I, THE JUROR

by Deborah Elliott-Upton

For the third time in as many years, I received a jury summons notice in the mail. While everyone understands that serving on a jury, allowing our fellow Americans the opportunity to a fair trial and to be judged by a jury of their peers, sounds good on paper, no one really wants to do their duty to their country by doing it.

No one except maybe Florine,1 who enjoys a good courtroom drama. She’s been called to report many times in her 74 years and once was sequestered —along with eleven other good citizens—and decided a man’s future after he’d been charged with murdering his wife. He may have gotten some sympathy if he hadn’t returned to the scene of the crime and hit her a few more times with the ax.

Florine admits she had nightmares for some time after hearing the testimony and viewing the graphic murder scene photos. The jury had spent a couple of days listening to lawyers either assert or defend their cases before the defendant realized his was a losing proposition and changed his plea to guilty. The judge instructed the jury that their only job now was to determine the sentencing. Florine told me she and her fellow jurors agonized over the decision, but knew it was their duty to reach one.

Staying at a hotel with guards stationed outside their doors, with no TV, no phones, no newspapers and no contact with the outside world and apart from their families, Florine says she isn’t sure how those serving on longer trials manage. Still, Florine doesn’t complain when she receives a jury duty notice, saying it’s a privilege to live in a country where we have a voice and a right to a trial by jury by our peers.

Of course, I’m thinking none of my peers—that I know of—have committed felonies. Although, who really knows what goes on in our neighborhoods and behind closed doors? Ann Rule worked side-by-side with Ted Bundy and didn’t have a clue until he was apprehended. The BTK killer wasn’t popular in his neighborhood, but his neighbors and coworkers didn’t suspect he could be the perpetrator of those horrible crimes until he was arrested and started confessing. Even if your neighbor is a bit weird, no one expects him to be another Jeffrey Dahmer.

The worst of my neighbors through the years was more of the Mrs. Kravitz type from “Bewitched.”

I did hear a story about a guy who joined the police force and eventually became a detective. He was working undercover in vice, investigating a prostitution ring. Posing as a john, he’d set up the sting with a phone call to secure the appointment. When he knocked on the motel room door, he said he didn’t know who was more surprised: him or the girl he knew from the high school pep squad answering the door.

I’m reading the juror questionnaire mandated by Government Code Section 62.0132. It asks personal questions that I assume might help a lawyer decide whether his side wants you to be sitting on the jury. Your job status, level of education, marital status and whether or not you have children must be indicated and the document must not just be signed, but certified as true and correct. When would truthful answers not also be correct answers? I suppose it’s leftover legalese.

For writers, every experience is filed away for future use in a story. For me, it’s always good to know as much as possible about subjects I’m writing about—although, I promise I have so far not killed anyone except on paper. I’ve seen the inside of the jury pool room only twice. My memory probably needs jogging about what goes on inside.

Our county’s courthouse is nestled about twenty minutes south of the city where I live in a small university town. When a new super Wal-Mart was built a few miles north near the Interstate and at the edge of the town’s more elite section, the old Wal-Mart property was presented to the town by the corporation. Even Sam Walton would not have recognized the transition from discount store to the state-of-the-art building we refer to as Law-Mart.

A New York Times bestselling author once told me lawyers don’t like writers on their juries because we will try to figure out not just whether someone is guilty, but also if someone else could have done it and how. She said she’s never been selected for a jury.

I haven’t either. Yet.

I have sat in courtrooms as observer and soaked up as much ambiance as I could in case I needed it for a future story. One was a child custody case and the other a man accused of setting his ex-wife’s house on fire. I watched the jury members’ faces. I watched the bailiff and the court reporters never show any reaction to what happens. The lawyers dance—not so much like those we see on the screen or even in books, but dance nonetheless. Although none were Perry Mason, I had the impression many would have liked to have been. The judges brought no “Night Court” Harry’s or Ray Walston’s character on “Picket Fences” or anyone who halfway resembled any character on “Boston Legal.” And that’s okay. Those television shows are meant for entertainment purposes only and not to be confused with real life.

Real life is when someone’s life is in the balance of those scales of justice. Real life is when the judgment ends in someone going to prison for a very long time. Real life is when children are taken from their homes for their own protection no matter how cruel it may seem to separate parent from child.

Reporting to the courthouse as ordered., I discover out of the 300 called, 130 have already been dismissed. The court requires 40 prospective jurors to seat one jury. Only 59 people have shown up in response to their mandatory call to duty. I am juror #9.

The last time I was in the courthouse and after we’d settled back into the waiting room after lunch-on-your-own, a judge stopped by to thank us for our time and tell us we were dismissed. He explained most people going on trial are upset to see so many citizens show as prospective jurors. It suddenly becomes real to them. “Criminals,” he said, “aren’t known for their brainpower.” He said enough guilty people cop a plea after lunch for it to become a pattern.

After speaking with the judge about reasons they should be excused, 25 are sent home. Remaining are a total of 19 men and 15 women. I am happy to see a minimum of two-thirds brought a book to read. Of the original 59, only one male is an African-American. There are no Mexican-Americans although our population is easily a third or more of Mexican descent. From what I can decipher, no one is in their twenties or thirties, although I could be wrong about that—I’m really bad at guessing someone’s age. We’re told this will be a criminal trial and likely to last two days. Since more crimes are typically committed by males in their early twenties to late thirties, I am wondering who their peers on the jury may be from this group.

We are told the judge will see us in the courtroom in approximately ten minutes, so if we need to use the bathroom, take anything to our cars or wish to bring a drink with us into the courtroom, we should get one now. (Food is not allowed.) I take my notebook to the car and consider buying a soft drink from the vending machine. Note to self for next time: bring something smaller than a twenty dollar bill for such expenditures. The court supplies free coffee, so I opt for some in a Styrofoam cup that adds its own flavor non-enhancement.

After fifteen minutes, the judge reappears and tells us the defendant has decided to fire his court-appointed counsel. Knowing that this is one of those three-strikes-and-you’re-doing-hard-time-for- life cases, the judge grants a continuance. He also tells us this was a sexual predator case and I’m selfishly glad I didn’t have to hear the details of the crime.

The judge thanks us for our time, our diligence to obeying the law and announces we are free to go. Until next time.

1. I’m changing her name for obvious reasons [↩]