Internally I patted myself on the back for being five minutes early. I imagined the jury selection office would be impressed by my prompt and punctual arrival; they would take note of my maturity and seriousness, despite my youthful appearance. Walking with a confident step to room 3130, I took immediate notice of a long line of frowning people, snaking their way down the hallway. I dismissed them in my mind, those poor people, while instead I was going to whisk myself into 3130 undeterred and promptly register as instructed. It took a few seconds for me to realize those “poor people” included me. This was a line of individuals more eager than I was to impress the court with their adult responsiveness to their civic duty.
After registering we all ended up in the jurors lounge where they were playing the DVD “We are Marshall” with Matthew McConaughey. I was again face-to-face with our culture’s strange dependency on being entertained at all times. Eventually we were given an orientation, a PowerPoint-esque presentation from the hanging TVs, replacing the McConaughey movie. Then the fun began. They called a list of juror numbers, including mine, and ushered us to the second floor where they lined us up in a numerical order none of us understood, then filed us into the courtroom. We were quiet and hushed as though entering a library or sanctum. I was the third person from the front of the line, which put me in the first row of the jury box, front and center.
They asked us to fill out a questionnaire, then one-by-one we’d approach the judge and the two lawyers standing next to the judge’s seat and explain any of the “yeses” we may have marked. Because there were so many of us the judge told sections of the room to come back at different times throughout the day. Luckily, the people in the jury box got to go first. I was the third person to discuss my answers. When they called my juror number I stood and approached. The defense lawyer, a tall, handsome and stylishly dressed Africa-American man watched me with hard, assessing eyes as I walked towards them. I smiled at him on impulse, which made him scowl a little harder. I discussed my answers with the judge, surrounded on both sides by these two tall well dressed men listening to my answers, and was asked to return at 2:30.
When I returned we, again, sat quietly in our original seats as they conducted secret work with slips of paper. They passed them quietly between judge, clerk, lawyers who jotted notes and passed them around again, keeping them moving. We were being assessed, yet we had no idea what their criteria included. Occasionally they’d swap people from the audience into the jury box. In the end I was still seated in my front row middle seat when the remainder of the room was “let go” and the judge turned to us indicating we were the chosen jury. I strangely broke into a wide grin, feeling a little excited, but with a pointed and semi-confused look from the judge I covered my grin with a nose scratching gesture and resumed a serious face thereafter.
Now I am sworn (literally) to secrecy until the trial is over. Before each recess the judge reminds us we cannot discuss the case with each other so we shuffle back into the jury room and sit quietly. Most people hunch over their blackberries, typing frantically with their thumbs, some go into the hallway to talk on their cell phones, others channel their focus into a book, others close their eyes and lean against the wall. I just sit there, self righteously judging those on their phones, texting, talking, I think this obsession with one’s blackberry and phone is a social disease. I have no doubt it’ll become a psychological study some day, or perhaps it already has, as though human loneliness can be diverted with electronics.
When we are in session I can’t help but note the style differences between the two lawyers. When they are asked to approach the bench to talk confidentially with the judge she puts on a hushing device. It’s white noise, like an A/C turned on full blast. We can see their mouths moving and watch their expressions, but we can’t hear a word. It fascinates me how completely it blocks out what they are saying. They are not whispering, they use their full voices. We’ve been told not to try to hear what they’re saying, so I avert my eyes to keep from watching their lips. I think about how I feel like I’m watching a play and try to remember the name of a short story I read once about a jury and the drama of their deliberations.
When they are speaking with the judge the defense lawyer holds his arms behind his back, gripping his right forearm with his left hand. When he’s talking animatedly he splays his right hand, stretching his fingers wide. When he’s listening he relaxes the hand. The lines on his pale palm are dark and distinct. There was a moment when he was using his hands as he spoke to the jury, his palms caught my attention and I lost the content of what he was saying, while trying to decipher what his palm would read if I had the chance to take a look at them. He had an interesting head and love line intersection.
The poor judge has a severe cold. She sneezes often and has to blow her nose throughout the trial, yet she’s professional and doesn’t seem to let her cold affect her work. She speaks to us kindly and respectfully. Everyone is very nice, accommodating, and friendly. I wasn’t expecting that. We are thanked from time to time, yet it seems normal to me that we serve on a jury. That is what is asked of us, so why wouldn’t we? yet it still seems surreal to have a group of people off the street determine the fate of someone elses life. To actually be the judge of someone, it’s humbling and a little frightening. I’ll be interested to see how things unfold.
We begin our deliberations on Monday. I think we’ll have a verdict that day, yet since we can’t talk about it it’s hard to say how others view the case. Mums the word until it’s over.
Turn Your Head 