The alarm goes off at 5:59 on the coldest day of the year. I am for the first time in my life on my way to do jury duty. My Holocaust mentality kicks in: I pack books and writing materials; I wrap up a bagel and cream cheese, a pear, two clementines, a box of raisins, a bag of peanuts, a packet of sesame snaps, a bottle of tea I made last night, and napkins. I dress in “sitting clothes” – lax bra, sweatpants with an elastic waist, layers of tops, and a scarf.
The courthouse location, 45 minutes away, confuses my GPS in that maze of unplanned chaotic intersections known as Greater Boston, but of course I have left plenty of time for getting lost, as is my wont. After passing through airport-like security, I am given #144 at the desk. I’m happy with that number because just last week I won a full $2 on the Mega Millions on the back of #44.
The jury pool room holds 150 or so folks, and all of them seem to be sniffling, sneezing, coughing, or moaning. The cooties of flu, a cold, pink eye, and yeast disease surround me. I move away from the woman whose sleeve is already caked with the snot she keeps wiping.
We receive a compact, efficient orientation consisting of an officer lecture, a film, and a judge. For many years, we are told, when you were drafted for jury duty, you served for 30 days, sometimes multiple trials. This particular Massachusetts county court instituted a system called “One Day, One Trial” which has been so successful that it has been cloned in more than 20 other states. Annually, around one million Massachusetts citizens between 18 and 70 serve one day and if on that day they are empaneled for a trial, they serve for just that trial. If they aren’t empaneled, they’re done for the next three years. At 68, that means that this is my only shot.
The jury poll is predominantly white and young-ish. The court officers are all white, and include only one woman. We’re called to a courtroom on the 7th floor. When the judge comes in, one of the officers does a sing-song “All Rise…” routine that ends with “God save the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.” I wonder if they will ask me to swear on a Bible. I will object. I already object to religion (and we all know which religion) being injected into the criminal justice system.
The judge, a Black woman, explains that she’s seating for a Grand Jury, quite a different animal from a criminal trial. It is, she explains, both “investigatory and accusatory.” A decision is reached by “12 concurring jurors out of a jury of 23 grand jurors.” The proceedings are all top secret.
Over many hours, we get called up one by one for a private sidebar with the judge, the lawyers, and an officer. I’m floored by how many potential jurors have arrived without anything but their phones, which they need to power down in the courtroom. No newspaper, book, sandwich, nothing. Dozens of them sit and stare into space, stupefied – when they aren’t mopping up their snot, that is.
My turn arrives. It turns out that the commitment is two days per week over three months, until the end of March. “I will be in Italy for all of March,” I explain. “So that’s that,” she says. “A shame,” I say, “because I will age out. Why is the ceiling 70?” “And that’s even the ceiling for judges. We must retire at 70,” she says. The officer intervenes, thanks me, and sends me back to the pool.
One wall of the jury pool room is covered by huge screens with info-posters about important criminal justice moments. A few of the topics are Sacco & Vanzetti, Ponzi Scheme, Boston Strangler Confesses, We Want Bread & Roses Too, and the Coconut Grove Fire. People wander up and read these.
Once a sufficient number of us Grand Jury rejectees are gathered, we are sent to a different courtroom to audition for a criminal trial in which a man is accused of selling a couple of bags of heroin. He is in the courtroom with his lawyer, the assistant DA, and the other usual suspects. The only woman staff member in both courtrooms is someone who does instantaneous verbal transcription into a device she holds against her mouth and chin that looks like the plunger part of a toilet plunger. A court officer I chat with later tells me that these jobs are being phased out as the women retire and software is replacing them.
Again we sit for hours while potential jurors are questioned one by one. I look around at the bored crowd and wonder why so many young women have such nasty acne. Next to me is a thumper. She thumps her feet, wiggles her knees back and forth, and chews off pieces of her black-painted finger-nails and spits them out. We are sharing a bench so I share her every twitch. Finally, she starts reading a book about water surfing for executives and her body calms.
At 1:00 we are sent for a one-hour lunch break. I have already eaten much of my food and I don’t fancy braving the sub-freezing temps for the single sandwich joint in walking distance, so I go to the law library to use their computer. Unfortunately, I cannot remember the password for either of my email accounts, so even if I write something, I can’t get it to myself.
When my number is finally called up, it is a different feeling than the previous courtroom. Again, there’s a huddle with the judge, the lawyers, the officers, but the questions are tough. Very tough. Have I ever known anyone with a substance abuse problem? Um, I’m 68 – I’ve known countless such people. I try to stop myself from saying “duh!” and think some time in silence before saying, I know alcoholics, of course. Am I, asks the judge, involved in any anti-drug organizations? I’m not sure I have any idea what that means and so I spend a minute trying to think it through and finally answer, No.
The kicker is: Do you feel that cops are more likely to lie than other people? I should mention that all five witnesses in this trial are cops. I stop to think. I do think that cops lie a great deal, yes I do. And I do think that non-cop people lie a great deal. I was raised by a liar. They’re all around. However, the lies cops tell are incredibly consequential, sometimes murderous, backed by fire-power and societal clout. But in response to the question as it is asked, I answer “No.” It has taken me about three silent minutes to think this through. I am rejected. I come home, exhausted.
When I received my summons, I didn’t know where to locate it. Was jury duty akin to paying the taxes that support roads, schools, people in need, etc? I believe in paying those taxes. Or was it like serving in the US military, a “duty” I would reject considering the role of that body. I consulted my friends. One told me about how a friend saved a defendant from a long jail sentence by holding out against the bias of other jurors. Another told me that USA women had fought hard for the right to serve, and only won that right in all 50 states in 1973. In fact, like voting and running for office, jury duty did not come automatically. The Civil Rights Act of 1957 defined the qualifications for serving on a jury without specifying race or sex, opening up the right at the federal level, at least theoretically. I decided to participate.
Overall, the process has been serious and methodical. But what I saw of the jury pool makes me want to avoid being the defendant. The question that remains is: have any of the germs of my peers penetrated my defenses?
I too am called -- this time for mid-March. And it is a motley crew in jury pools. Once when I did get on a trial, I was the lone bleeding heart. Figures. I find is kind of mesmerizing and odd all at the same time.
But it's a good reminder to pack well for all eventualities. I was hoping to find 4 for bridge. Fat chance.
Posted by: Sue Kelman | 07 January 2016 at 10:17
Somehow the right to be "tried by a jury of your peers" seems like a good thing. Until you get up and personal with your peers :)
It turns out that Judges are, on the whole, more fair-minded people than one's peers.
At 55 I've never been called either. Oddly my sister has been called twice: and cannot participate because she is a lawyer.
Posted by: Mike Evans | 07 January 2016 at 10:39
Sue, the idea of a card game is great - and there is a side room with tables at this particular courtroom. Let me know how it goes.
And Mike, lawyers used to serve on juries in the States, apparently, but don't anymore. Strange tho that you haven't been called, having a stable address and all of that for so long. You'd make a good juror!
Posted by: sue katz | 07 January 2016 at 11:52
How lucky I am with hankies. green food, reading matter, a pencil. How strange that elders can't participate on juries. What we have learned matters. Thanks for your wrap-up.
Posted by: Verandah Porche | 07 January 2016 at 15:53
I think with a big effort people 70+ can challenge the exclusion on a one-by-one basis, but who is going to do that? (Other than a writer, perhaps.)
Posted by: sue katz | 07 January 2016 at 15:58
California seems not to have an age limit. At least I was on duty (remotely) this week at age 71 but not asked to go in. Like someone notes above, while I appreciate the need for juries of peers (rather than of people systematically prejudiced against me in some way), my own civil trial experience was that we rendered what seemed to me a stupid judgment (against a bank!--but alas in favor of a type of crook from Pittsburgh I remember all to well from growing up there!). :-)
Posted by: Alan Venable | 07 January 2016 at 22:28
Alan, a lawyer friend was explaining to me tonight that I was lucky not to be on the Grand Jury which only indicts people. He said the saying was that a GJ would indict a ham sandwich. I'd be curious to know the differences among the age ceilings in the different states. Thanks for writing.
Posted by: sue katz | 07 January 2016 at 22:35
A grand jury will indict anyone except a cop.
Posted by: Kate | 19 January 2016 at 15:11