Law and Order - Part One

Some guys have all the luck.

Take me for instance. I recently turned thirty-six years old. In the days leading up to my birthday, I received a few cards and e-mails. Some were from friends and family while others were from the likes of our insurance agent and our financial adviser in St. Louis. The one we haven’t seen in four years and only met once.

There were gifts, too. My mom bought me a pair of black Crocs to use as camp shoes on camping and backpacking trips. Tricia bought me a backpacking stove. The Jetboil, as it’s called, can boil a liter of water in just over two minutes while weighing in at less than a pound. Tricia’s parents sent me some money which I used to get a rain cover for my backpack.

But my biggest gift came from Richland County. I really wasn’t even expecting anything from them. They hadn’t sent me anything last year. But lo and behold, there it was sitting in the mailbox.

A summons to report for jury duty.

Some people go their whole lives without being called for jury duty. I, on the other hand, have been called five times.

Being called for jury duty does not mean you will necessarily sit on a jury. In fact, chances are you won’t. What happens is you are assigned a juror number and then sit in a big room with all the other potential jurors. Every so often a lady comes to the front of the room and reads out thirty or forty juror numbers. If you don’t hear your number you just keep on sitting. Some people read books or magazines. Most, however, play with their phones. Others, still, shift around uncomfortably in their chairs and stare at the clock.

By the end of the first or second day, if your number does not get called, you are generally sent home with instructions to call back at certain intervals to see if you need to come back in. In essence, you’re free.

But if your number is called you then get up and follow a bailiff to a courtroom. Go home or file into a courtroom. Guess how my week worked out.

That’s right, I was called to a courtroom. This was a gift that promised to keep on giving.

When I first entered the courtroom I was instructed to walk down to the end of the second bench in the gallery. There were a number of people already in the courtroom with their heads turned to watch us come in. As I sat down I looked around the courtroom trying to figure out who was who. The judge was obvious but the others were not.

It’s safe to say, at this point, that most of what I believe to be true about our justice system and courtrooms themselves has come from years of watching Law & Order as well as a number of court related movies. Courtrooms, for me, are places where red-faced witnesses shout out lines such as “You want the truth? You want the truth? You can’t handle the truth!” They are magical places where handsome attorneys such as Kevin Costner craft long speeches and deliver them with an abundance of grace and power.

It makes sense, doesn’t it? Many people have never been in a court of law yet know what one looks like. We read about them in books or watch those investigative television shows that document tantalizing cases. Whether these are fully accurate pictures we are receiving, being that they come from either the mind of a writer or a small sampling offered by a television network, makes little difference. We, at least, get the gist.

Once we were all in and seated the first thing the judge did was welcome us and thank us for our time. He reminded us how important it was that we all showed up even if we never wound up serving on an actual jury. It was our presence, he assured us, that often times led to plea bargains and settlements. The next thing he told us was that out of our group of potential jurors, totaling around thirty-five, the court would select twelve jurors and two alternates to serve on this trial.

Please be a civil case! Please be a civil case! kept running through my head.

“This is a criminal case,” said the judge, almost as though he were reading my mind. “There are four indictments. The defendant is charged with armed robbery and three counts of kidnapping.”

I may have audibly cursed at this point.

Still, there were more than thirty potential jurors in the courtroom and they were only going to keep fourteen. My odds of winding up on this jury were maybe one in three. While not a longshot, the odds were definitely in my favor.

But then the judge started weeding us out.

“Stand up if you know anyone sitting here at any of the tables in front of me.”

Two people stand.

“Stand up if a close family member has ever been accused or convicted of a major crime.”

Seven people stand.

“Stand up if you or a family member has ever been the victim of a violent crime.”

Eight more.

At this point I’m almost sure people are just making stuff up. Somewhere in the back of my mind I’m going through the more questionable members of my own family and wondering how in the world they managed to avoid significant jail time.

Suddenly the odds didn’t seem to be in my favor any longer.

The judge proceeded to call out juror numbers. If your number was called you were to walk to the microphone in front of the courtroom, state your name, and declare your occupation. Afterward, the prosecution would have an opportunity to give you a “yes” or dismiss you back to the gallery. If they approved of you then the defense attorneys would do the same. Each juror called would stand up there in front of us all listening for either “Dismiss this juror” or the dreaded “Please seat this juror.” Not surprisingly, each juror who stood for any reason during the judge’s questioning was dismissed. My palms were sweating. I didn’t mind doing jury duty so much but I definitely didn’t want any part of a trial dealing with armed robbery and kidnapping.

Yet, after only ten numbers or so I heard the judge call out “Juror 121.” That, of course, was me. I walked up to the front of the courtroom, leaned into the microphone, and stated my name. Here was my chance. I considered, for my profession, stating exotic dancer. I figured that even if it didn’t get me off this case it would at least elicit a laugh or two from the other jurors. The judge, though, I wasn’t so sure about. I didn’t want to end up in a cell of my own.

So I truthfully answered “teacher” and looked up at the attorneys. If selected I would have to sit and hear the disturbing details of a crime involving a gun and kidnapping. If selected I was going to have to decide whether someone went to prison. I offered the best puppy dog eyes I could muster. The prosecution gave me a yes. I looked over at the defense table hoping for a miracle. Hoping for a true birthday gift. Instead, he looked me squarely in the eyes and called out “Please seat this juror.”