Pick Me! Pick Me!

Without numerous well-worn copies of Weight Watchers Magazine, the first 3 hours of my jury service would have been interminable.

Jury duty is mostly about waiting. This I learned last week as I waited for the judge to arrive to give a brief, well-memorized speech, waited for the prosecution and defense attorneys to arrive and get settled at tables in the front of the courtroom, and waited for the court staff to count, organize, call names and assign seats to pools of prospective jurors to be interviewed.

Since they didn’t call my name for the first and second jury pools, I was sent with all the other “non-calls” to the jury lounge, with strict instructions not to leave for any reason other than to use the ladies’ room, which was, fortunately, right outside the door.

“Lounge” was a generous name for this room. The county courthouse was built in 1888 and every room and hallway in the building was cold, drafty and had disturbingly poor ventilation, as evidenced by the faint, but alarming, latrine smell that wafted through the building. With the exception of two modern vending machines and an old-model Keurig dispenser with a selection of coffee, tea and hot chocolate which a sign said was ONLY for jurors, the lounge itself looked like a page out of the 1960’s. The portrait of JFK that hung crookedly on the wood–paneled wall looked like nobody had bothered to straighten it for 50 years. Intrigued, I even spent a few minutes studying an old-fashioned manual crank pencil sharpener that was mounted to a locked, wooden box by the door. The outside cover was missing exposing the metal grinders, which I had not seen or thought about since I emptied the pencil sharpener for my fourth grade teacher decades ago.

Not having the foresight to bring my own reading material, I passed the time by reading one of the many copies of Weight-Watchers Magazine, which, curiously, were everywhere… on the tables and in the wall racks. I don’t know why Weight Watchers Magazine was the predominant magazine of choice in the jury lounge, but I sure felt like I should go on a diet.

After several hours, I was beginning to think that my chances for serving on a jury were slim, when the clerk called more names, including mine, and instructed us to return immediately to the courtroom. Although I was bored and uncomfortable, I realized when I returned to the courtroom that while I had easy access to the ladies room and diet magazines, dozens of people who had been called in the first pool that morning hadn’t even moved from their assigned seats and looked even more bored and uncomfortable.

My husband said they would never select me to serve on a jury because I would have to tell them he works in law enforcement.

Unfair! I thought. Why should an attorney automatically consider me prejudiced toward law enforcement personnel just because I married one?

My husband was right about one thing. They did ask. All of the prospective jurors had to complete a questionnaire that mostly asked questions about whether we would have trouble listening to, understanding, following directions and, importantly, presuming the defendant to be innocent. I checked “no” for every box on the sheet except for 3 questions, which I honestly answered “yes.”

When the attorneys called me to the table to interview me, I realized they only wanted me to comment on the three “yes” answers on my questionnaire.

“You say that you are close to someone who has been convicted of something other than a traffic ticket?” the organized, intelligent, young female prosecuting attorney asked.

“Uh, yeah… that was me,” I admitted sheepishly.

Both attorneys looked curious, if not surprised.

“Back in my headstrong youth,” I explained, “I was arrested for civil disobedience.”

At this, the defense attorney, another intelligent, organized young woman with slightly out-of-control frizzy hair, laughed out loud.

“Civil disobedience! Ha! I LOVE this one,” she said to the prosecutor, who still didn’t crack a smile.

“And you say you are close to someone who works in law enforcement?” the ‘just the facts, Ma’am’ prosecutor continued.

“Yes, my husband,” I answered.

“And you say that you would be more likely to believe the testimony of a police officer?”

“Probably,” I admitted. “But I would still use my own judgment.”

The way I look at it, these three questions netted out to neutral, because after being excused and waiting several more hours, which included an hour and fifteen minute lunch break, the clerk finally read the names of the 12 jurors and 2 alternates. I was Juror #2.

But now I was going to have to decide if the pleasant, well-behaved and currently innocent defendant, who was sitting next to the frizzy- haired attorney, was guilty of simple assault, terroristic threats, stalking, harassment, burglary and possession of marijuana.

Oh dear.

Next week: the trial.

***

Ann K. Howley is the award-winning author of Confessions of a Do-Gooder Gone Bad.

Please visit her website at http://annkhowley.com/#about-ann