My Day in Court
I was told to be there at 8:15 am, so I left the house plenty early in case I-81 was logjammed as usual. I parked in the garage directly behind the Comfort Suites and around the corner from the Gingerbread Man. I walked a block up Main Street, crossing on High Street, and down a block to the East Wing of the Cumberland County Courthouse. I emptied my pockets at the door, walked through the scanner, and proceeded to the third floor.
The elevator door opened to reveal a large room down the hall where I was supposed to report for jury duty. I am nearly sixty-nine years old, and this is the first time my name has come up to become part of this vital aspect of our legal system. I was a little nervous as I approached the registration table, where delightful ladies explained my next steps: to take the clipboard and a seat and complete the lengthy questionnaire that would be returned to the table. I also received an official-looking name badge that clipped to the collar of my gold shirt. It said “Juror” and had a number at the bottom which was my participant number. My number was three, which I thought was pretty cool. They must know how wise and impartial I am to place me right up there at the top of the prospect list.
A handful of people were already sitting in the room that seated around one hundred and forty people. We were all filling out our information papers which included all kinds of interesting questions, like, “Have you ever witnessed a crime?” and “Do you have any religious convictions that would interfere with serving on a jury?”
Once the information was complete, I returned it to the nice ladies and then took a seat at the back of the room at one of the few tables. I like to rest my hands on a table while I am sitting. It’s more comfortable for me, and I like to survey a room while waiting.
Over the next hour, an astounding thing happened. People kept streaming into the room until nearly every seat was filled. Most faces looked bewildered that there were so many in attendance. We were whispering questions and comments to one another, conjecturing why there were so many and what would happen next. What we did not know was that there were to be twenty-eight trials that week, twenty-seven of which were criminal cases with only one civil case. I wasn’t sure what the technical difference between the two was.
Finally, a judge was introduced who proceeded to explain the rules of the game in no uncertain terms. He added lots of humor to his presentation, which disarmed his audience and made us feel better about being somewhere most of us did not want to be.
Being on jury duty is kind of a paradox. The right to have a trial by a jury of your peers is one of the foundations of our legal system, and I like it. It is one of the few contributions to society that is of critical importance, and nearly anyone can serve. Many nations would never allow “commoners” to decide matters of the law. But we are a nation of the people, by the people, and for the people, “people” being you and me. I don’t know about you, but it makes me feel important like I am advancing the common good. Plus, you are required to serve.
On the other side of the coin, jury duty interrupts one’s daily life, which makes it a nuisance, not to mention you can be required to stay there an entire week. I’m getting old and don’t like losing a week. My weeks are counting down these days, and I do not want to lose a moment. There was a lot of moaning and groaning, and I was one of the groaners. I needed to be home writing, for Pete’s sake, don’t they realize that?! Plus, it’s stuffy in here, and it smells . . . like a courthouse.
I’ve spent a fair amount of time in courtrooms through the years, and they have a kind of stuffy courty aroma, just like hospitals always smell sickly, and nursing homes smell nursy. It must be all the heavy furniture and fancy woodwork designed to make the scene feel authoritative. Kind of like the building itself is saying, “Don’t mess with me, or I’ll mess with you.” This place is to be taken seriously, so when a judge cracks a joke, it is even more humorous.
We sat there a while longer until the boss lady approached the front of the room and asked for our attention. She had a big smile as she began to explain more ground rules. Then it began. Seemingly random numbers were called to line up in the hallway, and guess who got called first? Three, that’s who! Three being me.
I proudly walked the length of the room, enjoying the fact that I was called first and would lead the pack to the courtroom. I’m an important person, and I expect you to recognize it and give due respect. All others are number four or lower, and there was no number one and two to my knowledge. Of course, the reality was that the room was filled with totally random numbers up into the hundreds.
After we lined up in numerical order, another kind woman led us up the stairs to a courtroom. It was not very large, which surprised me. I was thinking Supreme Court, and this was more like Lesser Court, and I was a little offended. At the back of the room were two long church pews, which reminded me of the old white church I grew up attending. Twenty-six of us were uncomfortably crammed onto these seats awaiting the judge to get the ball rolling.
I know this is not politically correct, but I think of judges as stuffy old men with gray hair, always wearing a semi-scowl, subtly communicating, “Don’t mess with me. We’re not here for a party.” Instead, there sat a young woman with long brown hair, glasses, and a pleasant smile.
Well, I am here to tell you that I quickly learned that judges can be young (Young is a relative term at my age), not stuffy, and quite lovely. Shame on me for “misjudging” judges. Even when I attended the second jury prospect session, the judge was indeed an older man with gray hair, but he was hilarious! When he explained that the trial could go two more days and asked if this would cause an egregious problem for any prospects, he added, “And by cumbersome problem, I mean you are having heart surgery tomorrow, or your grandma just died.” He reminded us that we had been conscripted for service and quitting was not likely a viable option.
After a barrage of questions from the attorneys for the defendant and the plaintiff to determine if any of us would be prejudiced in some manner, they began the process of selecting fourteen of us for the actual jury. This exercise took a long while, and the entire time I was thinking, what do they see that I don’t? We all look pretty much the same, and these people don’t know us from Adam. Just pick somebody, and let’s get on with it.
After much deliberation and a discussion at the judge’s bench, they started calling numbers. Who do you think was called first? You got it – number three again. These people know an excellent juror when they see one. I commend you, folks, for a wise decision.
I was required to walk across the front of the room again, proudly parading past all the lesser jurors, and take a seat in the front row of the official juror’s booth. It was tiny! I was seated in the front row, and I can assure you, there is more room on an Allegiant flight than in this courtroom. If I had to sit there for several hours, I would be there for the duration because I couldn’t get up. Geez, this is nothing like Law and Order.
After all the “deciders” were picked and seated, the other losers had to leave and go back down to the fishbowl and wait until they might get lucky again. We were the chosen, the discerners, the wise. Across from us sat the large tables, one for the plaintiff, the other for the defense. There sat the plaintiff, a young fellow maintaining an expressionless demeanor, his lawyer, a distinguished-looking young woman, and to their left at the other table were two defense lawyers and the defenders.
The judge spent some time retelling the ground rules, emphasizing that “we,” the jurors were the only people in the room who would decide anything about this case, not the judge, the parties, or the lawyers. Just us. Then it dawned on me. This knowledge is essential. These people’s futures lie in our hands. I thought, I’m not so confident I like this position after all. This is serious stuff.
For the next day and a half, we listened to tedious hours of testimony from both sides. The session after lunch was brutal, and several of us nearly fell asleep. But a fascinating thing happened, which I have observed many times. During our breaks, the jury was not allowed to talk about the case or even leave the jury room. The room had a tiny restroom, and the door opened right into the room, creating some uncomfortable moments. Every sound from the toilet could be heard in the room.
We started off immediately making jokes about the bathroom, trying to quell our embarrassment, and the laughter made way for fun and interesting discussions and lots of laughter. Within a short time, this group was bonding around a singular, meaningful purpose. It was indeed a privilege to serve with a group of peers conducting a foundational function for our society. By the time we were released to discuss the verdict, we were comfortable with one another and could freely share our thoughts about the case. The decisions took only a short time, and we all agreed. I am sure this is not always the case, but there is still a little miracle in those rooms, and I am glad I got to be a player in our justice system.
God is highly interested in justice, and we agree with the Creator as a nation. Justice is important. It is costly, time-consuming, scary, and tedious but also awe-inspiring. Our system is far from perfect, but so are we. Flawed humans can't create a perfect justice system, but I think we try and are doing well in our attempts.
I wonder if God is pleased when He observes His children taking something paramount to Him so seriously. I’m glad I got to be inconvenienced this week. The experience restored a bit of hope for a sadly fractured nation.
“The Lord loves righteousness and justice; the earth is full of his unfailing love.”
(Psalm 33:5)
“And the heavens proclaim his righteousness, for he is a God of justice.”
(Psalm 50:6)
Live Inspired!
Don Mark
