Reflections Upon Jury Duty

A month ago, I received a summons to lay aside all of my cherished daily rituals and assemble at the Fayette County Courthouse for the chance to discharge justice from the jury box.  Like all Americans, my first impulse was to avoid this imposition upon my time with the alacrity that a politician avoids telling the truth.  My senescence provided an unimpeachable excuse to decline this invitation with only the stroke of a notary’s pen; yet, I hesitated to claim this exemption.

I might here crow of unflinching civic virtue that unquestionably mandated this selfless service.  I would be lying.  Dismissing my right to avoid jury duty seemed as unamerican as failing to take a questionable tax deduction.  Norm Crosby’s often-cited quote came to mind, “When you go to court, you are putting your fate into the hands of twelve people who weren’t smart enough to get out of jury duty.”  Did I wish to join that doltish club?

I fought with myself, finally reasoning that if I were in the dock, I would pray that at least a few of my arbiters might revere the Constitutional system to decide my fate.  (I know, it sounds a bit too noble, but I sometimes succumb to impassioned rhetoric.)  It could also be illuminating to observe my fellow victims.  Having spent forty years as a licensed psychologist, it would be interesting to evaluate both the people and process in this live experiment.

So, at 8:30 on this May morning, I am herded into a clean and well-appointed jury assembly room on the second floor of the Fayette County Justice Center.  The multiethnic, all female court staff eschew signage, preferring to repeat instructions endlessly for the most obvious registration tasks.  Our assemblage takes our seats, and absolutely nothing transpires for half an hour.

I here admit a profound disappointment.  I fully expected to be addressed by a judge, the Clerk of Court, or at least a video message extolling our attendance and elucidating the rights afforded Americans by the 6^th and 7^th Amendments to our Constitution for “speedy and public trial by an impartial jury” in criminal matters as well as jury adjudication of civil suits at common law.  This omission is a tragic missed opportunity to educate a caged population on some rudimentary privileges afforded by the Bill of Rights.  After all, rather than learn civics, most Americans would rather serve jury…  Sorry, poor analogy.

As soon as it becomes clear that our time is being wasted, the resourceful power up their laptops and go to work, and the masses begin swiping cell phones.  I do notice a few books.  

My compatriots’ wardrobes elicit interest.  The predominant men’s fashion is a collared shirt and casual pants, but I am surprised by a minority’s messaged T-shirts and not-recently-laundered blue jeans.  Perhaps unrealistically, I had expected attire with a modicum of respect for the gravity of the task that might be assigned, including condemning a defendant to decades in prison.  On reflection, I realize that penury may limit apparel acquisition, but selecting laundered pants does not seem a financial burden.

I confess a poverty of knowledge about feminine clothing.  Their costumes, as well as their coiffures, suggest a good deal more considerations than do the men’s.  Most ladies dress in a fashion quite acceptable in typical commercial enterprises.  Though one collegian, not content to display two rosy cheeks, arrives in skimpy gym shorts that intermittently reveal an additional pair.

The court staff finally engages us, but with little intelligence beyond speculation about the august judges’ intents.  Their voices are not afforded amplification, so a good deal of straining is required, even by much younger ears than mine.  A roll call with ample surname mispronunciations segregates us into twelve tribes like the ancient Hebrews with 12 in each group, identified by Arabic numerals.  I discover we are about 144 assembled.

Since few know what to expect, every utterance from the court staff is greeted with expectation.  One middle-aged staffer who basks in this attention offers information that is soon recognized as inconsequential.  For example, she identifies the location of the restrooms and insists that the man and woman standing nearby trade places to offer a visual indicating that the women’s facilities are on the right and the men’s are on the left.  Of course, these restrooms are clearly marked by careful lettering as well as skirted and unskirted figures, so the correct door could be easily discerned by my five-year-old granddaughter.  Apparently, we are esteemed too limited to discern, beyond a reasonable doubt, which multi-marked restroom to enter.  Yet, we might later be expected to award (or not) millions of dollars to a plaintiff in a lawsuit.

The next half hour is consumed with awarding debit cards that will be loaded with a $25 stipend for each day’s service.  The half-audible roll call ritual is renewed, but alphabetical arrangement of these envelopes greatly speeds juror anticipation and acknowledgement.  Of course, there is a catch.  We are instructed to ignore the directions on the cards now in our possession in favor of an alternative validation method.  At first, I consider this convoluted method of competing instructions to be some sort of test, but the staff repeats the deviant directives so often that not even a simpleton could remain in doubt. 

Some jurors converse softly to those sitting close by, but most continue solitary amusement.  My neighbors politely acknowledge my few comments, but none seem interested in going beyond the superficial.  Smiles are discouraged by an unwritten convention since we are supposed to be annoyed today by the court’s infringement upon our liberty.

I am struck by our parity.  The United States has higher inequality metrics than most developed country – e.g., wealth, education, social standing – yet, our band of 144 operates under identical strictures in this room.  I confess that this equivalence seems more fair than it feels, and I wonder how much I have internalized inequality as a given.

After several hours, a judge has need of a jury.  So the first three tribes are summoned from the room, and the general sentiment among the remaining is a grand exhale, glad to number among the many called rather than the few chosen.

Another roll call scatters the remaining tribes into but two, labeled A and B (rather than Israel and Judah).  We are granted our liberty with strict instructions to call the juror information line after 6:00 p.m. each evening to take our orders for the following day.  We quietly file out without objections.

I exit the courthouse feeling no civic pride.  I seem to have adopted my peers’ attitude of escape.  I consider bequeathing my debit card to an ill-clad juror for wardrobe enhancement, but I calculate long odds that he might redeem it at Smith and Davis for a new pair of jeans.

The Clerk of Court has held her office since 2000 and wins re-election by wide margins, so I doubt that she invites advice about handling her juries.  A welcoming statement and brief civics lesson by a local luminary would kick off the experience with dignity.  Judge Jason Thompson is a superb motivational speaker (and everyone cottons to his bow ties). Providing the court staff with microphones and onscreen communication abilities would give people in the back of the room a fighting chance to hear their names and understand the directives.  Reassuring everyone that their $25 stipend is a mere symbolic gesture, rather than a measure of their value, would also add a respectable touch.

Upon reflection, I am pleased that I devoted this Monday morning to the jury process.  I would like to report that this elevated my civic self-esteem and renewed my faith in my fellow Americans.  That would be a stretch.  The experience provided a real-world perspective upon how I and my peers responded to imposed duties.  We passed the test but lacked school spirit.  It also tested my personal ideals of judicial and social equality, and upon that verdict, my jury is still out.

David Aycock, Ph.D.

Fayetteville, Georgia