18 may 2006

Jury Pool

I knew it before I reported. I am terminally male, and a white one at that. I am not a good pick to be  member of a jury.

I am crippled by my career, which was spent in the intelligence world. No defense attorney in his right mind would put me on a jury. But the summons in my hand was real, and the threat to send the US Marshals to my place of residence quite real if I did not appear, and so there I was to participate in my part of the drama.

You would be proud of the security at the Federal Courthouse. They are taking no chances these days, and this is the very place where jurors convicted the only man tired for complicity in the 9/11 attacks

The security does not differ much from any other Federal building in town, or the screening at the airport. The Marshals are almost solicitous, clad in identical blue sport-coats and gray slacks. The jackets are cut big, to accommodate the armored vest underneath.

“No electronic devices,” said the nice man as he examined my photo ID. “No phone, no pager, no iPod.” The woman in line behind me scowled, looking at the little chromium cell phone in her hand. She left. I hoped she drove to the courthouse. If she took the train she was going to have to bury the device under one of the ornamental bushes out front.

Everything out of the pockets, through the metal detector, and into the wood-paneled lobby. Escalators lead up two flights, past the snack-bar, to the third floor where the jury assembly room is located. Do not use the stairs. They are for emergency exit only, and the Marshals are watching them for signs of an assault.

A trip down the stairs will result in custody and unpleasantness. That was the key message from Edward, the phlegmatic officer of the court charged with collating fifty-six independent citizens into a coherent mass that could be associated with the Juror's questionnaire, containing the particulars of our lives which we were commanded to complete and mail before appearing. Edward would then present us to the court for the jury selection process, and the Voir Dire.

Edward was an ageless African American in a solid, well-cut suit. He has seen a lot of us citizens, in the old courthouse and the new. He knows the score. He knows we do not pay attention very well, and that some of us are not completely functional. When all but two or three of us were seated, reading our little hand-outs on decorum and conduct, he began his briefing.

“I can tell you that your term of duty will be two weeks, but there is only one trial this week, not two. One just settled, and went away. The one that is going to happen today is a criminal case, and if you are selected for it, you will be here until six tonight, and all day thereafter until the matter is concluded. There are three cases on the docket for next week, but they are civil matters, and they have a tendency to go away. The rest rooms are out the door and to the right. Don't use the stairs.”

He shuffled some papers on his desk and looked at a computer screen.  “I am going to call you up in order, and check you in. The key things to remember are:  Park only in the designated Juror's lot on Eisenhower Street. No electronic devices of any sort are permitted, no phones, computers or iPods. Give me your mileage and where you parked, or your Metro fare. We are going to mail you your checks and your should receive them in about ten days.”

He looked out at us. “Tell me three things I told you.” We squirmed in our chairs, most of us suffering from the Caucasian disease of unwilling to speak in public.

“Your name is Edward,” said a woman, tentatively.

“Don't park in the garage across the street,” said a young man with growing courage.

“Don't use the stairs,” we all said.

Edward laughed. "Not bad," he said. "I have had worse." Then he began calling us up to enter our data for compensation for our collective troubles.

Most of us read newspapers, which is an unaccustomed luxury, like the crossword puzzle I completed as the man next to me clutched a briefcase to his chest and appeared to shiver. A man in chinos and golf shirt appeared at the rear of the room after all the paperwork was done, and Edward was waiting for the call from upstairs.

“Jury Duty?” asked Edward. The man nodded. “Where are you coming from?”

“Mclean,” said the man, defensively. “I got lost.” I thought he could have walked down from Mclean and made it in time.

“You are an hour and a half late. You are lucky Judge Brinkema hasn't called for you all. I would have had to send the Marshals for you.”

In time, we were called. The elevators could not accommodate us all at once, and it took several cars to deliver us to the sixth floor, and courtroom 600. We filed into the pews, six rows deep at the rear of the room. Other citizens sat in silent witness to the right rear, interested parties perhaps. A man held an infant in an anteroom, walking slowly as we filed by.

I took a chair with padding that had been placed in a row at the back wall. There was no telling how long we would be here, and the pews looked as hard as the ones in church.

Judge Brinkema was in her chambers, but all the rest of us were there, translators, prosecutors, special agents, and defense council. The Prisoner was there, too, in a green jump suit that had his current occupation stenciled across the back.

He did not look nervous, or particularly concerned. The Marshal walked around, telling us to put away the bottled water and for goodness sakes, put away the reading material.

We were pretty well organized by the time the Judge arrived, and we all rose for the occasion.

Tomorrow: Voir Dire

Copyright 2006 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

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