Photo by Wesley Tingey on Unsplash
It was the 3rd or 4th time I’d been called for jury duty. I’ve lost count. But I’m convinced I’m on a “special list” with the county, when it comes to selecting jurors.
We were called to report to the courthouse at 8:00 am, the Monday after Thanksgiving. Going through security was similar to the airport. Shoes off. Your belongings in a bin as it glides through an X-ray machine. My puffy coat snagged by the curtain-like strips that hung over the conveyor belt.
Around the corner, I slid my driver’s license underneath a glass window, to a woman sitting at a computer. She typed something on her keyboard. Satisfied with her research, she slid my license back and directed me to have a seat.
“Please go all the way to the front of the room,” said a different woman behind me.
She was in her ‘60s or ‘70s with shoulder-length blonde hair, well-applied makeup, and a white smile. She wore all-black attire except for a lightweight, colorful scarf tied in a bow. A shiny, gold badge hung on a long cord around her neck.
I walked toward the front. It was a bright, spacious room with stackable chairs arranged in rows, with aisles formed down the middle and sides. I headed down the right aisle.
There was one empty seat in the front row, between two people. I opted for the 2nd row, instead, where there were two empty seats together. I settled in my chair and waited. A large, analog clock hung on the wall to my left.
Almost everyone had their head down, scrolling on their phone. A woman to my right, in the first row, looked straight ahead. Someone close behind me tapped incessantly on a keyboard.
There were two large, digital monitors on the front wall. They each displayed the same graphic with big lettering, stating not to move the chairs. My eyes kept shifting to them, seemingly against my will.
We were going to be starting a little late, we were told, as others were still arriving to the courthouse.
Finally, after 20 minutes or so, an official walked to the front of the room and welcomed everyone. Then he began excusing jurors with legal or extenuating circumstances.
A woman whose husband arrived home from the ICU the day before. A man who needed to help his 6-year old child get off the school bus that afternoon. A woman traveling the next day for her daughter’s graduation in the Netherlands.
It grew quiet again as we waited once more, this time for the judge to arrive.
After a few minutes, a man on the other side of the room stood, stretched, and said to whoever was listening, “It’s like being inside a giant elevator.”
Quiet conversation, to my front-left, began.
“The questions are intense,” a woman said, recounting her past experience in the juror-selection process.
“Really? What do they ask you?” another said.
My stomach fluttered.
I pulled my phone from my bag and checked my email. Then I turned on my Kindle to read a book. I could only read a few sentences, though, without checking the clock. It felt like time had stopped.
The officer dressed in black made repeated rounds around the room. I imagined she was getting her steps in. I wanted to join her.
I walked to the back to get a cup of water. I made small talk with a man who had been seated 2 chairs away from me. He ran the local Academy Sports + Outdoors store, and we laughed at how Cyber Monday was the worst possible time for him to be away from work.
A woman announced we were ready to get started again, so we went back to our seats.
Around 9:30 am a side door, which led to an adjoining room, clanked open.
“All rise,” a voice boomed.
Shuffling feet echoed across the room.
The judge entered, a visiting judge from another county, with an officer by his side. He wore a long, flowing, black robe, his shirt and tie peeking out from the top.
He lead us in reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, as we turned toward the U.S. flag standing nearby, and placed our hand over our heart.
Next he began pacing, from one side to the other, as he spoke about service to our country as jurors. He was a proud ex-marine and also encouraged us to honor our veterans. His choice of words, regarding the physical and mental impact of combat on the military, was sobering.
Then he said, “You’re free to go…for the entire week.”
My eyebrows went up and my shoulders dropped. I heard quiet sighs of relief around me.
The handful of cases wouldn’t require a jury that week.
But while we were a captive audience, he spent a few more minutes sharing about another topic.
He educated us on various types of drugs that plague society and symptoms of their use, including one that affects your skin like leprosy. He discussed a program that helps users break free from addiction.
When he was finished, the judge thanked us for being willing to serve and let us go.
And one by one, we stepped off the “giant elevator”, back to life as usual.
