About seventy five of us were seated in a warm room on an eighty degree day, all chairs facing toward a big screen tv. “Called to Serve” featured Sandra Day O’Conner, John Roberts and Samuel Alito extolling the virtues of our trial by jury system. Former jurors talked about their experience. Everyone looked especially large because the video had been stretched from its 4×3 original format to 16×9. The guy sitting next to me was all decked out in Harley Davidson gear and holding onto a hardback copy of Ace Frehley’s autobiography, “No Regrets.” I spotted only a handful of African Americans in the crowd.
When the video ended we were led into the courtroom where we watched some people shuffle papers for about twenty minutes. The judge came in, apologized for the delay and briefly explained the case. Three cops, who were seated directly in front of me, were accused of using excessive force when they arrested this guy in 2007 for some sort of domestic issue. The guy, sitting alone at a big table with a box of papers, was wearing a green jump suit and currently serving a prison term on an unrelated charge. We were told that was of no concern to us.
They called sixteen names, mine included, and we were seated in the jury box. I think they were working their way toward seating only eight jurors. The judge asked each of us many questions based on the forms we had filled out. Would we be available for the next few weeks? I said I might have some conflicts but would try to move them. He asked what I did when I worked for the police department in the seventies. I told him I pulled mugshots and made flyers for about a year until the grant for my graphic arts position ran out.
A woman who said she was breaking out in hives was let go. A man who said his fourth ammendment rights were violated when he went through the metal detector downstairs was let go but I made the cut up to the break. The jury box faced a wood paneled wall with a big built-in clock. It read five to noon and I believed it until I saw smaller clock below it. It was still only ten o’clock. Despite the extensive downtime, relatively few people brought reading material and of course phones were confiscated at the door. The woman sitting next to me in the jury box was reading “Ghostbread.” I told her I loved the book and she said, “I’m reading it for the second time.”
Next came a round of personal questions from the judge. What do you do for a living, are you married, what are you hobbies? About half had no hobbies at all. One guy answered, “I enjoy not working.” That got a good laugh. Most people answered all the questions enthusiastically. I got the sense they really wanted to be on this jury for the next three or four weeks. I can’t say I was looking forward to being trapped in the Federal Building for the next month hearing this sad case.
The two defense attorneys and the prisoner approached the bench for a round of whispering and when they returned the judge told me I was excused. I rode my bike down Main Street and out Joseph Avenue, scene of the 1964 race riots and then the Urban Renewal blight. I was feeling a bit guilty about not making the good citizen grade.
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