Juror # 163
The letter from the Forsyth County Sheriff’s office set my mailbox on fire. I moved it from hand to hand as I coaxed it from the receptacle. I had a suspicion of what it could be, but you never know. I hadn’t broken any laws to my knowledge, but good news is rarely delivered by the Sheriff’s office. After tearing the envelope and seeing the words “Juror # 163” emblazoned next to my name, a wave dread crashed over me. The seeds for anxiety were planted.
As the clock struck 5 p.m. the night before my report date, I dialed the number as instructed. “Jurors one through one eighty will need report to the courthouse at 8 a.m. tomorrow for jury duty.” Throwing the pen in my hand at the wall, I yelled in frustration. My anxiety sometimes masquerades as anger, explaining my outburst. Once my destiny was set, I decided to try and change my attitude about the whole process. I’m not going to say I became ardent purveyor of justice and civic duty overnight, nor am I saying I wasn’t nervous about driving downtown to spend the day with our county’s finest; but I decided that perhaps a new experience could be good. I started looking at it as an opportunity and less like a chore.
I got to the courthouse forty-five minutes early. This is another side effect of my anxiety. I hate being late for anything. I lose sleep over it actually. I guess I took the old adage to heart “if you’re early you’re on time, and if you’re on time you’re late.” The groggy court security guards turned me away at the door and said to come back at 7:30. Walking half a block down the street, I plopped down on a concrete retaining wall and tried to read the book I brought with me. After reading a chapter and checking my phone every other page, I headed back down the street at promptly 7:31. What’s wrong with me?
Emptying my pockets, taking off my belt, and waddling through the metal detector, I made it through the first hurdle. Hitching my pants and resynching my belt, I arrived on the fourth floor and found my designated room. I was the second person to arrive. The other guy must have slept there last night. I clipped my “juror” badge to my chest and waited, and then I waited some more. Reading my book became a challenge since each new person trickling into the jury pool caused me to look up. There were all races and walks of life entering the room. It was actually quite beautiful to see the diversity that poured through those doors.
One guy boldly wore a “support your local 81” t-shirt. “81” stands for the eighth and first letters of the alphabet. It’s like a code within a code, support your local H-A, or Hell’s Angels. Bold move. There were elderly people and young professionals and everyone in between. We all sat there in quiet nervous tension, waiting.
A video from the 1980’s played on a tiny television about the process and what to expect. Then we waited some more. After more awkward waiting, we all filed out of the jury pool and walked up one flight of stairs to be weighed and measured by the waiting prosecutor, defense attorney, and judge. The judge introduced himself and further explained the process, thanking us for being obedient to responsibility bestowed upon us.
They said they would be selecting twelve jurors and two alternates. We were told that this was a criminal trial, but that it should move quickly once started. We sat and waited for our names to be called. With each name called that wasn’t mine I exhaled with relief. Once the first twelve were seated, the prosecutor grilled them on specific experiences and possible biases they may have. With each question, one of the selected jurors, let’s call her “Mother Methuselah” prolonged the already lengthy process by adding commentary to every question. Every time this ancient prospective juror would speak, audible groans would sound from the seats surrounding me. When the crypt keeper’s wife was rejected as a suitable juror, we all knowingly shook our heads with a collective “duh.”
Each rejection required a new name to be called from those of us waiting in reserve. The tension was palpable. Once a new name was called, the unlucky soul grabbed their things and shuffled to the jury box. They were grilled with the same questions that we’d heard in triplicate by this point. Finally, the twelve jurors were selected. Phew. I’m not a juror I thought to myself. I then remembered that they had to select two alternates. They called out two new names, neither name was mine. Phew. Dodged it again.
On the cross examination of the first alternate, it was revealed that he was recently convicted of resisting arrest for “dumb stuff” and drug trafficking. For some reason the prosecutor deemed him unfit to serve as a juror. He was released. Like the angel of death looming over the room waiting for her next victim, we all waited for the final name, hoping it wasn’t ours. Ironically, the guy that arrived first that morning was the final selection. He made the cut as the final alternate.
The tension in the room broke. The bailiff led the remaining sixty or so of us out of the courtroom and we were thanked for our time. Juror badges were turned in, and we were told that we were free to go. What a day. With my civic duty complete, a few chapters of a new book read, and a new experience under my belt, I feel like I’ve had a full day.
Walking back to my truck I reflected on the day. Sometimes my anxiety is unfounded and today’s events taught me to try and look at things as opportunities for stories versus reasons to make my heart race. I wonder how many other things I’m putting off because I let groundless emotions lead before logic? Life is about perspective, and today I chose to look at something mundane as a new adventure and it made all the difference.
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Stan, This is hilarious. I was in the same boat last week. I was seated as juror 12, but the defense attorney booted me during his questioning.