My wife’s boss is currently on jury duty. I had lunch not long ago with an old classmate who regaled me with the saga of his tenure on a federal jury. Just this week a colleague told me about his service on the jury in a (locally notorious) criminal trial. Everyone has served on a jury, it would seem, except me.
I used to notice that everyone had stories about talkative New York cab drivers, but that I did not: When I entered their domain, they inexplicably clammed up. For years, I assumed this was because the loudmouthed New York cabbie is an urban legend; but my wife has since explained that my expression in repose–jaw clenched, lips pursed, eyes narrowed–would discourage even the friendliest hacker.
This would not explain, however, my exile from civic duty. If jury service were a matter of application at City Hall, I would eagerly de-clench my jaw, unpurse my lips, and widen my eyes to be called. But the summons has never arrived in the mail.
Well, not exactly. In truth, I have been called three times for jury duty: once in the District of Columbia, another time in California, and finally in Rhode Island. But by extraordinary coincidence, each summons arrived just as I was on the verge of moving away from the jurisdiction. And since the last such letter arrived 14 years ago this summer, I have the feeling jury duty may have passed me by forever.
Is this cause for regret? It’s difficult to say. People talk about how numbingly tedious the process can be: mostly sitting around waiting to be herded into a hearing room, or following soporific commercial disputes.
But I used to take a bus to work in Providence that, every morning, paused in front of the courthouse for a moment. I was always shocked by the spectacle of citizens milling about–with plastic “Juror” tags hanging from their necks–dressed, it would seem, for a neighborhood barbecue. I always assumed that I would present myself for jury duty in a comfortable tweed jacket and bow tie, carrying a copy of Proust for the waiting room, and be unanimously elected foreman.
No such luck. Moreover, I held the sort of newspaper job in Providence–and Washington and Los Angeles–that might well have disqualified me from the pool.
Yet suppose my prayers are answered, and Fairfax County, Virginia, orders me to report next week to the “judicial center,” or whatever it is they call courthouses these days. Would the commonwealth’s attorney, or any smart trial lawyer, take a chance on me as a juror? I am not so sure.
Since my late mother was a lawyer, and judge, I harbor a cynical opinion of the profession–indeed, of the judicial system, including law enforcement, as a whole. I also cling to unwavering biases on certain subjects: All medical malpractice lawsuits are fraudulent; I am more deeply shocked by animal cruelty cases than many homicides; there is no such thing as an innocent bystander.
It gets worse. As a hopeless insomniac, I have seen more than my share of Law and Order, Kojak, and Crossing Jordan reruns, and I always root for the criminals. On Law and Order, when the detectives barge in on the stuffed-shirt pedophile/businessman’s meeting to arrest him, I am indignant on his behalf. When the glamorous female medical examiner carves up the deceased, I pray that the findings will exonerate the prime suspect. When the psychopath hides in the laundry truck leaving the Big House, I hold my breath until he’s safely off the premises.
Let us suppose, however, that the summons arrives, I fill out the questionnaire (“Are you in favor of capital punishment?” “Only for traffic cops”) successfully, and sit quietly through the trial, declining to strike certain answers from the record. I have a lifelong horror of group discussions, and slow deliberation, and am sure that the business of weighing guilt or innocence–and listening, patiently, to every juror’s thoughts–would drive me to distraction.
Whether this means I would choose to be the bombastic Lee J. Cobb in Twelve Angry Men, angrily demanding an immediate guilty verdict, or the saintly Henry Fonda in the same movie, gently appealing to reason and conscience, I cannot say. But more than an hour or two of conversation with earnest jurors would be cruel and unusual punishment–for me.
I think the lesson here is that it is not so much jury service that I would welcome as the opportunity to function as a singularly efficient judge, jury, and (if duty calls) executioner. I like to think that I work in a businesslike manner, I have reasonably good judgment, and am a fair shot. Think of the savings to taxpayers!
PHILIP TERZIAN
