally, nor would we be told why we were being excused. Juror No. 6 was the first excused. I didn’t realize this was me until the attorney said “Ms. Brown, you may leave.” Surprised, I exited the courtroom, saving my end zone dance for outside.
Maybe it was because the judge is a friend or because I write for the paper. Whatever the reason, I’m free from this particular civic duty for another year. My only regret is, though I scoured the courtroom for just one glance, my favorite courtroom hero was nowhere to be seen. For me, watching Perry Mason work would have been worth serving on any jury.
