Tuesday, 27 April 2004 | Jury duty

Today, instead of going to work, I packed up my laptop, two books, a magazine, and a notebook and headed to downtown Brooklyn to "participate in the delivery of justice." The bus route, the people, that part of town—all of it was relatively unfamiliar, and it woke me up in the way that only new cities (and new experiences) know how to do.

After weaving through the security line and packing myself into the elevator, I located the room where I was going to spend the rest of my day. It was ugly. It had uncharacteristically low ceilings, rows of uniform black chairs facing the front, and a rectangle of windows on the far wall, and was not unlike a classroom. Its 75 (or so) students were in the midst of watching a video when I walked in.

The video held us by the hand and walked us through the history of the U.S. jury system, as well as advertised that system as the very best. Not having studied law, and not knowing a lot about alternative systems, I don't have strong opinions about the subject, but it seems like there must be a better way to come to important conclusions than to call upon twelve random people who very possibly are opinionated, ignorant, unconcerned, tired, racist, or anxious to return to work. Perhaps it's just the word "best" that makes me wary.

The clerk who was in charge of the room sat at a desk at the front. Occasionally he would leave his post—to turn off the video, or, later, change the channel—but mostly he sat there quietly, perking up only to bellow statements that were somehow both friendly and stern.

On one of his trips to the TV, I noticed he was shaped like a balloon, and that he neglected to bend his knees when he walked, almost as if he were on exceptionally short stilts. His graying hair and goatee stood out against his dark skin, and his face was wise and pleasant.

It was clear that he had lots of experience with people who don't follow directions. "...If what I just said applies to you, come tell me now. Don't come tell me later cause I'm not gonna listen to you later." (Something in his voice made his toughness seem a little like an act, however, and, when we eventually left for the day, I heard him say something nice to each person in the room.)

The video was followed by some morning shows that I didn't recognize, a soap opera I didn't recognize, and Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. (When the first TV commercials began to play, I heard one guy near me complain, "Can you not escape commercials in jury duty? Can you not escape commercials?")

For the most part, the room was quiet. People read, watched TV, ate snacks, and a few mumbled. Every thirty minutes or so, a man would come over the intercom and tell us to ignore the fire alarms, due to some tests they were performing. Every thirty seconds or so, the TV would black out for two seconds and then reappear. Time dripped by in regularly spaced intervals.

I didn't use my voice all day, except to order a sandwich and make one phone call at lunch. One older guy from my room and I held the door for each other a few times, but neither of us spoke to each other. Not many people did. Mostly, I quietly worked on my laptop or read or wrote or (by the end of the day) uncomfortably rested my head on my knees. At lunch, I sat on a wall in the much appreciated warm sun and watched people permeate the cell of downtown.

I was never called to be a juror; I never even got interviewed.

The closest I came to a court room was after lunch, when a bad court TV show popped up on the screen. After Judge Mathis was over and another show had taken its place, a man in the back of the room yelled to the clerk, "Channel 4! C'mon! Judge Brown! Judge Brown! ... I'm tryin' to be a juror!" The clerk conceded but warned it was the last time he was changing the channel. Later, when the TV judge read the verdict, there was a smattering of applause in the room.

The clerk sent us home at 4, apologizing for not keeping us busier, while conversely noting that we'd been lucky and had come on the right day. I was a little disappointed that I didn't do or learn anything, but, based on the elated sounds from the rest of the room, I seemed to be alone.

As I was dismissed, the clerk handed me a sheet of paper to verify that I'd been present. It read: "Thank you for your participation and contribution to the delivery of justice."