July 2007

All Rise! (Or Prepare for Take-off)

by Barbara Sharkey

There were 19 of us left on a Monday morning once the court clerk had excused the lucky ones who had better reasons than I did to be somewhere other than jury duty for five days (although the civic dedication of the 85-year-old fellow who appeared with his son helping him to walk, and who had to be convinced that he was getting a free pass and could go home if he wanted, put most of us to shame). An introductory movie helped the rookies among us feel comfortable as the yoke of responsibility in carrying forth the desires of the founding fathers fell heavily on our shoulders. But after the history lesson, things were off to a very slow start: We sat for three hours in an empty courtroom doing nothing, were excused for a two-hour lunch break, then returned to our room waiting for something — anything — to happen.

Our friendly morning jury clerk had explained that she'd be absent after lunch but that someone would take care of us, yet after 20 minutes of no one seeming to know or care that we had all arrived safely back, talk of mutiny began. Full stomachs had loosened our formerly reticent tongues, and full-scale plotting started in earnest. What would happen if someone finally came to get the jury and we had all left? Could we be arrested for running away? Would they rescind our $10? But before we could complete our plans, another clerk arrived to lead us off to voir dire. Here the judge and both sets of attorneys attempted to discover, through general questions, enough about each of our known and unknown prejudices so they could create the perfect panel for their cause. The judge and attorneys were all polite and tried to dispel our unease with appropriate humor.

The system in this small local court was such that anyone not impaneled for the first trial could leave the building but had to keep in close contact by phone with the clerk to find out when to return. But tales had been told during our morning internment of hours, days, even weeks spent in other court-side rooms waiting . . . forever waiting. The instructional film we viewed had emphasized the importance of patience as the wheels of justice turned slowly, but the whole atmosphere of entering through metal detectors, being on uncomfortable seats in a small space with not much to do but read, and being surrounded by strangers for hours at a time seemed . . . vaguely familiar. Rather similar to the cross-country airplane flight I had just returned on days earlier.

Which made me think: What would happen if trials took place on planes? You've got all those captive people, a pretty good cross-section of citizens, who could serve as the jury. You could rope off the first nine rows for the courtroom, put the court reporter in the jump seat, turn the first row of seats around for the judge and witnesses, appoint the air marshal as the bailiff, and you'd be in business. Planes always seem to have a doctor or two on board . . .  there are probably just as many judges traveling for business or vacation who would be glad to pick up some spending money by presiding over a short trial. Being on an airborne jury would take your mind off turbulence and hunger pains. After the movie was over, instead of watching three hours of reality TV or travelogues, the rest of the passengers could tune in to watch a real-life trial. A guilty defendant would have to take the next flight home; a not-guilty verdict could jump start a celebratory week in Cabo, D.C., or New York.

If that's too far-fetched, then how about a jury room make-over? To keep a waiting jury happy, my cohorts on hard chairs suggested:

• a few pieces of exercise equipment in one corner, such as a treadmill and exercise bike.
• computer ports and desk access along one wall for those who can work from anywhere.
• a card table and cards for a few rounds of bridge or chips-only poker.
• a small but well-stocked deli with some good sandwiches, salads, and drink options.
• several comfortable upholstered recliners for napping.
• a few private phone booths for cell-phone conversations.
• more than one TV with DVD capabilities, several headsets, and a great supply of old movies.
• internal restrooms so you don't have to go out in the hallway and be seen by attorneys, witnesses, and defendants.
• a large table for a jigsaw puzzle
• magazines with dates more recent than 2005.

A waiting room such as the one above would ensure a happy jury, cheerfully ready when called to listen carefully to the facts, deliberate conscientiously, and come to an unbiased decision, whereas a tired, grumpy jury may make a rush to judgment just so they can get home for a nap.

In our first voir dire, the defense attorney, trying to awaken our protective instincts for his defendant, gave a rousing constitutional lesson on "innocent until proven guilty." "Who really has the power in the court proceeding?" he prodded. He wanted us to recognize our noble legacy as a jury to uphold justice and, specifically, get his client off. But it might not be wise to encourage a roomful of multi-talented strangers to reflect for too long about their own importance.

My jury pool has a lot of nice and interesting folks in it. By the end of a week together, we'll be very close. The teachers will have organized the snack list, the phone tree, and the after-the-week-is-over potluck. The contractors are handing out building advice, the retirees are lending a sympathetic ear to those of us with impending empty-nest angst, and I can already tell who the pranksters are.

It could be a long week. When they come to get all of us for the next voir dire, we're thinking about walking into court each carrying a copy of John Grisham's The Runaway Jury. You know, just to see if they really have a sense of humor. 

Barbara Sharkey is a freelance writer living in Seattle. She is a columnist for Play On!, the Washington State Youth Soccer periodical. She can be reached at barbsharkey@comcast.net.