Jury Doodie
Well, I spent the beginning of this week in that particular sort of purgatory that only a local government can inflict on its populace: jury duty. I reported on Monday morning at 8AM with hundreds of my closest friends to enter into a process more byzantine and mysterious than initiation into the Masons. Here's what it meant for me: I sat in a long, narrow room from 8AM until 2:30PM, waiting for I knew not what. Occasionally people would be called up to the front of the room, but it was never clear to me whether or not it was good to be called. At first I ached to be called, impatient to make my way through the process. (I had a well-rehearsed speech about why I think the justice sytem is flawed (based on a tip from a web site).) But, the longer I sat, the more I began to wonder if, if I waited long enough, I would simply be told to go home.
So I waited. I read the newspaper. I did the Sudoku, the crossword, the word-find, the Jumble, the Word Scrimmage, and the easy crossword that I never, ever do. I read the textbook for a class I'm teaching in the spring, but I must admit that one can only handle so much Roland Barthes in that setting. Occasionally I got up and wandered around, found a new seat. And then I was called. My parking receipt was validated and I (along with 40-some others) was sent to a courtroom, where the presiding judge told us to return for jury selection at 9AM the following day.
The next morning, we wandered into the courtroom and were arranged by juror number. I was lucky enough to get a seat in the juror's box, which had padded leather chairs that tipped back and swiveled. Most of the prospective jurors sat in the hard pews in the gallery. The voir dire (French for "excruciating boredom") began: a series of questions like, "Does anyone know the defendant?" "Does anyone know the prosecuting attorney? Do you think that you could set aside your relationship with the prosecuting attorney and judge this case fairly?" And so on, for four hours.
People anxious to get out of jury duty were easy to spot. They stood up and said things like, "I think I have seen the defendant around. She looks familiar." I was among those anxious to get out of jury duty, but I tried a slightly different tack. The defendant was a black woman charged with possession of crack cocaine. I raised my hand and said that my conscience wouldn't allow me to follow the nation's drug laws, which I believe to be unfair and unnecessary. The lawyers--particularly the public defender, a woman probably younger than I with big bags under her eyes--poked hard at that declaration. "You will get the laws from the judge," she said. "Do you think that you could set aside your beliefs and rule based on the law as it is given to you?" A sympathetic juror would have been a boon for her. No, I said. Not in good concsience.
I tried to use the word conscience as much as possible, because it's the truth: I don't see how anyone is served by the conviction of some poor crack addict. I also wanted it to be clear that I was choosing to not set aside my beliefs.
And this is the odd psychology of jury selection: the questions are asked in such a way that the right answer is obvious. The lawyer asks if you know any cops. You raise your hand and say that you dad was a cop. The lawyer says, "Do you think you would be able to set aside your relationship with your father and listen fairly to the tesimony of police?" The right answser is "yes." Saying no implies irrationality, or a lack of mental acuity, or some other defect in your character. Could you set aside your own history of drug use and judge this case based solely on the evidence provided? Of course I could; do I look like an idiot?
So it takes a sort of courage to say otherwise, to stick to your guns and insist that you are influenced by your experiences and beliefs. And you know what? I think that all those folks who say they aren't are lying.
And so I pat myself on the back and say that I got out of jury duty by telling the truth, and mostly I believe it. But I probably would have french kissed the bailiff if it would have gotten me out of there.
Cheers.
So I waited. I read the newspaper. I did the Sudoku, the crossword, the word-find, the Jumble, the Word Scrimmage, and the easy crossword that I never, ever do. I read the textbook for a class I'm teaching in the spring, but I must admit that one can only handle so much Roland Barthes in that setting. Occasionally I got up and wandered around, found a new seat. And then I was called. My parking receipt was validated and I (along with 40-some others) was sent to a courtroom, where the presiding judge told us to return for jury selection at 9AM the following day.
The next morning, we wandered into the courtroom and were arranged by juror number. I was lucky enough to get a seat in the juror's box, which had padded leather chairs that tipped back and swiveled. Most of the prospective jurors sat in the hard pews in the gallery. The voir dire (French for "excruciating boredom") began: a series of questions like, "Does anyone know the defendant?" "Does anyone know the prosecuting attorney? Do you think that you could set aside your relationship with the prosecuting attorney and judge this case fairly?" And so on, for four hours.
People anxious to get out of jury duty were easy to spot. They stood up and said things like, "I think I have seen the defendant around. She looks familiar." I was among those anxious to get out of jury duty, but I tried a slightly different tack. The defendant was a black woman charged with possession of crack cocaine. I raised my hand and said that my conscience wouldn't allow me to follow the nation's drug laws, which I believe to be unfair and unnecessary. The lawyers--particularly the public defender, a woman probably younger than I with big bags under her eyes--poked hard at that declaration. "You will get the laws from the judge," she said. "Do you think that you could set aside your beliefs and rule based on the law as it is given to you?" A sympathetic juror would have been a boon for her. No, I said. Not in good concsience.
I tried to use the word conscience as much as possible, because it's the truth: I don't see how anyone is served by the conviction of some poor crack addict. I also wanted it to be clear that I was choosing to not set aside my beliefs.
And this is the odd psychology of jury selection: the questions are asked in such a way that the right answer is obvious. The lawyer asks if you know any cops. You raise your hand and say that you dad was a cop. The lawyer says, "Do you think you would be able to set aside your relationship with your father and listen fairly to the tesimony of police?" The right answser is "yes." Saying no implies irrationality, or a lack of mental acuity, or some other defect in your character. Could you set aside your own history of drug use and judge this case based solely on the evidence provided? Of course I could; do I look like an idiot?
So it takes a sort of courage to say otherwise, to stick to your guns and insist that you are influenced by your experiences and beliefs. And you know what? I think that all those folks who say they aren't are lying.
And so I pat myself on the back and say that I got out of jury duty by telling the truth, and mostly I believe it. But I probably would have french kissed the bailiff if it would have gotten me out of there.
Cheers.
posted by Shane @ 7:12 PM
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