Several years ago I was called for jury duty.
“Isn’t that inconvenient?” asked one of my students when I informed his class I’d be absent for a few days. Another chimed in with, “Why should teachers have to serve?”
My students clearly weren’t the only people with that sort of mindset. Judging by the number of people actually present on the morning I reported, as ordered, to the courthouse, it was clear at least a third of the 176 potential jurors called that day had obtained deferrals of one sort or another. Another oddity: The number of educators in attendance. The decidedly unscientific data I compiled (by speaking with many of the other folks present that day) suggested at least 20 percent of the prospective jurors on hand were current or retired teachers, classroom aides, or educational administrators of some sort.
During jury selection process, everyone has a pre-assigned number; no names are used. I was prospective juror number 175. (Number 176’s last name started with Z; between the two of us, we cleverly deduced the secret process by which numbers are assigned.)
Something else was hiding in plain sight that day: An utter absence of people of color. During the eight or so hours I spent at the courthouse on the first day of my service, I saw no police officer, defense lawyer, district attorney, defendant, custodian, security guard, judge, bailiff, secretary, parking garage attendant or fellow prospective juror with skin any darker than mine. The last time I had been called for jury duty had been nearly two decades earlier in another state, and on that day the atmosphere had been significantly more racially and ethnically diverse.
After receiving preliminary instructions from the court officer in charge of such things, all of us marched into a courtroom, where we filled out a brief questionnaire dealing with the first item on the docket: An alleged case of gross sexual assault. After the judge had dismissed those who had legitimate objections to sitting in judgment of such a case, a bailiff began drawing slips of paper out of a box, calling out the number on each as she did so. Once she had called out 32 numbers, the judge and lawyers involved disappeared into some back room, presumably haggled for a bit, and returned half an hour or so later with the numbers of the jurors who had been selected for the case. Those 14 people (12 jurors and two alternates) were seated in the jury box, given their instructions, told what day the trial would be held, and dismissed back into the jury pool.
Six juries were impaneled that day. A significant number of those on hand weren’t selected for any trial at all, while others were seated on more than one panel. One lucky (or unfortunate, depending on his mindset) fellow, a teacher from South Portland, was seated on four of the six juries selected.
I ended up as a juror in a drunk-driving case. A police officer had observed a vehicle being driven erratically sometime after midnight on a well-lighted, heavily-traveled street; he summarily pulled the car over, and subsequently arrested its driver when she was unable to perform sufficiently on the required sobriety tests he administered to her at the scene. The state called the arresting officer as its first and only witness; his recall of the events that occurred on the evening in question seemed clear and reasonable.
The defendant’s attorney contended the accused was a nice person who needed her car to get to work. His second and final witness (the defendant herself was the first) was an individual with a PhD in chemistry who apparently makes a living serving as an expert witness for defendants at drunk-driving trials. He contended the defendant’s blood alcohol content, which was above the legal limit when it was measured at the lab an hour or so after her arrest, might possibly have been allowable (due to some sort of complicated biological absorption process) had she been tested right away at the scene of her arrest.
Ultimately, we the jury decided against the lovely defendant with the creative lawyer; it was clear in our minds she shouldn’t have been driving on the night in question. I truly hope she didn’t lose her job as a result of being licenseless for a time after her conviction, but if she did, I’d like to think she’s currently both gainfully employed and making wiser decisions as the result of her experience.
Serving on a jury can indeed be slightly inconvenient. But one of America’s key building blocks is its legal system, and participating in it is a vital element of responsible citizenship. Even more significantly, doing so is an opportunity and a privilege everyone should have the chance to experience.
— Andy Young enjoyed his brief time in court, particularly since he himself wasn’t the one on trial. When he isn’t getting $10 a day to sit in judgment of others, Mr. Young teaches high school English in York County.
Comments are not available on this story.
Send questions/comments to the editors.
