Sylvia's Journal

Yesterday was entirely dominated by my first experience of jury duty, billed as both a right and a privilege.

I was registered as juror number 37. I wanted to get number 8 and re-enact Henry Fonda’s brilliant performance in Twelve Angry Men in which he shows great emotional intelligence and brilliant logical reasoning, knitted together with charm, maturity and wisdom. I would have loved to have the chance to say quietly, ‘let’s just talk.’

But before I became juror nr 37 I had to sit through a half hour orientation conducted by a jury officer who had honed his talk to be understandable and intelligible to the lowest common denominator of The American People. It was agony to sit through his endless repetitions, answering questions no one asked, or rather, he asked on our behalf and then answered. The question of why we had to wait in a church basement when we were here on duty for the government, probably anticipating church-state separation protest, was actually not on anyone’s mind but he answered it nevertheless, two times actually. The first time in a ‘comical’ way as he admitted (“it is easier to pray to God that you will not be called”) and then a second ‘no kidding’ answer that the church had kindly offered to put us up during our, potentially entire day’s wait in a place that was, in my mind only slightly more comfortable than the hard wooden benches in the courthouse.

We had all been told, weeks before our date, on various pieces of paper that came in the mail, in huge white letters on a black background to bring our confidential questionnaire and call a number the day before to see if we would be dismissed. Nevertheless several people showed up whose number had been dismissed (if they had called the day before they would have known and not needed to show up) and about one third of the people present had not (NOT) brought the questionnaire. I am not sure what this says about The American People: they either don’t know how to read, can’t be bothered to read or simply are so stressed out by jury duty that their normal brain functions are temporarily disabled. I can’t think of another reason. But it does make you wonder about the quality of the deliberations that we are all supposed to engage in if we are selected. I thought of Henry Fonda again; the stuff he had to put up with! I wondered about all the emotional baggage and psychodynamic stuff that this group of people carried into the church basement and into the jury pool. One woman was reading a book with the title ‘How to live successfully with screwed up people.’ Another was reading ‘Trial by Fury’ (I am not making this up!). I knew then that I was in for a treat.

We were informed about breaks with special mention that taking insulin at any time was OK. Apparently there have been some scares and emergencies caused by the many signs that say ‘no eating and no drinking’ in the courthouse. Diabetes is pretty much a national disease in this country and so insulin is now part of the orientation. There were a few very obese people in the pool and the information must have been a relief to some of them.

Our holding pen was the basement of the Tabernacle Church. It looked like all other church basements with long folding tables and hard metal folding chairs. The walls were decorated with handmade quilts of happy hands and proclamations that we are all children of God. There was nothing by way of entertainment and I felt sorry for the people who did not bring anything to read or do as I had an inkling that the day was going to be very long. I had come prepared and considered the situation no different from travelling overseas with endless waits: in airports until it was time to take off and in planes until it was time to land. Except this wait might have a surprise at the end (a case), like a toy in a cereal box which you cannot have until the box is empty. The excitement comes from the anticipation, not usually the toy itself.

And so the real wait began at 9 o’clock. I used the time to clean out my email box. I received an email from my Iraqi doctor friend Samer who forwarded me something that requires multiple clicks on forwarded attachments to get a slideshow about conducting CPR on yourself while driving in a car alone far away from a hospital in case of a heart attack. The trick is to cough repeatedly. IT COULD SAFE YOUR LIFE screams the PowerPoint with much flashing of arrows and stars. It is rather touching to think that an Iraqi doctor believes I need to have this information, living in a place with more hospitals per square mile than any other place in the world. I am touched but delete it anyways. I am on his ‘forward’ list and get much internet flotsam and jetsam through him often in Arabic and often with pictures that make fun of Iraq’s ex-president the same way we make fun of our current one. I do not respond to his emails anymore (I used to) as I don’t want to encourage a more active correspondence of this kind.

My email cleanup project was interrupted by the same officer who did our orientation. He apologized profusely for moving into what he called ‘one-way communication.’ I realized quickly that this was code for “do as I tell you!” He made a case for his authoritarian behavior which he wears like an ill-fitting suit by telling us stories about having to hunt for jurors in cafes up and down Federal Street. It was clear that he considered us his flock of sheep and I suspected he is held accountable for us being there when we are called. I am sure that the wrath of lawyers and judges is something he wants to avoid at all cost since he is the little guy in the chain here. The rules he imposed on us are undoubtedly based on years of experience with what Axel’s father used to call ‘The Great American Public,’ and I don’t envy him, having to go through this day after day.

We were told to watch a video which has various characters, carefully gender balanced but not racially balanced, about what is awaiting us if we get to be selected. First lots of thank yous for fulfilling our sacred duty, then some explanations of terms and the kinds of trials we might be part of and finally the dos and don’ts of juror deliberations. I learned that what the foreman of twelve Angry Men did (a straw vote at the start of the deliberations) is not a good thing. Advances in social psychology since then must have shown that, once stated, a person’s opinion may not change that easily anymore out of fear of looking dumb or impulsive. I am not sure if this is true but if it is, the system is capable of learning; miracles happen alongside with shit!

After the obligatory watching of the video we were released for a coffee break with directions to Dunkin Donuts down the street and a plea to be back at 10:30 (or else!). At 11:15 a new jury officer comes to get us. Like ducklings we file out of the church basement, across the street and into the District Court building where we were told that there were only two cases requiring 12 people (out of the 30 or so of our pool). We were seated in a windlowless courtroom that was designed to impress and/or intimidate with cold stone walls and clear signs of who is in charge (The Government of the United States of America!).

The first jury selection process was for a drunken driving case. It took about one hour. Everything was done in an atmosphere of hushed awe with various suits whispering while standing at what is called the side bar, if I got that right. One by one jurors were called ‘to step up to the side bar.’ Here they were questioned by the judge and attorneys and one more person in a suit who called our numbers. To my great surprise jury number one was the first to be called. I had expected something more random. The jury box, one level down from our ‘pool’ benches at the back, has only 7 seats. They were filled before we got to number 10. With my number 37 I thought I’d be scot-free and on my way home in no time but I was wrong. People already seated in the jury box were returned to the pool for reasons only known to the four whispering suits at the side bar.

One of our group knew the defendant and another the policeman witness. They were dismissed for this case and returned to the pool, three rows of benches in the back. One woman was sent home in tears, after she was given some kleenex. May be she had lost her husband in a drunken driving accident. She was excused for the day. The rest of us watched intently for clues about why people did or did not get selected. I saw people nod and shake their heads and wondered what questions they were asked; questions best asked in private about alcohol use and opinions about alcohol maybe? I wondered whether Quakers are generally known as teetotalers and if should I mention the plane crash and our reduced alcohol consumption since last July? As more numbers were called up we entered the twenties, then thirties of the juror numbers. One or the other of the whispering attorneys continued to dismiss prospective jurors back into the pool. They are allowed to do that, some for reason and some for no reason at all. There were words for that in the video but I had already forgotten those.

The selection process remained very mysterious to me. It felt a bit like musical chairs except the rules of the game were not clear. Suddenly my number was up (is this where the expression comes from?). I was not even questioned and ordered straight into chair #2 in the jury box and I wondered ‘why me?’ But before I had a chance to answer that question I was released back into the pool again, like an undersized lobster (don’t take this personally the lady on the video had said earlier). Finally the attorneys and judges agreed on a new occupant for chair 2 and with that the slection process was completed. I had escaped by a hair (I seem to do that a lot these days!). The remaining twenty two of us were sent back to the church basement. It was close to lunchtime but the second case was not ready for jury selection yet.

After that some bonding began to happen; the two Asian looking women sat together and people started to talk. We were no longer strangers, and bound by a same wish (to be dismissed altogether). I was relieved that I didn’t have to hear the testimonies in the drunken driving case. I watched the defendant and wondered what it would be like to sit so exposed to total strangers and what tragedy was hiding behind the facts that would be presented later? After our final dismissal, later in the day we learned that the DUI case is continuing today!

We were let out for lunch into the most horrid weather, which led me back into the basement as soon as I had finished my sandwich. I did not want to risk coming back too late and sent home without any credit. We had to wait for another hour and a half on our hard church seats, yawning in chorus out of sheer boredom making us look like a bunch of unlikely candidates for serious decision making about someone else’s life.

At 3:30 PM a female jury officer explained that case two was being settled and did not require a jury. This announcement was greeted with a big cheer from everyone. She promised us certificates as if we had just completed a course and told us that we would be exempted from jury duty for the next three years. Within minutes the basement was empty and we were all strangers again.