Jury Duty - Part 1
The first morning of jury duty we arrived at 7:15am. There was a line from the diminutive wooden doors centered at the top of the steps of the four-story stone courthouse. It went straight down the walkway, like vertebrae, punctuated here and there by a person wandering off-center as they gazed at their phone, fingertips tapping and sliding. Just in front of me, two men talked in a staccato rhythm. They knew each other, and stood close, each with their hands casually stuffed into jean pockets, each wearing work boots; the kind men who don’t actually work in construction or on a farm, wear. The boots were worn at the heel and toe, but free from mud or dust.
The air was cool and wet. I had left one glove on the seat of my car, so I nestled my own right hand into the grey felt of my rain jacket’s pocket. No one else was talking, and any traffic was muffled by the surround of white oaks at the edge of the lawn. The courthouse looked ominously self-righteous, beckoning us forward with its immense, dark windows, like an abandoned castle we had all come upon after our ship washed us up on an unknown shore.
Eavesdropping was unavoidable, after my initial distraction: a woman dressed in the same mustard colored jacket, jeans, and boots as myself. We both wore straw in the height of summer-colored sweaters underneath – I could see this as her jacket was unbuttoned. She smiled and stared at my chest, where my own sweater announced itself around my neck.
“You’re building that beach house, aren’t you?” the younger man, his skin the color of a cut onion left too long on the counter, asked of the older man, with a smattering of white hair on his face; brows twisted merrily, a full beard, like snow drifts. The mustache lifted and his eyes sparkled. One hand cut loose from his jean pocket as he answered.
“We’re just finishing up the architect’s designs. You know, there are a small number of contractors, electricians, and cement guys at the coast. And they all know each other.” Onion-skinned man and I both nodded. “We hope to break ground some time this summer, but you know, the supply-chain thing…costs have gone through the roof.” Onion-man smiled wryly.
“I guess they kind of have you over a barrel, huh? Do they do quality work?”
“From what I’ve seen, not a singled one does crappy work. They are all really good at what they do. Laura and I drove by several houses in progress, one or two that were recently finished. We were impressed.” The bearded man turned to check on the progression of the line. We were nearing the steps. The men continued to talk about their children, briefly mentioned their wives. Onion man held a thick laptop in his left hand now – where had it been before? At the door, he stepped behind Bearded man respectfully. It was clear there was an established hierarchy between them. Perhaps Onion had once reported to Beard. Beard had acknowledged he was retired as part of their banter, and I noticed his tone grew softer then, as if retirement had made him shy.
In the foyer was a security guard by the doors, and three others running the scanning machine, a distant cousin of the screeners at airports. I was instructed to take out my water bottle, remove my boots and belt, asked if I had any spare change or my car keys in my pocket. There was something comforting about the process – in here, you may feel safe, and welcome. The woman seated at the far end huddled in a large bomber jacket, her hair wrapped up in an elaborate up-do, her tinted glasses perched at the edge of her nose.
“There’s a chair over there hun, if you want to sit to put your shoes back on.” I thanked her and she was looking at me kindly, as if I was just a girl.
Downstairs I was told to head to the back of the room, which was at the top of a long ramp, elevated over the other two-thirds of the room. I was glad for a seat by the only set of windows, at ground level where you would only see the bottom half of anyone walking on the sidewalk outside. The sun traipsed in warm on my back, and I placed my briefcase on the built-in desk just below the windows. I turned to listen to the woman who was trying to get the crowd’s attention near the door. There was at least one hundred of us in the room – a sea of mostly white faces. Seated to my right was my doppelganger, the woman in the mustard-colored coat. She smiled at me again and wrinkled her nose in a friendly way.
“I guess this was the requisite uniform for today,” she said. I returned her smile.
“Yep, we got the memo!’ I offered.
Several hours went by with the occasional interruption at the front of the room; reminders on forms to fill out and where to place them, updates on trials (there were eleven scheduled that day), a question about the movie that would be played on two television screens in the room (“is anyone offended by our playing this movie?”) and so forth. Groups of people were called by their juror number, lined up and led from the room. A man seated across from me sprawled loose over a couple chairs and began to snore. Onion and Beard struggled to turn off Beard’s Android phone which had randomly started talking. Some people watched the movie, as if sitting captive in their airplane seat. Others read, pulled out snacks, or paced. I pulled out my laptop, and then my personal phone, and then my work phone, in a triangulation of working, fussing, parsing through social media and emails and then working again.
At 11:30, the clerk, who had amazed me with her sense of humor throughout the morning, stood once again at her podium with her mic. There were only forty-five of us, give or take, left in the room. The woman seated to my left had retired from Nike and was from Brazil. We had chatted a few times and I had gathered this much about her. She raised her eyebrows at me. We were undoubtedly thinking the same thing – would our number be called, or would we be sent home? A feeling rose in my sternum that I could not decipher. Was it hope? Hope to serve as a juror or hope to return to my recently etiolated life? I had felt feverish as the day approached to report for my jury duty, propelled forward by curiosity and a need to escape my work from home regimen. At the same time, my allegiance to my work held me in place like roots to a tree.
“198!”
My number was called, and shortly after, Brazil-Nike’s number, 123 was called. We both snapped into action, gathering our belongings, and moving out of the room in a single file – that peculiar uniformity and cooperation that every person in the room had fallen into before us. There was only one thought in my mind at this time: it’s not over yet. I knew that the voir dire was next and when I was told to sit in one of the fourteen chairs in the jurors’ box, while the other forty or so potential jurors sat in the galley, I realized that my chance to actually serve as a juror on a trial was that much closer to happening. In the hushed silence that followed our taking our seats, I felt every barrier, every self-admonishment, every mislaid preconception about whether I wanted to be there or not be there, drain out of me like sludgy water from a can of beans. I was here! I was present with all my senses, and my heart was calm, the muscles of my body relaxed like blankets strewn over a fence to dry. There was no playing this like a game of chance, or of derision, or of balking or indifference. I was back in the classroom, my place of greatest comfort. I was going to listen and respond as if I was a child, learning for the first time, aware of the power of the judge, the attorneys, and the law, to draw me into this case and all its minutiae. Aware that I wanted to be a part of the solution, of solving the particular problem that was presented to us: this bespectacled doughy-pale man with a small mouth and round eyes, sitting with his defense attorney, in a plain blue suit and yellow and red diamond tie, was accused of Sodomy in the First Degree and Sexual Abuse in the First Degree. The accuser was his 9-year-old niece, who had been 8 years old when the incident was to have taken place.
My bones held up my body when the charges were announced, because anything soft in me wanted to come unglued.
“What did you think when the judge read the charges in this case?” the defense attorney asked the room, his head moving in a radius right to left, and with the merest turn of his feet, his eyes landed squarely on mine. I took my time. I uncrossed my legs and held his stare.
“Disgust.” I answered, surprised at the mildness of my tone. I wondered intensely what my face showed, hoping it was plain, without expression.
“Disgust,” he nodded as if that was the most obvious of answers.
“What else?” he continued to survey the room. Each of his questions followed by a summary of what we might see, what we might hear, and why we should keep an open mind and consider all the evidence presented, as if we were being asked to judge the best pie at a county fair. Was it sweet enough? Did the crust hold up well – deftly containing the fruit within, yet melt like butter and salt in your mouth? How about the colors, the consistency, and the texture? Was this artistry or was this the work of an unskilled amateur? What was more important – how it looked on the table or how it tasted on the palate?
The state prosecutor picked up where the defense attorney ended. He was less theatrical or energetic, standing like a pillar in a black suit, white shirt and red tie, his receding black hair and resting face with his mouth parted just so (as if a pencil he normally chewed on was missing) made me think of a delicate bird, pecking for a worm. He used less words and retracted his own questions when they didn’t feel right in his own mouth.
Another three hours passed, as if I had no idea of living through three hours in time before. That is to say, swiftly, like one of those sped up images of the hands of a clock – when we entered it was 12:35, when the judge looked at the fourteen of us remaining in the juror box, it was 5:25.
The judge’s clerk led us to a room down the hall and closed the door. There were puzzles stacked on a bookshelf, a photo of cats on one wall, a drawing of dogs oddly dressed in suits and ties, on the other. Two separate doors led to two unisex bathrooms. A college fridge, hot and cold water cooler and a basket of instant coffee and tea posed in one corner. A long conference table with a basket of used steno notebooks (pages ripped out) and pens completed the room. By the door, on the inside, was a buzzer.
“When all fourteen of you have arrived in the morning, please press this buzzer,” the clerk pointed. “That will let me know you are ready. This is your room for the duration of the trial. You will only use these bathrooms and this room on breaks, outside of lunch, when you may leave the building. You will hear us tell you over and over that you are not to speak about the case to each other or outside of here, you are not to google any news or names or anything germane to the case until the case is over. Do you have any questions? If not, we’ll see you back here at 9am tomorrow.”
We all started at her dumbly, like a herd of moose crossing the road near Cannon Beach. It had been a long day, and we were now aware of each other’s presence – that we were together now, fourteen people brought together by chance, what little the judge and attorneys knew about each of us, and our collective willingness to listen, and try our best.
“Go home and get some rest,” the clerk cautioned, her chestnut brown hair shining like a shampoo commercial, her comfortable clogs and oversized cardigan making me think of a librarian or school principal.
“Tomorrow will be a hard day.”