My Civic Duty - Day One

I've been summoned for jury duty a number of times, but have always been able to get out of it. I was summoned during college but was excused - being out of state - and the last time I received notice I called the night before as instructed and was told I need not appear. I postponed my last summons, which would have required me to be in court when I'd planned to travel home for Christmas. But this time my luck ran out, and I showed up at the courthouse in lower Manhattan at 9:00 sharp, not sure what to expect. I was pleased that I was able to wear jeans on a work day, and was pretty sure that I'd be dismissed in short order. What were the odds they'd need all of the 150 people cramming the windowless room filled with rows of (admittedly comfortable) maroon chairs? A man with white hair and a New York accent dashed my hopes, however, when he came to the front of the room, leaned against the desk, and told us that he guaranteed we'd be here for two days.

After weeding out people who did not speak English or live in New York County, he started a 20-minute video that taught us all about trial by ordeal during the Medieval period and how wonderful our justice system is in comparison. It showed some shots of courtrooms, explained the process a bit, and ended with clips of several jurors saying that they enjoyed the process after all. Hmph. At least the man with the white hair was pretty funny. He peppered his instructions and announcements with dry quips that had nearly everyone chuckling despite our annoyance at having to be there. I brought knitting, snacks, and books, and settled in to wait. By this time, it was a little after 10:00, and nothing happened until 10:30 when he received a large stack of papers and began to call names, instructing those called to go into the hallway. Mine was about the 40th name called, and my heart sank. When all the names had been read, the group of us crossed the street to another building, escorted by several officers. This, at least, allowed us to skip the metal detectors.

We were deposited into an echoing hallway. I heard what sounded like a dog yelping intermittently, and after about ten minutes of waiting, the sound morphed into very loud sobbing. I looked up from my book to see a group of people, with a weeping, fat, bald black man at its center, making slow progress down the hall. He sobbed that they'd taken his son away from him, and crumpled against the wall for a while until his little group could get him moving again. This was not comforting; I was not eager to be part of a procedure that made these kinds of life-altering decisions, right or wrong, and seeing this man drove home the situation I was in. After about half an hour of waiting, all of us were escorted into a courtroom. To my surprise and pleasure, it looked very much like a television courtroom, but with less flattering lighting. Two young women sat at one table in front of the judge's polished wood box, and a man with a bad comb-over and scraggly beard sat at the other table next to a young, Latino man in a white t-shirt with long braids and a beard. He had long eyelashes and looked pleasant, though he was obviously the accused. Our judge had short, greying hair and glasses. She wore a black robe and asked us to be seated. I liked her immediately. She was blunt, articulate, and professional, but little slips now and then betrayed her sense of humor. The court clerk reached into the sort of hopper one might use at a raffle and drew out cards. Sixteen names were called, mine not among them, and people took their places in the jury box one by one. I picked up my knitting.

For the next hour, the judge explained to everyone the rules that jurors had to follow, and began to question the people in the box. They had to tell the court whether they had connections with law enforcement and describe the nature of that connection. They had to explain any negative experiences they'd had with law enforcement and tell whether they or anyone they were close to had been the victim of a crime. The judge asked follow-up questions. She was in the middle of a sentence when the clerk dropped a piece of paper on her desk, which the judge read immediately. It must have been important because she sent us off for a two-hour lunch break. After a bowl of Vietnamese pho at a nearby restaurant, I returned to the courthouse and took my place in the courtroom again to listen to yet more questioning. Each person in the box had to say something about him- or herself (where they were from, which neighborhood they lived in, what their job and education level was, and whether they lived with any other adults and, if so, what their jobs were), and I quickly realized that this was one of the most impressive line-ups of jurors I could imagine. Of the sixteen, there were about five lawyers, two doctors, a psychiatrist, several people in finance, a civil engineer... So much for being judged by a jury of peers. I don't know what the accused's background was like, but he was being represented by a court-appointed attorney and had allegedly committed his crime, a stabbing, in a rough neighborhood. Hard to imagine that these jurors could relate to him.

Alas, the judge didn't bang her gavel once.

Now it was the lawyers' turn to question the jurors. The prosecuting lawyer took the microphone first. She asked pointed questions about particular jurors' jobs and lives. Then the defending attorney cold-called several people to ask them how they could tell if someone was telling the truth or not. He also asked whether they would hold it against his client if he did not testify, reminding everyone that he did not have to prove the guy was innocent but that, instead, the prosecution had to prove the man was guilty. He asked whether jurors would take information about conditions, such as the speed of an event and lighting, and contradicting stories from the witnesses, into account when making a decision.

Once the lawyers had used up the time allowed them by the judge, everyone was sent into the hallway again for about 15 minutes. We stood around or sat on hard, wooden benches. The sixteen who had been in the box looked nervous; everyone else looked annoyed. The examination had taken about three hours, and combined with the lunch break, the day was nearly over and we were all ready to go home. When we were called back into the room, the sixteen took their places in the box and the court clerk announced that anyone whose name was called should stay seated, and those who were not called should report to the room across the street that we'd originally sat in that morning while awaiting instructions. She then called three names. Thirteen people left the room quickly, and the three unfortunates in the box looked deflated. The judge instructed us to report back to this room by 9:30 the following morning, but told the 3 that they need not come until 11:30. And then, at 4:30, we were dismissed. I was relieved to go home, but nervous about the next day. At least I'd added about 8 inches to the scarf I'm making.