I solemnly swear I had jury duty
When I got notice this summer that I was being summoned for my first-ever jury draw, I cheered, as anyone would.
Maybe I’d be chosen for a juicy trial, with lots of intrigue and deception and a hostile witness or two. I imagined all kinds of scenarios. An organized crime ring selling imitation maple syrup. Or a band of jewelry thieves posing as tourists. Or someone smuggling emus across state lines.
I only hoped it wasn’t a murder case. I’d be happy to look at exhibits like incriminating text messages, but I did not want to so much as hear the words “ligature marks” or “blood spatter analysis,” much less have to see close-up photos.
I prepared for jury draw by learning how the courtroom process worked. I studied Latin phrases such as voir dire, prima facie, and nolle prosequi (though I was almost positive that last one was a type of sparkling wine).
On the given day, I filed into the courtroom with several dozen other potential jurors. The judge took his seat on the raised dais, made pleasantries, and explained the procedure by which the lawyers would assess our suitability for this role.
The defense lawyer—from out of state, I presumed—opened with an ice breaker. “Does anyone here,” he said, waving at the 60-odd Addison County residents seated before him, “know anyone else in this room?”
The place erupted in laughter. Tears ran down my brother-in-law’s face. My neighbor snorted. My dental hygienist stifled a guffaw.
When the room settled down, the chagrined lawyer went on to give us a rough outline of what turned out to be a simple civil case.
So much for intrigue.
Both lawyers fielded whatever questions we had. Then they finished up with a few questions of their own. Did we know either of the two witnesses? No. Were we familiar with the plaintiff’s company? No.
And last, was there any reason we might feel unable to act in a fair and impartial manner? I didn’t want to be excused from the case, but in the interest of habeas corpus, I had to speak up.
“Your excellency,” I said to the lawyer, who glanced at the judge, “once, as a child, I had a bad experience with an emu.”
He frowned and flipped through his notes. Rubbing the back of his neck for several seconds, he finally said, “Um, emus are not part of this case. Also: You do not need to salute when speaking to me.”
“Sorry. Non compos mentis,” I said, curtseying.
The Latin must have impressed him, because despite the emu faux pas, minutes later I got chosen for the jury pool. What luck!
I felt bad for the other 50 or so less worthy people who were asked to leave. But they hid their disappointment well, grinning and high-fiving one another as they rushed for the door.
Though this case wouldn’t inspire an episode of Law & Order or cause reporters to camp out in my yard, I couldn’t wait to serve the interests of justice.
The following week, the one-day trial played out a lot like you see on TV—just more boring.
The proceedings took less than six hours, five of which we jurors spent examining our fingernails and counting ceiling tiles while the judge and the lawyers whispered to each other at the bench.
Once or twice, when things got really dull, I hooted out, “I object!” in a Mickey Mouse voice, and then avoided blame by glaring at the juror next to me. Sure, it was naughty, but at some level I think the lawyers appreciated the diversion.
In the end, the case was straightforward. It didn’t even have a bad guy, just two parties who disagreed on whether a fine had been justified.
While I had braced myself for a two-week sequester and a lot of 12 Angry Men energy, the jury deliberations were more 12 Reasonable Adults who reached a unanimous verdict in minutes and took the rest of the afternoon off.
Still, I had fulfilled my civic duty. And that deserved to be recognized.
When Mark got home, I told him we should celebrate the end of the trial, however brief it had been.
“You want to go out?” he asked.
“No need,” I said. “I’ve already got a bottle of nolle prosequi chilling in the fridge.”
