by Janis Patterson
I was called to jury duty a couple of days ago.
In a word, ick.
First, I had to clear the day of all appointments and
deadlines, which meant working much of the weekend just so I didn’t fall behind
in my writing schedule. Then I had to get up at an incredibly early hour and
fight the gargantuan snarl that is rush hour traffic in an expedition to
downtown. (To think some people do it every day – unbelievable!) The city has
gotten so big and so congested that I almost never venture downtown any more.
There are better stores and services in the suburbs, where we don’t have to
fight narrow streets choked with traffic, an incomprehensible and illogical
system of one-way streets, and ridiculous parking fees.
One thing that has not been outsourced to the more pleasant
suburbs, though, is the justice system. Both the city and the county
courthouses are firmly entrenched in the congested heart of downtown. And you
have to be there to report in, preferably early, or they’ll come after you.
Insufficiently caffeinated, I staggered into the central
waiting room, signed in on a computer system which would have been confusing
even if I had been fully awake, and then sat down to wait. I had brought my
ereader, and a small notebook where I could jot things down if something struck
me, but I’ve never liked to read early in the morning and as far as I’m
concerned writing anything more than a check by hand is cruel and unusual
punishment. I’m used to working in the morning. I get up, take my first mug of
coffee into my office and usually have written a minimum of 2-3 pages before
The Husband staggers into consciousness wanting breakfast.
Sitting in a large, ugly, noisy room filled with all kinds
of people is not conducive to creativity, even if I were to bring a purse
computer. I didn’t, because there are no desks – only sublimely uncomfortable
chairs – and I’ve never mastered balancing anything on my lap.
It was a wonderful place for people-watching, though. Except
for royalty and street people just about every stratum of society was
represented in the central jury room. The interactions between these strata was
both saddening and amusing and, in one case, almost frightening. I did make a
few notes on character types; being there was great research for a writer and I
always try to make the best of any situation!
As for street people, I saw more than enough between the
parking lot and the court building. No royalty anywhere, though.
If jury duty is even a pale reflection of jail, I am going
to be much more careful about adhering to the letter of the law in the future.
The surroundings are unspeakably drab. You are referred to by your juror
number, not your name. You have to line up for everything. Once in the central
jury room you cannot leave except when you are called for a panel and then you
are escorted out under guard. You can’t leave the room otherwise, not even to
get coffee, no matter how badly it might be needed. There was a big, muscled
and armed guard at the door to enforce our compliance. Thank goodness there was
a fairly decent restroom attached to the jury room for which no special
permission or escort was needed. There was no television nor even Musak. By the
time the time for lunch arrived I was already making plans on how to break out.
Luckily no more juries were needed and those of us who had not been called were
allowed to escape… er, to leave.
To be absolutely honest, in the grand scheme of things the
experience was not overly onerous. Dangerous, no. Interruptive of my schedule,
yes. Boring, definitely. I know that the right of trial by a jury of one’s
peers is one of the fundamental cornerstones of our legal system, that serving
on a jury is both a right and a duty of every citizen if we are to remain a
free and just people. I respect the law and the belief system that brought it
into being.
Our laws say that when you are called for jury duty you
should appear, and I did. There’s no law that says I have to like it.
