Some people tried to make me feel shame for not having the guile to get out of performing my civic duty. I heard tales of what they thought were displays of great cunning and quick witted deception, but to me just sounded like the kind of lies that are exhausting to tell. It seemed so much easier to just show up, check out the show, and enjoy a day away from work. Every story I’d ever heard about jury duty involved a day of sitting, reading, and being dismissed in time to make it home for Jeopardy. Didn’t sound so bad.
Chicago’s Daley Center, home of the Circuit Court of Cook County, is a strikingly bland building on the inside – and if it wasn’t for Picasso and the fact that the Blues Brothers once drove their car through the lobby windows, the outside would be pretty unremarkable too. The place is a blank slate. The inside halls have no character or attitude or point of view, which I suppose is appropriate for a place that is supposed to trade in the distribution of unbiased justice. It made me think that doctors’ and dentists’ offices should be like this too – no false motivational artwork pressuring you to feel optimistic – just the purity of tabula rasa and the freedom to feel however the fuck you want about your disease or your lawsuit or your root canal or your bad luck getting called for jury duty. The Picasso in the plaza is more than enough artwork for your entire court experience. It says everything it needs to about the strange beast you are up against when conducting business in an institution such as this. That thing should be outside of public schools too.
I knew very little about how my day would go. The instructions in my notice were brief and simple: Report to room 1642 at 9am. Bring something to read. Have change for the vending machine. Wait for your panel number to be called. I was to be paid approximately 17 dollars.
Before I could set out in search for room 1642, I had to stand in line at the metal detector, which I hate, because I’m never quite sure on the protocol. Obviously, I had to take off my watch, throw my cell phone, wallet and change into the little bucket, but what about my coat? Surely there could be some metal on this thing. Do the pockets have zippers or metal buttons? I dunno. And speaking of zippers, my pants have one. My belt has some metal on it. Did I have to take off my belt? Surely not. No one else is taking off their belt. Hell, my pants have a metal button on them. Just how serious is this anyway? Did I have to take off my shoes like at the airport?
As I’m worrying about the metal detector, I noticed there was a “velvet rope” section for lawyers and judges, who get to bypass the metal detector and go straight to the elevators. This seemed imprudent to me. Are not lawyers and judges capable of losing their minds or being terrorists or causing mayhem with metal devices? Give them their own metal detector, sure, for the sake of streamlining their day. But no metal detector? It just reeks of classism.
Room 1642 was a large waiting area with three different types of seats. First, plastic chairs situated against five long tables, presumably for the workaholics who need a surface on which to get shit done today, lest they lose their fucking minds. Second, one large bank of attached brown cushioned chairs, which may seem like the best choice upon first glance, but the rows are long and narrow, and if it gets crowded, claustrophobia and panic could easily set in. And third, plastic chairs surrounding the outside of the cramped brown cushioned chairs, which will force you to stare into the eyes of the occupants of the brown cushion chairs, where you will undoubtedly see the moment despair and anxiety consumes their souls.
I chose a seat with the workaholics, not because I am one, but because a surface seemed nice. As people began to shuffle in, you could tell their moods were more resigned than annoyed, more curious than angry. As the room filled, a woman spoke with an unfamiliar accent and a hilarious cadence into a microphone that was turned up way too high. She told us to watch the informational video that would be shown on the three 19-inch televisions hanging from the ceiling, and then to wait patiently for our panel number to be called.
The informational video was, of course, at least fifteen years old, starring local news anchor Lester Holt, who, with his booming broadcaster voice and undeniable good looks, had long since moved on to the national stage, but at this point in his career was sporting a Chicago mustache and a terrible 1994 hair cut.
Lester took about 10 minutes to explain how we would be going into a courtroom for the selection process, and how important our civic duty was to the very foundation of the greatest justice system in the world. We, the normals, the non-bar passing goonies, would hold the fates in our calloused, working class hands (Of course, this wasn’t exactly what he said, and anyone of any socioeconomic background can be called to jury duty – even lawyers and judges. But in the waiting room it didn’t feel like that. It felt like us vs. them. It felt like the DMV, but with guys in suits telling you what to do instead of people in moo-moos. The metal detector/velvet rope thing certainly didn’t help either).
As Lester dramatically emphasized the necessity and dignity of our role as the guardians of the most righteous, expertly crafted judicial system Western civilization has ever known, I looked over to a woman in her forties pouring a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos into her mouth at 9:15 am.
The woman with the hilariously odd accent called my panel number immediately after Lester Holt wrapped it up, and Bill the Bailiff (real name) herded about 35 of us into the courtroom of Judge McMustache (not a real name). Bill the Bailiff looked a lot like Bill Murray and acted like a character he might play in an Alexander Payne film in which a goofy Midwestern bailiff with a forced sense of humor falls clumsily in love with a damaged female juror who is charmingly and accessibly out of his league. At first, Bill’s forced jokes and deep, Bears and sausage Chicago accent made me think that he was not the kind of person I would like in my normal life. And it’s true, perhaps in my normal life I wouldn’t, but by the end of my jury duty experience, he would be one of a few people I would have to restrain myself from hugging as we said our final goodbyes.
We walked into the courtroom and I was surprised to see the plaintiffs and defendant already positioned with their lawyers behind two large tables. You could feel their glare on us. They looked at us like a chef might gaze upon a slab of meat they’re contemplating serving to a restaurant critic. I was surprised by just how lawyery the lawyers looked. If you saw them on TV, you’d say the casting director did a shitty job for being too obvious with their choices.
The two plaintiffs were a tanned, thin, tall man in his early forties, and his direct opposite – a round, short, blond, extremely white woman of approximately the same age. It was difficult to tell their relationship, as they did not touch or speak. The defendant looked like he could be the woman’s brother (he wasn’t). Short, bald, slumped shoulders, defeated – he looked like the worst possible outcome for George Costanza in his fifties.
Bill the Bailiff told us that the judge would be coming out shortly and to just sit tight. The lawyers eventually got called back into the judge’s chambers, while we potential jurors sat in perfect awkward silence in the company of the plaintiffs and defendant. The trial’s key players cast their sad eyes downward and did not speak or move for a solid half hour, which was how long it took for the judge to emerge and begin the selection process.
Here’s the thing about jury selection: it’s fucking weird. Much weirder than I anticipated. The first thing that disconcerted me was the math. I was in this room with approximately 35 other people. They would pick twelve of us. That meant I had a one in three chance of ending up on the jury, which was not the kind of odds I was expecting. It was one thing to miss a single day of work, it was quite another to be out for a week or weeks or christknowshowlong. I began to panic a little. This was already further than I thought I’d go, and it was barely 10 am. I didn’t count on seeing the inside of a courtroom, with all of its “hey-I-know-about this-from-TV” moments, like when everybody stands for the judge’s entrance, or when the court reporter starts pecking away after every utterance, or when the potential jurors get sworn in to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
No, I didn’t think I’d see any of that. I thought I’d read my book in the waiting room, eat a bag of Cheetos from the vending machine (at an appropriate time, of course), and be dismissed sometime after lunch. “Sorry – we have all the jurors we need. See ya next time!” But no, there I was, seeing real courtroom shit, about to be asked questions about my life in front of a room full of strangers.
And that was the part I wasn’t expecting. During the selection process, they called us up in groups of twelve, sitting us in the jury box and asking us questions that would reveal our aptitude for being on the jury for this particular case. These questions were mostly benign, but had the potential to be embarrassing if your past included any lawsuits, or because of the nature of this specific trial, any car accidents or recent deaths in the family.
I felt for the people who had to tell these stories in front of a room full of perfect strangers – divorce, car accidents, childhood injuries, cancer. I began to breathe easier knowing that I would not have to reveal any sensitive information about myself. I counted myself lucky that my answers to all the judge’s questions about lawsuits and tragedies would honestly be “No…no…no…no…no…”
…That is until I realized with every “No,” I most likely became a better candidate to serve on the fucking jury. I began paying even more attention to my fellow candidates’ answers, ticking off the ones who were likely to get cut immediately.
“Have you ever been involved with any kind of lawsuit, civil or criminal, at any point in your past?” Judge McMustache asked a twenty-three year old baby faced kid in a mechanic’s shirt.
“Yes.” said the baby faced mechanic.
“Can you describe the nature of the suit?”
“When I was in first grade, my mom sued our landlord because I was eating paint chips from the windowsill, and they had lead in ‘em.”
“And what was the result of that suit, or is it ongoing?” McMustache asked.
“Ongoing.”
Great. I guess he’s out. Another candidate couldn’t even get through his round of questions because he couldn’t speak English. Yet another got visibly choked up when talking about her dead father. And this was only the second round of twelve! I would be included in the third round, which would have to wait until after lunch.
“We will take 90 minutes for lunch,” Judge McMustache proclaimed. “Please return to the courtroom at 1:30.”
90 minutes? That’s an hour an a half, right? Jesus. Christ.
Over my hour and a half lunch, I thought about making something up to get kicked off the jury – a phantom car accident or a second cousin who got run over by a bus – anything to make sure I wouldn’t have to come back tomorrow. Would they do a background check? Could I be charged with perjury if caught in a lie? What would the mustachioed Lester Holt from 1994 think of me? After my lunch, I still had an hour and ten minutes to kill – these were questions that could only be aided by beer.
I answered honestly when questioned by the judge. Not because I was taking any moral high ground; it just seemed like easier of the two choices. After the final round of questioning, the judge and the lawyers retired to his honor’s chambers, and we were told they would return with the final juror selections. By my estimation, at least ten of the candidates would be eliminated immediately, leaving me about a 50/50 shot at making the cut. Despite the even odds, I resigned myself to the fact I would be selected. Let’s face it: I’m a perfect juror – attentive, analytical, and resoundingly handsome.
So I wasn’t surprised when Judge McMustache read my name as the seventh juror, but I did feel a certain dread. We twelve chosen ones shuffled into the comically small jury room, awaiting instructions for tomorrow’s opening statements. I looked to the faces and dispositions and words of my fellow jurors for comfort. Remarkably, I found it, which is kind of amazing, because the thin and fleeting connection I experienced with those strangers was one of the more quietly nice things that happened to me over the past few years.
The thing about jury duty is that you spend more time waiting in the jury room than you do in “the box” hearing the facts of the case. Way more time. This means sitting around a table with people you’ve never met. At first, I figured this would be a week of burying my nose in a book and catching up with music I’d been meaning to hear. Instead, I found myself unable to ignore the eleven other people in the room. They were too fascinating.
People aren’t usually my thing, and I hate small talk. But the amazing thing about jury duty is that small talk becomes big talk very quickly – perhaps unnaturally quickly. When you go through this kind of new, awkward, pressure-filled situation, you bond with the people who share the experience with you – it’s like boot camp, or being on the The Real World. No one can quite understand being plucked out of their life and given some kind of bizarre responsibility, other than the people who actually go through it with you.
What I found out in that jury room was how much I enjoy the company of rational people, and how painful and terrifying it is to be around those who are not. Because despite all our differences: race, age, gender, levels of education, religious beliefs, and income levels – we all shared a reasonable nature. Perhaps that’s why we were picked in the first place. One by one, I began to appreciate them.
Bill the Bailiff, for example, at first seemed a clown with a weird job and bad jokes, but quickly turned into someone providing much needed comfort and comic relief. I was astounded by how good he was at this strange job – a shepherd of jurors, the bringer of bad chef’s salads for lunch – and I admired him. I admired the quiet dignity of his position. He was protector of the court, the person who carried all the information about when we would be set free. He was the keymaster, and he delivered all the good news and bad news with confidence and grace. When he told the group, “Uncle Billy will get you through this,” I fucking believed him. And he delivered. How often does that happen?
Another juror, we’ll call her Amanda, was a recent college graduate from Olivet Nazarene, a strict bible college in Bourbonais. I knew people like Amanda, particularly when I was in high school, and I knew Olivet. Basically, going to Olivet is like living in the movie Footloose, only worse, because Kevin Bacon would have been kicked out of school in the first act. They literally are not allowed to dance, have obscene curfews, and are strictly limited in their interactions with the opposite sex. Amanda told us stories of kids getting kicked out of school for simply being seen in the same Facebook picture as someone having a drink or a cigarette.
As Amanda told stories of her bible college days, you could see the face of someone in the midst of waking up. It wasn’t that she had completely disowned the school – in fact, at times she defended it – but what I saw was the beginnings of a reasonable person who had only just left an unreasonable situation. She was not prepared for the reaction of some of the other jurors when she talked about the school. They were astonished by her experience and the extent to which young adults would turn their lives over to such a strict regime. Amanda was sheltered and insulated, but now out in the world, she was starting to realize just how abnormal her college experience was. I could see a certain pain in her eyes – of time wasted and being the recipient of lies. I could see her confusion and resentment when being laughed at by reasonable people, but also her complete understanding of why they would be laughing in the first place, because she was also a reasonable person, and it made me like her more than I’m usually capable of liking people who went to bible college.
There was “Neil,” a wealthy commodities trader who came from education and money, and who liked to tell stories about his travels and privilege. He was the kind of person you would expect to hate, but the more he talked, the more I realized that he wasn’t trying to boast, he was genuinely trying to share things about himself to make connections with the other people in the room. He spoke to get conversations started, and would listen intently when it was his turn to do so. He quickly earned everyone’s respect and became our de facto leader. By the end the week, I did not resent the wit or intelligence he came by through family ties, but I respected and admired him, because he wielded his gifts with the restraint and dignity of a reasonable person.
From the soccer mom to the know-it-all, seasoned juror (18 trials in total), my fellow jurors broke out of their mold and became real people – something I still can’t see from other folks I’ve known much longer – and it was all because of their ability to remain civil and reasonable through a series of awkward circumstances. It was invigorating and life-affirming, two words I don’t throw around very often.
As for the case itself, I feel weirdly disconnected from it. The personal dynamics of the jury room – the small talk, the personalities, the navigation through awkward silences – those all made a certain degree of sense to me. The dynamics of such intense tragedy, however, are almost too much to comprehend. I won’t tell the whole story, because it’s not my story to tell, but it involved a car accident and the loss of a two-year-old’s life. It involved a small family business and generations of hard work.
The genius of the jury system is that despite the difficult decision we had to make, we were able to make it with eleven other people. It was a decision from the collective conscious, and I think that allows all twelve of us to sleep soundly at night.
At the end of the trial, I felt a tinge of sadness. I felt comfortable in that world of reasonable people, and as fucked up as the judicial system undoubtedly is, the small glimpse I enjoyed made a great deal of sense to me – at least my small role within it did. I quietly dreaded returning to my regular life and job, which seemed messy and unreasonable in relation to the logic of the courtroom.
As I left the jury room for the last time, I wanted to hug each and every person in it. I wanted to exchange numbers and email addresses. But I didn’t. No one did. We all understood our role in what had just happened and its uniqueness to the four walls that surrounded us. We were reasonable enough to know that should we exchange personal information, it would almost certainly never be used.
