QMusings

Government buildings have been looming large in my life these days.

First there are all these workshops I’ve had to attend in order to continue to collect unemployment.

Then there was the trip to the Social Security office.

Then I got a summons to show up for jury duty. Actually, I had gotten the original summons last fall and had postponed it. I had postponed it because it might interfere with work. No such problem right now.

The Hall Of Justice is like any cliche’-ridden detective novel you’ve ever read. You have your funky part of town. You have your lineup of glass-fronted storefronts offering bail bonds. You have your neon signs advertising same. You have your double-parked police cars. You have your pinstriped attorneys.

I really wanted to take my camera but figured that cameras would not be allowed. This was a bummer as the public restrooms were circa 1960 and gray-gray-gray. I went through security, located the jury assembly room, checked in and waited.

I had to show up by 9am and since I wasn’t sure how long I’d be at the Hall Of Justice, I brought snacks. The assembly room must have been from the same era as the EDD offices what with the chairs upholstered in burnt orange.

The room has 2 video monitors, 2 clocks, row upon row of chairs facing the monitors, 2 vending machines (snacks and coffee) and WiFi. Scraggly plants lean against the windows. People file in slowly but the room ends up being full. No one speaks besides asking the occasional question.

At 9am a young Chinese woman comes up to the podium and says some stuff. She starts the videos. The videos go over the jury selection process. There is also an inspiring (propaganda) video about what serving on a jury means. We get an overview about the U.S. Constitution and hear how former jurors felt about serving. The videos are a great reminder that jury duty is more than just an inconvenience.

The videos end and the young Chinese woman returns. She begins calling out names alphabetically. The names are a random selection of potential jurors. My name is called. Rats!

I follow the stream of other potential jurors to Department 23, wherever that is. We all look up and down our floor. The numbers jump around. I see 20, 26, 28. I follow the crowd hoping they know. We take some stairs down. A few of us are looking at each other and laughing that we hope someone knows where we’re supposed to go.

We finally find Department 23 – a courtroom. State seal on the back wall, platform for the judge, areas for plaintiff and defendant.

Roll is taken by an Asian guy about my age with a crew cut, glasses, a button-down blue shirt with rolled up sleeves and the forearms of someone who has regular strength training. He apologizes in advance for any mangling of names.

The bailiff tells us to “All Rise” and we do. He calls out the judge’s name and she enters the courtroom. She’s white with gray hair. She tells us we can sit down.

She introduces the defendant who stands up and faces us. The defendant is a middle-aged black man with fuzzy uneven hair wearing neat gray clothing. He smiles as best he can. His lawyer states his name. The prosecuting attorney introduces himself.

She reviews the jury selection process and what serving means – from our being fair and objective to not having to have any special training. She then tells us how long the trial is expect to take. This is the moment we’ve all been waiting for.

“This trial is expected to take four to five weeks.”

Dang.

The woman next to me catches her breath. No one says anything – we’re all in Respectful Silence mode but I can feel the inner groan.

The judge speaks in a measured voice and she goes on to tell us that the court recognizes that serving can cause some people hardship – financially as well as personally. She says that some of us may be excused from duty or assigned to a shorter trial if we can prove hardship. She tells us that we must decide now if this trial will be a hardship. If we are further along in the selection process, there is no going back.

She tells us that for those who can serve, they can leave now and must return next Wednesday at this courtroom at 10am. More than half the people leave. I stay put.

I like the judge – she seems sympathetic and fair. She goes on to tell us that we are to describe our hardship in front of the others, which can be embarrassing. If we feel that we don’t want to discuss our hardship publicly, we can speak privately with her – but this will lengthen the process for everyone else. There are perhaps 60 of us remaining.

I hear some serious hardship stories – one man had multiple sclerosis and was worried about his ability to control his bladder. Sometime earlier in all this we had to swear under oath that we were telling the truth. A few people were self-employed and couldn’t take the financial hit. Others had trips planned. The judge let them go for either rescheduling to a shorter trial or excused. She didn’t excuse everyone – some people she decided would be merely inconvenienced so they had to work out their schedules to fit the trial.

My turn is getting closer. Only one guy ahead of me. He’s an elderly man formally dressed in slacks, wool jacket, argyle socks and shiny maroon loafers. He reminds me of Alan Greenspan – practically bald with large glasses and wide sagging lips.

He states his name. He tells the judge that he’s served on juries many times in the past. He wished he could serve but he was currently undergoing treatments for rheumatoid arthritis.

The judge asks for more details about how this would affect his service. He goes on to describe the pain in his joints and how he had gotten his first summons back in November when he was first diagnosed. He had postponed his service thinking that he’d be feeling well by now. As he goes on to talk about his treatments and his discomfort, his voice catches. I am sitting next to him and I see that he is getting upset. The judge could tell as well. I see his hand tremble as he raises it to cover his mouth. My eyes start to tear up in sympathy.

The judge tells him his is excused. He rises stiffly from his chair and slowly leaves the courtroom.

It is now my turn. I state my name.

The judge asks me, “What is the nature of your hardship?”

Next: The judge decides! Hardship or feeble excuse?

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