A Jury of Your Peeps

“You know why I’m gonna get picked? Because I have kind eyes.” This, I tell the wife, making jokes in order to steer my brain from the mountain of dread that is quickly forming. After more than twenty years without a letter, in my hands is a first-ever juror summons.

“Just don’t talk” she counseled. “I know it isn’t in your nature to be quiet, but that is your best shot at an early dismissal.” 

She had a reason to chime in. If I was plucked, my wife would have to juggle her demanding job with all the other stuff her stay-at-home husband was supposed to be covering. It was not fun blocking off that initial week, thinking “it could be this much, only half a day, or we could end up going full OJ.” 

On the fateful Monday, which every bone in my body dreaded, I promptly reported for duty at our county courthouse, along with many other restless folks. If you want a crowd to be punctual, apparently all you have to do is threaten them with a little jail time. 

My attire, very much a consideration beforehand, was generic suburban dad: shorts, sneakers and a logo-free polo. I was hoping to blend in as much as possible, but Alabama football apparel was much more en vogue. 

Nothing that morning could proceed until we were all safe. Like really safe. It took ninety minutes for everyone to negotiate the metal detector and select an ideal seat to establish camp for a while.

Veterans warned me to bring a fresh book, but as hours ticked by, I could see we were elevating the act of waiting to a new art form. It felt like a social experiment, testing how far hundreds of unwilling participants can be pushed before the big reveal proves them all to be fools.

Once we had all lost hope, there was finally a stir. An official act was finally coming together. The collective hundreds stood and were sworn in by a judge. She then told us what to expect from a makeshift podium.

In short, this was a week of civil trials. You really never know for sure how long one will last. Ten cases needed jurors, so those not selected in round one would likely be sent back into the main pool for another go at it. Everyone squirmed in their chairs while texting loved ones with this grim update.

The judge then explained on what grounds you can make an appeal to go home right now. Everyone acted as if they hadn’t found these details on the internet immediately upon getting summoned.

The law does not provide much wiggle room for excuses. Otherwise, they’d obviously struggle to keep a quorum. Still, many came forward and pleaded their case for getting out of jury duty. Rare exceptions were made. One enterprising gentleman was allowed to leave after he insisted that it was not in his nature to be impartial.

After this excitement died down, we were given our first break as county employees. About half an hour later, once everyone was resettled in their seats, they figured it was time for lunch. The first jury pool was finally called at one. My name was on that list.

Our line of three dozen was led through the metal detector again, in case we had been adventurous at lunch. While waiting, our group speculated about what lay ahead on the business end of the courthouse. 

The room itself was just like I pictured: vaulted ceilings, stained wood, excellent acoustics. We awkwardly stood for the judge, then settled into benches at the back. Two legal teams and their expressionless clients stared right back at me and my unassuming dad clothes.

After the required introductions of name, city of residence, whether you have been a juror before, and whether you were a foreperson, I stayed mute. Others were eager to fill my void and chime in. These silly people must not have heard about the secret to getting out of here. Or maybe they were actively trying to get picked. Either way, I felt smart.

Questions came fast, then responses were intentionally teased out further by each legal team. Hands eagerly went up when asked if anyone had a good-for-nothing person in their life that never paid them back. More opinions burst forth when we were asked for thoughts on high-interest, short-term loans. There was no telling what all of this had to do with the actual case.

In the end, it was a numbers game. Someone called for our pool hadn’t bothered returning from lunch. I presume they are now in jail for life. An older man rose gingerly from his seat to share that he was high as fudge on his pain medication and unfit for participation. High-test prescriptions and dosages were then shouted across the courtroom, leaving us all in agreement with him. Off went another. 

They had summoned a lady who wasn’t legally old enough to be a juror. Another person no longer resided in this county. These two further dismissals were seemingly preventable with a good filter, but I found it best to move on.

My silence, kind eyes, and sensible shoes made for a safe pick. In this case, at least, each side was more focused on trimming any sympathetics to the rival cause. Our plaintiff was later revealed as a truck driver, so the defense cut four folks who worked in trucking. The other side cleaved those who spoke up about loan regulation. That ultimately left thirteen of us to occupy the jury box. A mystery alternate among us would be identified when proceedings were over.

When you see a courtroom drama play out on screen, it is quite easy to follow. A helpful backstory is woven in. Characters are rounded out and developed. There are many visual aids. Everyone talks audibly, using whole words that can be found in Webster's. This civil court I was thrown into was nothing like that. It was better.

I was following when the judge kicked things off, but from then on I was piecing a very vague puzzle together. Our only source of information was a question and answer ping-pong that did not appear to be going as smoothly as had been rehearsed. Witness one was the plaintiff himself. He had obviously been coached on pregnant pauses, for he used them to great effect when answering every question. “Hmmmm…yes, Ms. Parker did indeed ask me to invest my money into her chicken cafe.”

We were taken on a tour of some notable contracts between the parties in question. The plaintiff, playing his part in this friendly interaction with his own attorney, would be asked to locate juicy highlighted sections and share them from the witness stand. What followed started slow but it did indeed please the court. 

Jesus was specifically mentioned in the date portion of one executed document. I thought that was a bit non-standard for loans. These two had signed their respective names and agreed to some pretty insane terms. It was also becoming clear through the timeline of evidence that the defendant and plaintiff had, legally speaking, been getting jiggy with it. This was way more interesting than whatever else I had planned on a Monday afternoon. 

On day two of our civil trial, the defense finally had their opportunity to cross examine the plaintiff. A hulking man rose from his chair. His over-the-top southern drawl and pastel suit signaled a lively day ahead. It was time for a showdown, one “Is it true, Mr. Johnson…?” at a time

As his cross examination elicited responses contrary to what he obviously expected, the defensive-lineman-sized attorney became visibly agitated. Sweat began to drip down the back of his pastel blazer. It looked like he was switching to whatever the backup plan was.

The lawyer took a breath, then steeled his focus upon the witness stand. It began almost playfully “Now, is it true, Mr. Johnson, that many of these transactions between you and Ms. Parker are not documented because they were paid out in cash?” The plaintiff leaned forward to speak into the microphone, but was stopped short. His adversary grinned manically as he steamrolled on, now with an even more accusatory tone. “Yes! you dealt a LOT in cash. DIDN’T YOU, Mr. Johnson?” each word expanding to fill the room. Where was he going with this? We moved to the edge of our seats. “Why all this CASH, Mr. Johnson? Is it because this whole time you have been SELLING DRUGS!?”

All hell immediately let loose in the courtroom. Shouts reverberated. The defendant and plaintiff broke character in an instant, gesturing wildly and exchanging heated sentiments their respective lawyers very much wish they hadn’t. 

Our judge, who just moments ago had been contemplating her response to an Evite, bounced around with a gavel in her hand as she frivolously tried to restore order. Rarely have I been so entertained.

In the melee, an additional bailiff was brought in for reinforcement. We were hastily escorted to the jury room, which was positively buzzing. The social bonds had been slow to form in this very diverse group, but now everyone couldn’t wait to chit chat. I leaned on an old joke of mine to help kick things off “First of all, what kinds of drugs!? This brought the desired response. It wasn’t long before people were calling me Chappy instead of my given name.

To be honest, I had been a little worried about this crew. The idea of getting twelve people to agree on anything is daunting. When we arrived the first morning, one lady greeted each and every person with “good evening.” Another made it clear from the onset that the defendant “had a guilty look about her.” But I could see now that we would all be getting along fine. Why let the serious business of a verdict get in the way of a good time, right?

As the trial resumed, we were asked to completely forget about the wild scene we had just witnessed, because that is a thing that humans are capable of. That entire exchange had been deemed inadmissible. The judge decided to hurry things along and end the plaintiff’s extended stay in the witness stand.

It was now up to the defense to establish their version of the story, with the first and only witness being their client. Now a veteran of cross examination, I looked forward to the end of friendly questioning, so we could once again experience that delightful tension. The defendant did not disappoint. Early in, she gave up on appearances. Regardless of what the stenographer recorded, Ms. Parker’s facial response to every question was “go screw yourself.”

Closing arguments from the two teams were clumsy and riddled with odd philosophical quotes. We got to hear a seemingly irrelevant story about one lawyer fishing with his Grandpa. I got the feeling that sections of their speeches were regularly repurposed. 

Sadly, the show had come to an end. It was now our turn as jurors to do our part. The judge tried to tee up what came next, but it could not have been more confusing. 

Now that all testimony was complete, we were to consider nine counts. As the judge defined each one, the jurors were all taken aback. The early temperature check had us leaning toward the plaintiff, but his team sure was making enemies with all this extra work. It felt like an unnecessary smoke screen that insulted our collective intelligence.

All nine counts required individual verdicts plus an award for damages. It was asking a lot of us, considering we had already gone past quitting time. Twelve of us remained after “good evening” lady was identified as our alternate. We all agreed to push on through and finish that night. Sure we understood the gravity of what we were doing, but dinner would not be provided and there were no more chips. Time to reach some rather quick decisions.

A stack of paper was handed over for our perusal, including the Jesus contract. Quick bit of advice, folks - don’t ever have a try at drawing up your own legal documents. One day, they might be admitted as evidence. 

In the end, it took us forty-five minutes to go through every count, decide who won based on a “preponderance of evidence,” then award an amount that we felt to be adequate for that specific offense. Could we have been more thorough given all that was at stake for these two people? Perhaps. Our math became increasingly fuzzy as dinner time neared. “We don’t have to explain ourselves!” became the rallying cry.

We overwhelmingly agreed that the defendant was a crappy friend/lover for doing him dirty like that. But can you put a price on what really should be a forced reconciliation? A simple “I’m sorry” along the way might have kept the judicial system out of this. Someone had to stop me from writing “Hug each other” on the line for damages. 

When it came time to shuffle silently back into the courtroom one last time, taking our now familiar seats, I was genuinely a little sad. The foreperson, a twenty-something hibachi restaurant manager, was visibly nervous, but she made us all proud delivering the list of verdicts. I exchanged awkward eye contact with the parties involved, knowing that the $90,000 we just redistributed would only further divide these two people who were once so close. I hated that for them.

As for me, I had a great time. The act of handing back my juror badge was even a tad emotional. I made memories, friends and learned a few things along the way. Most notably, I  learned to never leave an important decision up to a jury of your peers if you can help it. Definitely settle. Now that I’ve participated in the process, being on the other side of that wall is a terrifyingly uncertain prospect. 

Lastly, I learned that government work isn’t made for overachievers. After staying late into the evening for the good of our county, this new group of friends emerged from the courthouse to find all of our cars locked in the parking deck, not an attendant in sight…