Travel Blog

A line stretched out of the courthouse yesterday morning at 7:30. Last-minute Christmas jurors? Once through security, I took the elevator to the third floor where I followed a small crowd to another line. After about five minutes a woman in spiky white hair took my juror summons and told me to go stand in the line at the far side of the room to have my parking ticket validated.

Then I found a seat in a room that resembled a school auditorium, except that every person sat alone; there are no cliques at jury duty. The woman with the spiky hair addressed us, followed by a judge, for whom we all stood. I wondered if the woman dreamt of roomfuls of people standing up for her entrance.

The judge told us what we could expect in the coming minutes, hours, possibly days. He explained why a lot of waiting was involved. (It was, if I got it correctly, so the letter of the law could be followed.) He thanked us for our service and then departed, to another standing non-ovation.

The woman took the place of the judge, and seemed to enjoy having the audience to herself. She described jury duty as “predictably unpredictable.” She explained the process as if talking to ten-year-olds. Then she told us we had a 20-minute break.

By the time we returned, it was already 9:20. She gave the name of the first judge, and read out 20 or so numbers of people who would be assigned to his courtroom. Then she moved on to the second judge who, she said, wanted jurors to fill out a questionnaire. Of the people who walked to the front to get the questionnaire, a fair number were attractive women. Immediately I hoped my number wouldn’t be called for this group. This was one of my first appearances in public since receiving eight stitches on my forehead from my dermatologist. I was hoping the judge would take pity on my appearance – the bandage of dried blood in the middle of my forehead – and excuse me so I could have the stitches removed on Wednesday. But I didn’t want to have to explain this before a group of comely females.

 My number was called. I went up and picked up a questionnaire, which asked my line of work, my spouse’s line of work, the purpose of my visit. Just kidding. But there was something about filling out a form that made me thankful I wasn’t at the doctor’s and all these people had appointments ahead of me.

The good thing about having my number called was that now I could go back to reading my magazine. Though this became difficult when, finished with the lottery, the woman put on a movie.

Elf.

Occasionally the screen would go blank and the woman would announce that all those people assigned to Judge So-And-So should gather by the flagpole. And 20 or so people would resignedly shuffle up to fulfill their civic duty while the rest of us sat like Muscovy ducks.

When not reading, or watching Will Ferrell, I bounced between thoughts of being sequestered for the holidays and dreams of walking out into the sunshine. The room where jurors await assignment overlooks the intersection of Third Ave. and SE 6^th Street. It is a kind of limbo, allowing you a tantalizing glimpse of the world from which you’ve been unhappily removed before the windowless courtroom shuts you off from it entirely.   

It is also extremely cold. The air-conditioning heightened the feeling of being trapped in a hostile environment. The merciless crawl of institutional tedium. I looked at my watch. It was now 11 am.

 A few more judges’ names were called, but not mine. This seemed like possibly a good thing; perhaps there was some problem with the case. I thought of all the people – some who’d sat just a few seats away from me – who’d already been taken away to courtrooms.

 A little before noon the woman returned to the desk and, taking the microphone, said: “I have good news and bad news.” The emphasis, it seemed to me, was on the good news. “I’ll give you the bad news first. You won’t be able to watch the end of the movie. The good news is you’re being released for the day.”

 She didn’t explain why. The law works in mysterious ways.

 We had to wait until she read our names, and then we were free to get up and leave, return to our cars and back into the world which had not looked this beautiful for months.