The drawing was random, of course, but this collection of people looked much more diverse than the last group. Several people spoke Spanish as a first language, and we seemed to range from people in their mid-twenties to people in their early sixties. The questioning began anew, though the judge seemed less interested in dredging out as many details about our pasts and personalities as she had the day before. The questioning went more quickly. She dismissed one woman, a bartender with short, bleached hair, upon learning that her father had recently been very badly beaten and hospitalized as a result; the woman said she'd try to judge the defendant fairly but that she was pretty angry about what had happened to her dad. Another woman asked to approach the bench and was dismissed after about a minute of whispered conversation. Whenever anyone approached the bench, a lawyer from each side plus the court reporter leaped up to listen in. It didn't seem all that private, but was preferable, I suppose, to speaking with a microphone in front of the other fifteen potential jurors in the box plus the fifty-ish people sitting in the audience area. ("Audience" is probably not the right word. I'm not sure what term I should use instead.)When we'd finally answered the judge's questions, we passed a microphone around to give bios of ourselves. I was one of two Californians in the group - almost everyone else was from the tri-state area. The group profile was pretty different this time. Among us, there were two actors, a classroom aid, a security guard, a manager of a copy machine repair service, the unemployed husband of a social worker, a flight attendant, and a fitness studio employee. The mood was lighter somehow than it had been the day before - perhaps we were all getting used to each other and the situation. The unemployed man explained that he was out of work, then said that if anyone knew of a good job opening that they should talk to him during the next recess. That got a laugh, and everyone chuckled as well when a woman described herself as an artist and the judge replied, "Well now that you've piqued our curiosity, you have to tell us what it is you do." The woman explained that she was an actress and singer, off Broadway, and the judge smiled and assured her that she'd get to Broadway someday.
Now came the attorney's turn to question. The prosecuting attorney came down hard on a very nervous-looking woman who'd shared with us earlier that she'd been mugged at gun-point while pushing her one-year-old son in a stroller. They were both fine, but the courtroom setting and discussion of violent assault clearly had her shaken up, even though she told us that her son is now in college. The defending attorney resumed his line of questioning how we could tell if someone was lying to us. Alas, he asked the mic to be passed to me. I mumbled something about contradicting stories and evidence. He then asked me if I'd take motive into account. I thought it was a pretty stupid question, and replied that, yes, I was pretty sure people did things for reasons.
Finally, we were dismissed. In the hallway, I saw the three unfortunates who had been selected the day before. After ten excruciating minutes, we took our places in the box again and listened anxiously as the court clerk read off a list of names. I was certain I was going to be picked, but to my delight, my name was not called. I was in such a hurry to get out, lest the judge or one of the lawyers change their mind, that I didn't pay much attention to who had to stay or how many there were, though I'd estimate that there were about five selections made. (The woman who'd been mugged was also excused.) It was a very happy group of jury rejects that made their way across the street to the original room, where our white-haired friend waited and welcomed us back heartily. I picked up my book. Several names were called after about ten minutes, and I recognized the names of some of the people who'd been in the courtroom with me before. Ten minutes later, more names were called, and I nearly groaned aloud when mine was among them. Here we go again.Glowering, a group of us assembled in the hallway and followed the white-haired man around a corner. He arranged us against a wall and kept telling us to shush. I assumed there was a courtroom nearby that demanded silence. The man indicated that we should gather around him. "I'm going to get you out of here early," he whispered, and the group simultaneously broke out into grins. He explained, still in a whisper, that he was going to hand us letters to prove that we had served, and that we did not have to come back for six years. If we received a summons during that time, we were to send in a copy of the letter. "Do not lose this," he warned us sternly. "No doubt some of you will get home this afternoon and find another summons in your mailbox already." We giggled, giddy. He handed out the letters one by one, and we fled. The unemployed man suggested to anyone in earshot that the court should probably foot our bar bill because we all deserved a martini after the day we'd had.
The whole experience was actually pretty interesting. While I'm thrilled that I wasn't picked to sit on a two-week criminal trial, I very much enjoyed seeing the real-life version of events I've seen played out so many times in movies and television shows. If it wouldn't have been such a blow to my tiny company, I might not have minded getting picked, actually, though I'm very relieved that I did not have to have a hand in deciding the fate of the defendant. I'm also relieved that I won't need to dread finding a summons in my mailbox for the next six years.
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