Civic Duty

I was summoned for jury duty. It's one of those anticipated, unavoidable, life experiences that, even when you have the date and know it's coming, you believe on some deep, fundamental level, that it won't happen to you. Like death.

Well, the day arrived and I reported. There are probably 300 of us, assembled in the largest courtroom auditorium, watching the banal, insipid, short film produced to inspire our patriotic duty and love of justice that will encourage our compliant involvement in the mandatory service, required by summons, during the next few insufferably boring hours and/or days. I can't imagine the vast array of quashed circumstances that have been put in indefinite stasis in order to participate in this love-of-the-law fest. I'm fighting for all I'm worth not to be bitter.

The next ploy is: divide and conquer. We are randomly(?) divided into "panels". We feel absurdly privileged when the panel we "belong" to is "called". Really, it's a spiritual exercise. The "called" are removed from the masses to a special, better place. We believe in that "place". Anything is preferable to the abject misery of enforced boredom. The chairs are hard and uncomfortable and too few in number. There is no natural light. The windows that be, are covered in blinds and/or draperies. We are herded and managed by matrons, ala Nurse Ratchett. The ceilings in the jury rooms are low. We potential jurors have all brought distractions, but these quickly lose their glamour. Too many people talking to read, too many people present to speak comfortably on the cell phone, too few plugs for the laptops, too few options in the coffee shop. No where to walk...no where to run.

So, as our panel files into the designated courtroom for selection, we aren't thinking about anyone but ourselves. This is new, this is interesting, this is different. Oh, there's the judge, all stand; there's the defendant, all boo - not really, that would be rude. There's the defense attorney, demon seed; there's the prosecuting attorney, saving us from evil. I was surprised at the strength of my preconceptions. It's not easy to practically translate the noble precept of "guilty until proven innocent". By the time the jury panel files in, there is a huge assumption of quilt. The defendant has been arrested, arraigned, there is enough evidence to prosecute and the trial by jury is about to begin, inconveniencing innumerable innocent by-standers, not to mention there's a victim somewhere in the wings.

The judge begins our briefing. He explains and instructs. He questions us. We answer under oath. Then the prosecuting attorney takes a crack. We do realize that "Court TV" and "Law & Order" aren't real? Before we can answer the judge chimes in, "I thought "Court TV" WAS real!" Ha....ha....ha. Comic relief noted. The defense attorney is a little more thorough. He asks specific questions about our beliefs and experiences, he smiles too much. I can't see the defendant's face, but he doesn't appear to be snoring. Before the jury selection begins, we break for lunch.

The jury panel is back and seated, in order and on time. It's strangely like grade school. And we are a very obedient, cooperative class. We sit quietly and still, on our hard, uncomfortable benches waiting for the teacher...uh, judge...to begin. But, he's not here. We begin to fidget, and whisper among ourselves. The court clerk is reading a novel, the only other authority figure is a 14 year old police officer. We fidget some more, and talk a little louder. I have an overwhelming urge to throw a spit ball. Someone poses the brilliant and brave question, "Are we allowed to go to the bathroom", to the room at large, but it's the baby policeman that answers, "yes". He has become our god. People pee, just for something to do. They come back with giggled reports of the activity in the halls and other courtrooms. We begin to "relax". People stand against the wall, get out their books, check their blackberries. Time d....r....a.....g.....s. Finally, after thousands of hours of fruitless waiting, the judge arrives. We stand, and he motions us to, "please, don't...", in a self-conscience, I'm-not-worthy-you're-the-real-heroes way. We agree. He explains that the defendant decided to plead guilty and will be sentenced. This is obviously a lengthy process involving many man hours and tortuous legal manipulations. We are thanked for our cooperation and rewarded by being dismissed "early".

We fight to get out of the courtroom and into the elevators on the first trip down to street level. It is holiday, it is snow day. The relief and freedom is palpable. We have promised to be back tomorrow morning at 8:30am, but for the evening we are liberated. Life is full of possibilities once again.

The next day begins the same, without the movie. We're still identified by our panel numbers. We still sit and wait. But, we're beginning to become comfortable in our forced captivity. We move into the large courtroom that we avoided yesterday. The seats are padded, and pew like. We can stretch out. We remove our shoes, some of us nap. A few brave souls openly defy the jury matrons and sit up on the dais in the padded swivel chairs. Rebels. Time d.....r......a......g.......s. We're dismissed for lunch in staggered groups. Our wills have been broken. There's no rejoicing or revelry. We know we'll be back in an hour and fifteen minutes, or face fine and/or imprisonment.

The afternoon looms large. More napping, more grumbling. Discontent and unrest grow along with the inactivity. This is the beginning of the two week long criminal court season. We should be inundated with trials demanding our impartial services. Only one panel has been called, one jury selected. The matron enters and shoos the delinquent dais sitters off their comfortable perches. Everyone who is NOT on panel one needs to clear the courtroom. This is looked on with bitterness and despair. We have established camps. We are greatly inconvenienced by moving.

We hang in the hallway, waiting for re-admittance. The doors blow open and giddy, laughing former jurors blow past us, with coats flapping and glad tidings of great joy. They have been "dismissed", the bastards. We file back into the room, silent and sullen. We feel persecuted. We take our need to remain personally, as punishment. A few hours later, another group departs with happy exclamations, and shortly thereafter, I can go home, I don't have to return, for at least three years.

There are a few jurors left, and I have to pass by them to access the exit. I can't meet their eyes. I have no words of comfort to offer. I don't linger. There's nothing I can do to alleviate their suffering. Poor, unfortunate wretches.