Juror Number Eight

Photo by me, February 2015.

 

It was fifteen minutes after six on a drizzly morning as I caught the bus two days ago and transferred to the train. Traffic is bad enough in my part of Atlanta anytime of day on any day of the week and the thought of morning rush hour was something I did not want to consider. I like taking the train anyway and the station in Decatur was next to my destination, the DeKalb County Courthouse. If I was going to have to report for jury duty, then this was the least stressful way for me to do it.

This was my first time being called to possibly serve on a jury. I had appeared as a witness in a civil trial in the 1990s and had been on my high school mock trial competition team, so courtrooms were somewhere I familiar, but not in recent times. 

 

I was curious about the process of being a juror, but ultimately I did not want to be chosen to serve. The idea of having to repeat this process for days or weeks was as appealing as being kicked in the face by an angry elephant. Once I arrived and filled out my papers, I was split off into a group that was going to form a pool of jury prospects for a civil trial. No murder trial for me and I was glad about that.

 

Downtown Decatur. Photo by me, February 2015.

 

Downtown Decatur. Photo by me, February 2015.

Things got off to a fast start as my group was ushered up to the top floor of the courthouse to wait outside a courtroom. The view was nice as I waited. As much time as I had spent eating, drinking coffee and hanging out at the Decatur Square, I had not seen a perspective from this high up before.

Then we were led inside, lectured by the judge who was rather condescending and not all that grateful that we as citizens were giving up our time to be there. She, like the attorneys for the plaintiffs and defendants were being well compensated to be there, the rest of us were not. I crossed my fingers that I would not get selected to serve on the jury. I did not want to endure another day of this judge.

The case was a boring one. The plaintiffs were a professional couple in their late twenties that had purchased a home from an elderly couple in Dunwoody. The plaintiffs alleged that problems with the home had not been adequately disclosed by the seller and they were suing for monetary damages and pain and suffering. I rolled my eyes as I sized up the plaintiffs. I was supposed to have an open mind about it, but at first glance and without hearing any evidence I was not feeling sympathetic to the plaintiffs.

As we broke for lunch, half of the jury pool was dismissed and sent on their way. I was not so lucky and remained in the pool through the first wave of cuts.

Downtown Decatur. Photo by me, February 2015.

Downtown Decatur. Photo by me, February 2015.

Downtown Decatur. Photo by me, February 2015.

Downtown Decatur. Photo by me, February 2015.

Downtown Decatur. Photo by me, February 2015.

Downtown Decatur. Photo by me, February 2015.

Downtown Decatur. Photo by me, February 2015.

Downtown Decatur. Photo by me, February 2015.

Downtown Decatur. Photo by me, February 2015.

Downtown Decatur. Photo by me, February 2015.

I grabbed a coffee and sandwich for lunch and wandered around downtown. I thought about the more fun occasions that I had in Decatur from a wedding dinner at Cafe Alsace, dinner dates at Watershed, dinners with friends, playing pool and drinking at Twain's, having coffee at Java Monkey, attending fairs, researching at the library and so much other fun. Being stuck in Decatur not by choice was like being forced to stay in the hospital after surgery to recover. It was the loss of freedom by serving on a jury to solve a stranger's problem that bothered me the most. I was not in a generous spirit.

After lunch I was questioned by the plaintiff's attorney. The questions related to how much I knew about home construction and my own experience with renovations. I struggled to not laugh as I explained that I could do most any home renovation project and had experience going back to my teen years. I felt for sure that the plaintiff's attorney would want to strike me, I assumed he would want jurors with a limited knowledge on the subject that he could mislead.

The next wave of cuts were made and I was still a potential juror. The day was getting long as it became late afternoon. The judge excused us for a thirty minute break and I went out for fresh air. The sun began to break through the clouds and the pavement dried out along with my patience.

We were called back to the courtroom. I was fearful that the judge was going to tell us to come back tomorrow since it was so late in the day. There was one final cut to be made to reach the needed amount of jurors. After some discussion between the attorneys and the judge, the final cut was announced like a cheesy game show. Who were going to be the unlucky contestants to get chosen? A drumroll was missed.

 

Juror number eight was not called. I was excused from jury duty and released. I exited the courthouse so fast that it probably seemed that I was an escaping criminal alluding the police. I did not breathe until I was outside. I could have kissed the sod covered ground. 

 

I understand the justice system relies on juries, but in the matter of a civil case that seemed petty based on the limited details that I was aware, it made me angry to have my time wasted on this squabble between strangers. This was not a good use of my civic responsibility. A judge or some other arbitrator could have decided that case instead of a jury.