We, the Jury

Pinellas County Justice Center. Jury Duty.  I drive up 49^th St past bail bondsmen and defense attorneys’ offices. I turn into the complex. I have entered a country within a country, like San Marino or the Vatican, but less fun. At the building entrance prospective jurors shuffle through a channel of tapes leading to the security check. Many peer wistfully at their summons to duty form, wishing they were at work or at home in the kitchen with a cuppa. A forest of green-clad county law enforcement officers awaits on the other side. The officers have a high ratio of authority symbol to fabric on their attire, from black shiny thick-soled shoes to heavy gun belt, to uniform blouse with county star emblem, service merit badges, and shoulder patches. The guards are older guys who have not passed up dessert. Their days of catching fleeing suspects are in the rearview mirror.

An army brat, I grew up surrounded by scary authority figures. In addition to my father the General, there was my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Clapsaddle. As I move closer to the security check, I feel the urge to scram. No matter how amiable, the deputy sheriffs and bailiffs looming on the other side still have a badge, a gun, and power over me. Once on the other side, I will be held against my will.

The Jury Assembly Room is crammed. I lean against a wall. Multiple TV screens hang on the walls, volume off, showing HDTV. Some of my fellow jurors are dressed like they just changed the oil in their car, others are in slacks and dress shoes. There are fewer African Americans than I would have expected. Jurors are picked randomly from the universe of citizens with drivers’ licenses or Florida Identification cards. Statistically, Blacks are three times more likely to lack photo identification than whites.

Like a Publix watermelon, I get a sticky tag with a bar code to identify me. While I wait for the jury pools to be called, I collect $15 cash for the day’s work. Sixty of us file into our assigned court room. The officers of the court are a judge, a court reporter, two clerks, two public defenders, two prosecutors, and three bailiffs, all white. One African American man in a tie and dress shirt, the accused, sits with the public defenders at a desk facing us. He is expressionless, writing occasionally on a pad of paper with a tremulous hand. Assuredness oozes from the prosecutors; the same cannot be said of the the two public defenders. They, like me, seem captured. The lead public defender’s eyes look tired.

The judge advises us on the law. Toss “Law and Order” and “Judge Judy” out the window. Law is messy, crime is messy. Burden of proof of guilt resides with the prosecution. The defendant is obligated to answer to nothing. As for “reasonable doubt,” nothing in life is certain.

The indictment alleges the defendant committed crimes of abuse on a minor. The elderly lady next to me grumbles, “Don’t like this at all.” The judge quizzes jurors about their discomfort. Two stand up and say they had experienced abuse. One by one, each of twelve jurors walk up to join a scrum at the bench with attorneys, clerks, and bailiffs. Those who have no stomach for the nature of the alleged crime get a pass, slip away quickly. More are dismissed for pedestrian reasons: job requirement, lack of childcare, brain surgery scheduled, and the like. The defendant sits alone, head down.

We break for lunch. I drive to Burger King and blow part of my jury pay on a Whopper, onion rings and a Coke: $ 9.50.

Returned from lunch, waiting for recall to the courtroom, I find the hallway is a legal agora of buyers and sellers. Between cases, attorneys lean into discussions with clients who listen with anxious eyes. On a hallway bench an attorney reviews terms of probation with her client. It seems strange, conversations of existential importance to one of the parties, conducted in a public space.

Voir dire commences after lunch. Wielding paper schematics of the jury pool, the attorneys interrogate jurors. A prosecutor asks, “How many of you were excited to get jury duty?” A woman raises her hand. Several of us turn and look at her, lean away. She is certifiable.

We are sleepy in our pews as the afternoon wears on. A clerk hastens to the bench and whispers to the judge. On cue, all officers of the court drain out through a door at the back of the room, save a bailiff, who chats us up, a Johnny Carson in green. When all parties return, their faces are drawn, resigned, as if a favorite uncle had died. We are told to come back tomorrow.

The next morning I return, looking forward to collecting $15 for my second day but resolved to stay away from Whoppers. We settle in our seats, uncomfortable, anticipating disturbing details of the alleged crime. The judge leans toward us and smiles. “You are all dismissed. A witness has fallen ill. The trial will be re-docketed.” Woo-hoo! We burst out of the Justice Center. I howdy the Jehovah’s Witnesses on the curb, sentinels over the souls of jurors and defendants alike.

In the parking lot, I stop to look back at the building. The Justice Center looms enormous and rectangular, an industrial strength law machine, with jurors funneled into one end and verdicts pumped out the other. The machine is implacable and efficient. We, the jurors, provide the humanity.