I missed work Monday a week and a half ago. I had jury duty. I had known I’d have jury duty, or “jury service,” as the orientation video called it, for two months prior, but I wasn’t sure what to expect.
The jury assembly room in the courthouse far exceeded my imaginings. It had a café, no fewer than five rooms with TVs playing Frasier, free wifi and computer terminals. There was even a mezzanine with a pool table and board games. The dress code was business casual and 200 other jurors, Mecklenburg residents selected at random. It was the most diverse crowd I’d seen in one space since moving to Charlotte. These people fascinated me. I looked at each one and wondered all day what lives they had put on pause to fulfill their obligations here.
I heard from friends I’d probably sit around for a few hours and then be sent home. The sitting around was definitely true, but at 3:30 the PA called all jurors to the main assembly room. A coordinator started listing names of jurors to report to a courtroom that afternoon. I whispered to the woman next to me, “It’s like Russian Roulette!” She smiled, winced and nodded all at the same time.
“Seagle?” “Here.” “Miller?” “Here.” “Eleezer?” “Here.” Click. Click. Click.
“Noble?” “Here.” “Gibson?” “Here.” “Sirico?” BOOM.
“HERE,” I heard my voice go low and loud. “Damnit,” I muttered, feeling my neighbor’s pity stare.
In the courtroom, names were called again at random to select 12 jurors from our group of 25. Click. Click. Click. Click. Boom. Called again, what odds. I guessed I had made at least the 80th percentile of unlucky jurors that day. So I took my seat in the jury box. All of a sudden I was part of a drama that wasn’t about me at all.
Jury selection got under way, meaning we were “interviewed” by each of two attorneys. For the next hour and a half we were grilled by the DA’s assistant, the prosecuting attorney. It was a criminal case. He started building his story, summarizing allegations involving a firearm. It sounded serious. Indeed, he told us the trial would likely last two and a half days (not including the day now spent). The prosecutor asked us leading questions to test our sympathy for the defendant, a scared looking young black man with bloodshot eyes. Often his questions sounded more like assertions. He said circumstantial evidence is equal to direct evidence in the eyes of the law, and the defendant raised his eyebrows. The defense attorney didn’t even blink. Again the prosecutor lectured sternly about “reasonable doubt,” asking if we would use common sense, not some “beyond a shadow of a doubt” standard. I couldn’t stop thinking about the length of the trial. I hadn’t planned to miss the better part of a week’s wages. I hatched an escape plan, a way to avoid a second day at the courthouse.
Sensing an opportune moment, I piped up. “Have I seen you before?” I asked the prosecutor. He made a puzzled face and said he didn’t think so. I recounted a story of having a traffic ticket dismissed at the assistant DA’s window. It probably wasn’t him, he said. “Do you think you can be fair and impartial despite that experience?” he asked. I thought momentarily and answered with a defeated “yes.” “You hesitated there. Is there some reason you wouldn’t be able to separate yourself from any feelings you may have as a result of that experience?” The prosecutor was thoroughgoing, so much so that one couldn’t help wondering what he was trying to prove. “I don’t believe it’s possible to eliminate all bias, but I’ll certainly try,” I said. This was evidently not the answer my interviewer was looking for. “Can you promise to do your best to disregard any feeling you may have about that experience and evaluate this case solely on the evidence presented here?” He asked again. “Yes, absolutely,” I said, now just trying to appease him. My plan had failed. Five o’clock came and we were given instructions to return the next morning.
I went home defeated, but I was also intrigued. I was surprised by the showmanship of the exchange. The prosecutor wasn’t cordial or winning. Instead his manner was authoritarian, chiding, even antagonistic. The defense attorney had looked bored, almost inanimate. Instead he sat by waiting his turn. It felt a little like watching a stage play. I was hooked, sucked in to the drama. By the time I made my way back the next morning I had excused myself from work again and was prepared to see the trial through.
We picked up where we had left off. The prosecutor wrapped up his questioning and requested three jurors be dismissed. The judge obliged. Soon it was the defense attorney’s turn, and his character came to life. He was older, with an angular nose and thin, protruding brows that smooshed together for a moment before each point he made. He looked the part of a villain, but I found myself wanting to be sympathetic to him. He provided a foil to the prosecutor’s overbearing didacticism. He was serious but with a dry wit. He started vetting us first with questions he admitted were odd. He asked who had traveled to other countries in recent years and if anyone spoke any foreign languages. I responded yes to both. His questioning was more brief, and he focused on three of us jurors: a business man, a professional looking woman, and me. He asked about my exchange the day before, inquiring again if my experience would bias me. I assured him that it would not, especially since the prosecutor was not the man who pardoned my ticket. I backpedaled. As he continued asking us questions I began to feel dismayed, misunderstood. Didn’t the defender realize I’d be sympathetic, reasonable?
Soon enough the defense attorney asked the judge for permission to dismiss three jurors. Click. Click. Boom. I heard my name called one third and final time, along with the business man and the professional woman. I felt like someone had kicked me in the chest. “Thank God,” I heard the woman say as we walked out of the courtroom. The man agreed. “They seem happy,” I thought. “Shouldn’t I be?”