This particular inconvenience

The last time I was on a jury, the trial was for a criminal case involving a young man. There was a lot of confusion with the witnesses, and we went on an excursion to see the site in question. The deliberation room was hot to the point of distraction, and there was only a small water cooler for comfort. A few of the jurors were aggravating and loudmouthed, and we went through a whole reenactment of what we had seen presented in court. I satisfied myself with taking copious notes on my yellow legal pad. At first, most of the jurors were convinced that the defendant was guilty, but one juror eventually persuaded everyone that there was reasonable doubt, and we delivered a verdict of “not guilty.” I remember it so clearly, even what I wore that day: white dress pants, navy shoes, a red blazer, and a silk scarf with nautical symbols and anchors on it.

That is, that’s how it was when I played Juror #4 in my high school production of Twelve Angry Jurors. Until recently, I had never even been summoned, but on Monday morning, I reported to the county courthouse at 8:15 for my civic duty.

The courthouse was gorgeous — all terrazzo and granite and dark wood — but the jury meeting room resembled a large classroom with over a hundred seats. I received my juror number and badge, chose a seat toward the front of the mass, and reached into my bag for something to read. To be on the safe side, I had brought four books, along with two magazines and a laptop, on the off chance that there was a wireless internet connection. The other potential jurors read newspapers or books, and there was a low hum of rustling and settling. No one talked.

At 9:00, the woman in charge seated the first panel and directed us into specific seats. We were told that someone was coming up “soon” to escort us to the courtroom for jury selection, but we were only at the start of what would be a day of waiting. More than two hours later, we filed out toward the courtroom, and I was seated in a deep pew behind a very tall man. I doubted that the attorneys could even see me. The judge who directed the proceedings was very straight-forward and deliberate, and I admired how staunchly he promoted jury trials and objectivity. It almost made me want to be chosen. Almost.

I was not among the chosen 14 jurors, and the rest of us made a break for the outdoors and lunch. That hour was the fastest section of the day, much to my chagrin. Immediately after reporting back, I was assigned to anther panel, and again, we waited to go to the courtroom. I finished my first book and debated over the next. David Sedaris? I didn’t want to risk laughing audibly. My first John Grisham novel? I didn’t think it was prudent to whip out Runaway Jury in that setting. Small-town memoir it was. I bought a packet of candy from the nearby vending machine to keep me awake.

The afternoon dragged on through two more hours of jury selection in another dark wooden pew, after which I was not chosen. It occurred to me how tiring the whole process must be for those involved in it day after day. The attorneys looked solemn, and the court clerk shuffled through the room slowly. The effort behind maintaining due process of law was so huge, so grave. It was poignant to face the defendants and know that I might be in that jury of peers, which had only been an empty, civics-class phrase until then. I appreciated that the judges acknowledged the difficulty of reporting to jury duty, but if I or my loved ones were in the defendants’ position, I would hope other people would be open to this particular inconvenience.