The first time I was summoned for jury duty, I was just out of grad school. From dawn till dusk, I sat in a cavernous auditorium with hundreds of others inside the Portland Justice Building downtown, devouring a paperback legal thriller, waiting for my number to be selected. It happened on the final case of the day — close to thirty Jurors were called, me being the very last one. As I hurriedly collected my belongings, the disembodied voice broke in again. That final juror called 1 was not needed, and everyone in the room was excused with the court's gratitude. A flood of humanity rushed for the exits.
Believe it or not, I was incredibly disappointed. I know most Americans view jury duty as a tremendous burden or inconvenience; I, however, was eager to perform my civic obligation. At that point in my life, I'd already voted in several elections, but this was by far the most patriotic I'd ever felt as an adult. To come so close only to be sent packing at the last moment was heartbreaking.
So, several years later, when I was living on the Oregon Coast and I received another notice, I was absolutely delighted, particularly because the dates attached to this summons would not conflict with my professional schedule. It felt like the stars were aligning.
I reported to the small town courthouse, where I was quickly directed into a courtroom and finally ushered to a seat smack in the middle of the jury box. The judge (sporting a mop of distinguished salt-and-pepper hair atop a majestic, black, flowing robe) introduced us with great solemnity to attorneys for the prosecution and defense, before outlining the process of voir dire2 and jury selection.
On my right side was parked an impatient middle-aged man wearing a three-piece suit.3 On my left sat an elderly lady who appeared to have passed the seventy-five year automatic excusal benchmark at least a decade earlier. She wasn't knitting or napping in a rocking chair, but based on her aura, she may as well have been. She peered through half-inch thick, horn-rimmed eyeglasses, smiling warmly at me and I beamed right back. Both of us were exactly where we wanted to be.
A conservatively attired woman not much older than myself stood behind one of the lawyers' desks. She'd previously been identified by the judge as our county's district attorney. The D.A. began by addressing the prospective juror pool about broad facts and local characters connected to the case, asking if any of us had strong opinions regarding (or close relationships with) major players. Several around me raised their hands to explain their personal conflicts, and most of these were politely dismissed from service. I could honestly claim I'd heard not a whisper of a rumor pertaining to this case, nor did I recognize a single name mentioned.
First hurdle cleared with flying colors.
The D.A. then launched into a speech about the importance and complexity of circumstantial evidence. With no direct eyewitnesses, no DNA, and no video proof, how can a jury possibly convict the guilty party? Well, she spoke at length about how rational citizens can weigh overwhelmingly improbable coincidences and land at a determination of guilt "beyond a reasonable doubt," the legal standard for conviction. So clearly this case was going to be based on circumstantial conclusions, and the D.A. wanted jury members capable of snapping puzzle pieces together where some gray area might exist. Got it.
Except the D.A. wasn't done. She'd prepared a well-rehearsed illustration of circumstantial evidence from everyday life, usingherself as a central character. The older lady to my left was already beginning to drowse. I considered the ethical implications of nudging another prospective juror awake during voir dire. If she couldn't maintain consciousness through a twenty-minute speech, how was she going to pin her eyelids open for a whole trial? I felt torn, but ultimately decided to keep my elbows to myself.
The D.A. had recently traveled out of town to visit her sister, she told us. She was greeted at the door by her adorably pudgy five-year-old nephew Johnny and the family's dog, a well-behaved Yellow Labrador so pale his fur appeared white. Johnny cheerfully escorted his aunt through the parlor, dining room, and kitchen on their way to the backyard, where the D.A.'s sister (who was also Johnny's mother) was working in the garden. Ever observant, the D.A. witnessed her nephew greedily eyeballing and salivating over a glistening three-layer chocolate cake that her sister had placed under glass on the dining room table4.
Over the course of laying out this story, the D.A. made certain to mention the name
Johnny no less than fifteen times.
The tale went on: she'd been chatting amiably in the backyard with her sister when the peaceful interlude was shattered by a tremendous CRASH from within the house. The two women rushed inside to discover the heavy glass cake cover miraculously intact on the floor, but the dessert itself completely destroyed. Johnny sat amidst its wreckage, his mouth and chest painted with frosting, his hands smeared with chocolate up to his elbows, an enormous, satisfied smile across his face. Then he noticed his mother and aunt staring at him from the doorway. His eyes widened with what the D.A. described as panic. After only the slightest hesitation, Johnny pointed wordlessly, accusingly at the dog, who bore not a fleck of incriminating evidence on his muzzle, coat, or paws.
"Now," the D.A. asked, building to her thesis, "there were no eyewitnesses to the actual destruction of the cake, apart from perhaps the criminal himself. But based on this testimony, who would you believe to be responsible beyond a reasonable doubt?" She scanned faces in the jury box hopefully, expectantly.
Suddenly, the epitome of octogenarian stereotypes seated to my left was wide awake, bouncing in her seat with wildenthusiasm, her thick spectacles threatening to tumble off.
"Jimmy!" she shouted breathlessly.
Jimmy?! There was no Jimmy. At no point during the D.A.'s detailed reconstruction of the crime was a character named Jimmy introduced or even peripherally referenced. This well-meaning prospective juror was accusing and voting to convict a completely innocent bystander off the street.
I couldn't help it. I burst into laughter at the absurdity of her response. As, I was certain, would anyone else with half a sense of humor who'd remotely been paying attention to the D.A.'s tale.
Immediately, both attorneys rushed to approach the bench. A hushed but heatedly animated conversation transpired. I prepared to bid farewell to the sweet, grandmotherly friend on my left.
Then, the impossible happened — I was dismissed. Despite my vehement protests. Not the older juror who couldn't remember the name of the prime suspect. Me.
A whirlwind of activity commenced, wherein I was unceremoniously escorted outside by the bailiff and dumped on the sidewalk.
I gazed back at the courthouse with disbelief and crushingly visceral disappointment, as jury selection continued inside unabated. Without me.
And this, fellow citizens, is how our American justice system operates. Don't laugh.
1 Me!
2 voir dire: literally "to speak the truth"; a pretrial procedure meant to reveal the unbiased nature and determine the competency of potential jurors. For further detail, see virtually any of John Grisham's early novels.
3 The well-dressed man on my right stood and made an eloquent, impassioned plea to be immediately excused. His small business was in the middle of a critical, lucrative negotiation, you see, and he was the essential cog in the process. The judge was unsympathetic, ordering him to sit down and perform his duty. The businessman sat, silently stewing.
4 Yes, the D.A.'s sister would confirm, chocolate cake was Johnny's absolute favorite. | RF
I had to laugh! Good stuff.