Last week I had jury duty. I was originally called in the fall, for a point during which I had classes. The paper said I could put it off, but only once. I postponed for the week between winter and spring quarters, never suspecting that I would soon decide that for spring quarter I would up and move to Beijing. So a bit stressful to head to the courthouse and an assignment of unknown length when you are supposed to leave the country in, oh, three weeks.
I wore my ‘C is for Choice’ t-shirt and was hoping that if I looked radical and opinionated, I’d be dismissed. A few months ago another woman at work had jury duty and someone suggested that it helps if you’re hard of hearing, but I think I’m a little young for that, bitter old bat status not withstanding.
Of course, you had to be there to check in at 8 am. Of course there aren’t any bike racks in front of the King County Courthouse, despite King County being generally rah-sis-boom about cycling. I locked my bike to a railing on the side of the building. Then I entered through security, where, of course, I was flagged for having knitting needles. Not wanting to be late or get in any arguments with uniformed people, I handed over my knitting kit to a deputy, who put it in a cupboard and gave me a number. And then there was a twenty minute wait in line to check in, which consisted of having the barcode on your juror badge scanned, and specifying if you drove or took the bus. (Again, biking not a recognized option.) The line was simply because there were two hundred people checking in.
Check-in accomplished, we all sat about in the large jury assembly room, which was fairly similar to an airport gate. Lots of rows of seats, filled with people waiting, wishing they weren’t waiting, and televisions mounted in the corners. Except, of course, no news on the televisions, just blank.
Behind me I could hear an older fellow talking about the process — they give you a number and you wait, then they tell you to go to the floor where the judge is, and you wait some more. Just like the Navy, he says. Line you up to get shots, I had shots to go to Alaska, before it was a state, they called it overseas — I walked away with the needle in my arm. I says, ‘Do you want this?’ ‘Oh, oh, sorry, buddy.’ He laughed at his own anecdote, then switched the conversation to sports. Easter’s early, and so’s baseball. It’s as early this year as it will be for 212 years — I guess we won’t see that again. Well, he addresses whomever he is talking to, maybe you will, if God blesses you especially well.
After an hour or so, they began a little orientation to inform us all of the honor of our civic duty. The televisions switched from blank to showing the podium at the front of the room. One of the fifty-two judges working in the courthouse spoke, thanking us for our service, which is also a privilege, and comparable to military service. After her words, we were shown a video which began with quotes from the US Constitution, and then guided us through the judicial processes we would experience. “As a juror,” said the voiceover, “you’ll feel the slow, deliberate pace of our judicial system.”
We waited. I made small talk with a few of the ladies around me. One was working on a large cross stitch piece of a Harley, another was determinedly grading high school papers. When asked about it, she said “it takes a lot of concentration,” and did not enter conversation. The Navy fellow and his conversationalist were apparently already part of a trial, there was a called for a particular judge’s jurors to report to the ninth floor, and he disappeared. In his place, I noticed an Asian girl about my age knitting a scarf with green, wooden needles, and began to suspect that I had been hasty in handing mine over.
Eventually, my name was called to join a pool of fifty jurors for a case with Judge McBroom. After I turned in my biographical information sheet (Name, age, time lived in King County, birthplace, occupation, education, children) and had my badge scanned again, another juror came up to me and introduced himself as one of my volunteers. Since I send emails regularly to nearly 1000 people who live in King County, and there were two or three hundred people in the jury assembly room, it’s not too surprising that there would be some overlap.
At mid-morning, they gave us a break and allowed us to leave the jury assembly room. I went back to the entrance and asked the deputy watching over confiscated items at the entrance if I could have my knitting back. He explained that the decisions depends on the screener, on the sharpness of the needles, perhaps, and that he could neither produce any specific regulation on knitting needles, nor allow me to take then in since they had already been disallowed entry (he was just holding onto them, not making decisions). I sulked back to the jury assembly room and listened to Wait, Wait… Don’t Tell Me! on my ipod instead, with restless hands. I’ve grown awfully accustomed to knitting during classes. The cross-stitcher clucked sympathetically and agreed that it was most unfair.
Finally, my jury pool was called to the ninth floor to meet Judge McBroom’s bailiff, who lined us up by juror number in three lines and admonished us to stay in order and follow her carefully as we went… down the hall, a right turn, and then waited in front of the court room door while she ascertained that those in the court were ready for us. It was a bit like Madeline. We filed in. Jurors 1 through 13 sat in the jury box, 14 through 50 in careful order in the audience benches.
The judge briefly stated the nature of the case: the state was prosecuting the defendant on charges of malicious harassment — verbal threats made on basis of perception of a man’s sexual identity. We began the process of voir dire, which the orientation video had defined as ‘to speak the truth.’ The first truths the jury pool was asked to speak were as follows: name, occupation, occupation of those in your household, previous jury experience, leisure activities, and primary source of news. Both attorneys and the judge took notes; the judge thanked each juror, apologized for mispronouncing names, and occasionally commented on what people said. I explained that I work for The Center for Wooden Boats, he said I looked “like a wooden boats person.” Besides the Planned Parenthood shirt, which no one appeared to notice (I suppose in Seattle it hardly registers, really) I was layered up from biking, and had double braids under a bandanna, which does look pretty boathouse-casual. We barely got through those of us in the jury box — I was juror number ten — before it was time for lunch.
The judicial lunch begins promptly at noon, and lasts until 1:30. On the way out the door, I collected my knitting, then hopped on my bike and went over to Pike’s Market. The only thing I miss about working in the call-center was that it was close enough to walk to Pike’s for lunch. The Market, besides being a hundred years old and a tourist trap, is a wonderful place because it is like a street fair and a carnival every day. There are flowers, and street musicians or other performers, and sparkly things and bright colors and smells and people who call out to you to come taste things.
I got a pair of pastries from Piroshky Piroshky, where I am always tempted to try ordering in Russian, but by the time I get to counter I’m always confronted with someone who looks more like an additional hire than a member of the founding Russian family. Plus it is always dreadfully busy, and I doubt they have time to chat. I wandered around a bit and ate my piroshky looking down from a skybridge on the street below. I watched a car parallel park, and a man get out and look around for the meter machine. I could see it, fifty feet down the street, but between the machine and the car was the entrance of a paid parking lot, and he was confused by the large signs which clearly directed him to PAY TO PARK HERE.
Back at the court house, the security scanner this time around didn’t even comment on my knitting, and I breezed through, bike cleats clicking on the ornate floor, which is decorated with blown up photographs and quotes from Martin Luther King, Jr, for whom the county is named. From the jury assembly room, we were again called to the ninth floor, again lined up by number and marched respectfully, dutifully and civilly, into the court room. Voir dire resumed. There were a few particularly interesting juror introductions. A girl a bit younger than me stated that she spent her leisure time with her boyfriend, breeding poison dart frogs. An oceanography professor from the university stated that he lived with his wife and young daughter, who was a mermaid. Overall, as one might expect, the random cross-section of fifty King County residents did not include anyone overly remarkable. A lawyer. An ER nurse, also an Army captain. Retired. University student. Construction. Librarian. Representative of the IRS (ah, said the judge, they must be particularly pleased to have you gone this time of year.).
Once the introductions were through, the attorneys took turns asking us questions for fifteen or twenty minutes at a time. Some were seemingly benign: Do you have friends who tell stories that are completely different than how you remember something happening? Have you ever thought someone was talking to you and then realized they were talking to someone else you didn’t see? Some where more pointed: Could you be impartial if you were listening to the testimony of a gay person? What if there was only testimony from one person? What if the defense presented no case, since the burden of evidence is on the prosecutor? Have you ever been the victim of harassment? Have you ever been wrongfully accused of a crime? Do you know anyone who is homeless? Imagine if someone you loved and trusted was accused of a crime. Would you believe it?
Some questions were directed to the group as a whole. Please raise your number if… Some were directed individually. Juror 17, have you… I eventually determined that what the prosecutor really wanted to know was if we would believe the testimony of one gay man, versus the defense, who really wanted to know if we would believe the testimony of someone homeless.
They also asked if we thought certain words should be illegal. Juror 2, a white-haired lady sitting in front of me, stated definitively that there were certain words that should be. What words? asked the defense attorney.
A word beginning with “F”. The one that they used on Gray’s Anatomy.
How many letters? the attorney wanted to know. Four? Two? Three? Would Juror 2 be willing to speak this word out loud?
Juror 2 shook her head. I’ve never said that word out loud in my life. She was not one to tolerate foul language, it seemed. She explained she occasionally told off her neighbor for cussing at his lawn mower. If someone is a visitor in my home, they will not use that sort of language.
The attorney pressed further, trying to get at the exact word she meant. I haven’t been up on Gray’s Anatomy this year, since it got so soap opera, with everyone sleeping with everyone else in more and more painfully stupid situations, and I had no idea what word she was referring to. Several people around the courtroom obviously did, however, including the defense co-counsel. The querying attorney was directed by the judge to confer with co-counsel, who whispered in her ear.
Is the word “faggot”?
It was.
The idea of illegal words is one I have a definite opinion on, so I also raised my number and was called on to speak. I don’t believe that any word should be banned or made illegal, but I do believe that words can be used with intent and serve to wound. They are like knives — you cannot make knives illegal just because they can be used to cut people as well as butter.
The conversation continued, prompted by first one attorney, then another, until it was four o’clock, the end of the judicial day. We were dismissed, to return the next morning by 8:45.
The questions continued the next morning. One man was dismissed because he had been victim of harassment on basis of his sexual orientation, and would not have been impartial. A woman was dismissed after answering positively to ‘Do you have strong negative feelings about gays?’ A number of people were preemptively dismissed for no stated reason, including Juror 2, the feisty old lady.
I was not dismissed for anything, and thus found myself a member of the jury. Juror 10. The poison dart frog girl was also amongst the final thirteen. At this point it was clear that the trial would not be a long one, and I was fascinated by the process and the topic, so I did not mind, though I felt a certain weight upon my shoulders — to act impartially! To listen, to judge the credibility of witnesses, to fulfill a civil function. The phrase ‘twelve good men, and true’ kept coming into my head. I’m not sure where it came from, but it also kept getting confused a bit with The Big Lebowski‘s “a good man. And thorough,” which is an entirely different direction.
I will write more later, about the actual trial…
