The last time I had jury duty-- during the old Boston days-- I wrote haiku. My service
was soon after a flurry of OJ juror memoirs and lengthy John Grisham novels, but I felt that my mere one and a half days
in the courtroom could only consume 17 syllables at best. I honestly never thought whirlygirl would become big enough (and
my memory would become poor enough) to warrant a search engine, but for the life of me I can't find them
anywhere.
This time my service wasn't quite as exciting. No attempted murder, no racial profiling, no endless soliloquies
about the third rail, no wanting to wrestle our Foreperson to the ground to further efficience-ize the
deliberations, no sleeping judges, no 2:00pm recesses due to uncomfortable July heat on the 12th floor of
an unconditioned courthouse. The only true likeness was the lightning-fast "boot" of the man "of
the cloth" during peremptory challenges.
Although I was chosen for a jury empaneling session, I was not actually seated on the jury. I was lucky potential juror
number 13 and this civil trial only required 8 jurors. They wrapped and sent the rest of us walking after selecting
the 11th potential juror to round out the jury. So though I favored the judge's explanations of the process and relished
my personal interview with the judge and attorneys, throughout the day I concentrated on other non-trial-related
parts of this civic process.
Like the fact that at the beginning of the day, everyone is completely solitary and uncommunicative-- I saw
so many cool, professional, aloof exteriors-- but on the inside they are really STARVING for information. The minute
one person pipes up to ask a question, everyone completely drops their newspaper, book, crossword, work facade
as if E.F. Hutton himself were at the podium. Suddenly out of silence there are titters of laughter and relief,
annoyingly self-appointed authority, and-- the strangest of all-- friendships.
Jury duty makes strange bedfellows. When I arrived to stand in my silent, uncommunicative late-morning
check-in line, I couldn't help but notice the oddly chatty pairs of jurors making their way to the courthouse atrium
to be led into a courtroom for an empaneling. An elderly lady in a floral frock, something related to nursing
scrubs, nearly hand in hand with her 20-year-old-if-that trendy iPod pal. The two had SO MUCH to talk about.
Suddenly jury duty seemed like Vegas-- what happened here, stayed here. I set out to search for my own anonymous
companion.
I pegged him early on. We were the only two plugged in and clacking away in the juror business center--
silently of course-- soon after our late-morning check-in. He with his black, spiky hair and concentrated
focus. When a third joined our muted party, we exchanged knowing glances as a sign of solidarity against
"the stranger". It wasn't until a clerk interrupted to pull us into the main juror lounge to roll call
an empaneling that we spoke.
It was a harmless exchange of inconsequential facts:
he served once in Philly, I served once in Boston, and we both knew what it was like to have love/hate relationships
with previous jobs. We sat in the same row across the aisle from each other during the roll call. He nodded
when I responded with "present" upon the call of my juror identification number, I smiled when he
copied my action just five numbers later. We stood up to walk to the courtroom together, he with his crossword
puzzle, me with my notes of Marylou's employment performance. We waited together in the atrium,
we sat next to one another while waiting to line up outside the courtroom, his potential juror number 19 sat directly behind
my potential juror number 13 during the empaneling process.
We politely snickered at the same jokes made by
the judge to lighten the atmosphere and make us feel more comfortable. We shared a laugh at the fact that asking
a room full of DC residents if they or any member of their immediate family is a lawyer turns up pretty obvious
and overwhelming results. And then suddenly he was banished before they began seating jurors in the third phase
of empaneling-- rendered unnecessary and useless-- while I remained behind in case the attorneys got carried away
with their peremptory challenges. I never saw him again. I was too attached, still holding out hope, to forge any
new juror friendships. My isolation carried me through the rest of the day.
Hurt and alone, I took refuge in the courtroom's close proximity to the National Gallery of Art and lunched in
the Cascade Café, in the underground passageway connecting the old-school West building to the
new-school East building. I suddenly wished I lived or worked close enough to come here everyday-- to frequently
lose myself in the Rothkos, the Riveras, and the Calders. I cursed my short lunch break which did not afford me the
time to check the third floor for the reappearance of my favorite Modiglianis and promised myself to return soon with
B in tow. It's been too long since we explored our favorites.
Overall, I found myself with an overwhelming appreciation for DC's court system: their cheerful staff, their Ken Burns'
Jazz as juror lounge entertainment, their techie ATMs which dispersed my travel fee and juror receipt
with zero hassle. The sunny and modern H. Carl Moultrie Courthouse may not have had the oak stature of
Boston's Post Office Square Courthouse, but on this 90 degree day in May, the AC was a lovely tradeoff.
And though I wasn't seated on an actual jury and lost my partner in judging crime, I still find myself itching
for the two years to pass that will make me eligible to serve once again. I think about the judge's last question
during the empaneling session: "Have you ever had a bad experience as a juror that has tainted your
view of the system and would impair your ability to achieve a fair and impartial decision in this case?"
Not yet. Definitely not yet. |