Jury Duty
Snail mail excites me. In the era of emojis and DMs, I get a kick out of the whole postal process. So when a letter came from the Louis D. Brandeis Hall of Justice, I had the same happy tickle in my stomach I get before opening anything.
"Congratulations," the note began. "You've been selected to serve..."
I didn't need to read the rest. Fucking Jury Duty.
Congratulations? It should begin, we're sorry.
A month or so after the letter came, I reported for duty. Notebook in hand. Nervously prepared to go gonzo on this situation.
DAY ONE
I expected to show up to something like a high school classroom. Maybe 15 of us. A government-looking person at the front. One of those TVs on a roller cart in the corner. But that wasn't the case.
The room was kind of like an airport terminal. But grosser. I'd say 200ish people. (But I've never been good at guessing that type of thing.) The chairs were made from carpet material. Most stained or ripped or sagging from the weight of decades of Jurors. Everything was some form of beige. And the lighting was clinically eerie. Like a David Fincher movie.
The room reminded me of a bowl of oatmeal.
I arrived at 9:29a. The instructions said 9:30a, and I was proud of myself for being early. Though when I arrived, there was a woman already speaking into a microphone. She was explaining how to line up for check in. Her instructions were simple and friendly, delivered in a gradeschool singsong tone.
"And if your last name starts with 'M' through 'Z,' you'll start your line here and wrap around this way. Can you still see me over here? This is where the 'M' through 'Z' line will go."
As soon as she said, "Okay, go," people rushed to line up. Not in the way she tried so hard to convince us.
"We're about ready to decide whether or not to send someone to jail for the rest of his or her life and we can't even decide how to line up correctly," I thought.
I slowly made my way to the "A through L" line.
"Why didn't they check us in as we came in?" one lady commented.
"Nice shoes," another guy said to the cute girl in line.
I approached the check-in table quicker than I thought.
"Good morning," I said with a smile.
"Papers please."
That was that.
I walked away and found a seat toward the back and watched as others did the same. Most people sat quietly, avoiding eye contact by either looking around or intensely staring into their phones.
There was an old guy with gray hair on only the sides of his head. He had little round tortoise-shell glasses. He looked like what you would draw if someone told you to draw a cute old man.
There was a middle aged guy who looked like a Macy's holiday ad. He had a backpack.
There was a fedora. A fanny pack. Sandals. Boots. Flannels. Sweaters that looked older than I am.
One lady was wearing Prada glasses on her head. The lady sitting next to her, Sketchers on her feet.
There were fat people and skinny people. White people and black people. People who were reading and people who looked like they don't know how to read. People with red hair and people with no hair.
There was a woman wearing a hoodie that said "ALASKA" in one of those tourist fonts. She was eating Saltine Crackers from the little packages restaurants give out. She was my favorite.
There was one lady loud-typing on her Dell laptop. Occasionally she would stop and share opinions to the poor schmuck next to her. He was wearing a sweat suit. More for comfort than performance I suspected.
There was a girl with blue hair and gauged ears. And a guy with bleached hair. Like he was on the run and did it in a gas station sink.
In one sense, I found it all disgusting. Especially in flu-fearing December. In another, I found it all beautiful. This room contained people from all walks of life. And there was a sense of equality in the air. We were all Jurors here. Nothing more. Nothing less.
By 10:30a, everyone was checked in and seated. Now, the microphone was turned over to Sheriff Something Rather. He looked like he had been cast for the role. Mustache on his face, too many donuts in his belly, paper cup of coffee in one hand while the other rested on his belt.
"He's going to tell you about the safety things," the woman who half-heartedly introduced him said.
The "safety things" were just a list of obvious don'ts. Like don't bring guns in here. And don't come in the door that says EXIT ONLY. That kind of thing.
Then, the mic went back to the original lady. She now introduced herself to the room as the Jury Administrator. She continued the housekeeping, stressing that every day is different in court. She really hammered that point.
It didn't stop people from raising their hands and asking what time they could be back to work, though.
"It depends. And that's going to be my answer for 99% of your questions this week," she said (I think) in hopes that the other hands would go down. They did not.
Throughout her instructions, our Administrator made a lot of dadjokes. "Oh, and the restrooms are over there and you can get up whenever you need to. This is a judgment free zone."
She had the rehearsed energy of an Activities Director on a cruise boat.
She introduced an instructional video. "It's in HD now."
It played like a parody.
Directed by and produced by credits rolled at the end. The same name appearing underneath both.
A couple people clapped.
It was 11:45a when all the housekeeping wrapped up.
"Sit tight and I'll go see what's on the docket this afternoon," our Administrator said. "Fingers crossed for settlement, right?"
She came back at 12:20p and dismissed most of us, including me.
"Remember to call the number after six tonight to see if you need to report tomorrow," I heard while walking out.
At 6:01p, I called the number. It was a prerecorded message.
"All jurors report tomorrow."
DAY TWO
I arrived to the concrete government building with a new confidence Tuesday morning. I knew which door to go into. I knew which security line to get in. I knew which stairs to walk up. Which room to enter.
I was a Juror. And dammit I was here to jure.
My parade started to feel rain as I found my way to the back of the check-in line.
"Yup. Hard to get work done here," one guy said into his AirPods.
"Wanna come downtown and trade me?" another said loudly into his phone.
"There's gotta be a better way to do this," one man commented to the person behind him.
This trail of complaints reminded me of a dinner I once had with my family. We were sat at objectively the worst table in the place. Between a loud vent and a wall. And my Dad’s seat faced the vent. After continuous sarcasm about his view, my sweet Mother offered to change seats with him.
“Nah, I’d rather just bitch about it,” my Dad said.
He was joking. And the dinner became a fun “who can one-up the last comment about how shitty our table is” exercise. But there was a deeper human truth behind his response. That’s why it was so funny.
I was one of the last to get checked in. I found a seat opposite of where I was yesterday. Looking around on my way there.
Some faces looked vaguely familiar.
Others like total strangers.
We sat.
We waited.
No one talked to me and I couldn't find the courage to initiate. I simply hid behind my pocket sized notebook.
"Anyone wanna smoke?" one person offered the room.
Crickets.
We sat.
We waited.
We waited for three hours before our Administrator grabbed the mic and said, "Y'all have done your job today. Call the number tonight to see what tomorrow will bring."
I once saw an audience boo an opening act off stage at Red Rocks. That was nothing compared to the aggravation exuding from this group.
Our Administrator told us from the beginning, "It depends."
She told us everything was unpredictable. And in that sense, the day went according to plan. Yet, the outrage ensued.
“I’d rather just bitch about it.”
DAYS THREE THROUGH TEN
Over the next two weeks, I called the number every night. My group was never summoned back.