alicubi journal :: the diary of juror number four

Frankly, 8:30 a.m. is an ungodly time to show up for anything, but here I am in room 428 at 60 Centre Street--reporting for jury duty. I am fulfilling my civic duty, I tell myself. This does not, however, make up for the fact that I'm conscious at 8:30 a.m. and in a large room that is not my apartment, and does not contain a bed. Bleary-eyed, I gawk at the murals of olde New York scenes on the walls. I decide to sit down. As I shuffle to a big overstuffed chair, a woman smiles at me and says, "You look like you're lost." I stare at her blankly. I'm not polite before noon.

At about 9:30 a.m. the jury room is full and we each have packets of information: the Juror's Handbook, information cards, and a questionnaire to fill out. Then we get to watch a video hosted by Ed Asner and Diane Sawyer about the history of jury trials. It starts with a bang--a recreation of an ancient "trial by ordeal" involving ropes, dirty children, and water. I yawn and prepare myself for a nap.

At 10:00 a.m. they call the first group of potential jurors. Heart thumping, I listen. My name not called. I relax and go back to my book. At 10:30 a.m. the next group is called. This time, I'm one of them. We follow some lawyers to a small room down a moldy corridor. I'm excited now. I want to be chosen. I want to slam my fist on a table and shout, "You are making a mockery of the judicial system! This is a travesty!" Instead, I cross my legs and try to ignore the fact that a man near me is having an adverse reaction to something he ate.

The lawyers take the questionnaires we filled out earlier and use them to evaluate us. I'm pretty much ignored. I have never been involved in a personal injury case and I had nothing interesting to say on my questionnaire. We break for lunch--two hours. I find a deli on Warren Street and watch the Cartoon Network with a bunch of suits while eating a gigantic turkey sandwich and sipping a V8. I feel a bit nostalgic for my days at the office, then realize that I'm missing All My Children, and get annoyed. I buy some tea at Starbucks and head back to the jury room.

Now I'm bored. I haven't been spoken to or questioned and people are being taken outside the room for private questioning and being excused left and right. Just as my eyes glaze over and I begin to plan the next 30 years of my life, the plaintiff's attorney looks directly at me. "You've been awfully quiet," he says. I smile. Suddenly my palms are sweaty. "What do you think of lawsuits?" he asks. Not knowing exactly what is spewing from my lips, I go on a seven-minute diatribe about frivolous lawsuits, citing the infamous McDonalds Coffee incident and summing up with the statement, "Until I've got all the facts for this case, though, I really have nothing concrete to say about it."

I'm ignored for the duration of the afternoon. At 4:00 p.m., the lawyers rearrange those of us left and leave the room. My fellow citizens begin to discuss Chelsea Clinton's new look. I examine my boots.

The lawyers return and read off five names. One of them is mine. We are asked to return to the jury selection room tomorrow at 2:15 p.m. The other jurors grumble and we disperse. I skip to the subway, eager to call my friends and family. I am juror number four!

I make it to the jury room and plop myself down near the clerk's desk. About 30 minutes later, we are summoned by a court officer wearing a black armband and led to our deliberation room. We are given specific instructions on how to navigate the maze that is the interior of the courthouse. Once acclimated to our little room, which is right out of Twelve Angry Men, complete with a private bathroom and a window overlooking a school playground, we are led into the courtroom, where we are sworn in and re-introduced to the lawyers.

The windows are high and small and let in some air as well as a din from the street. It's hard to hear the judge, a woman who looks like one of my mother's poker girls. I fight the urge to lean back in my creaky wooden chair and put my feet rakishly on the edge of the jury box. No one occupies the visitor benches, which look like church pews. There are two women at a table across the room from me, and they are talking on the phone, typing on a computer, and passing notes. The court reporter is a man who looks like Grimace from the old McDonald's ads. The judge explains that there was a scheduling screw-up, and we are dismissed until 9:45 a.m. the next day. I make $40 for showing up for two hours. God bless America. The other jurors seem put out. I'm gleeful.

I'm tired. I babysat and did not get enough sleep. I needed a wake-up call from my dad to prevent me from oversleeping. I take a large travel mug of green tea to the courthouse. Going through security, I notice they don't inspect my travel mug, nor is it sent through a metal detector or X-ray machine. I am seized with fear that terrorists will smuggle bombs into the courthouse in Starbucks cups.

I climb the rickety staircase to the deliberation room, where I find three fellow jurors quietly reading papers and magazines. I look around to smile a hello, but no one meets my gaze. We are instructed by the court officer to push a buzzer when everyone is present. Thirty minutes later, we buzz. Juror number two was tardy. We are ushered into the courtroom and I get a silent thrill to hear the officer bellow, "All rise! Jury entering!" I notice some new people, one of them the plaintiff. The judge looks like shit. She's got a tissue up to her face and her eyes are bloodshot.

The proceedings begin. There is a lot of hemming and hawing. There is a lot of stopping and repeating things because nobody can hear over the sirens constantly wailing out on the street. Sound echoes oddly and time seems to move erratically. I pay attention, better than I ever did in an astronomy lecture in college, and take notes. We hear opening statements from both attorneys. I realize with a shudder that I'm beginning this trial slightly biased. I worry that I knew I would be biased and lied during jury selection in order to secure my position. Before I can think any more about that, the judge, through a coughing fit and half a box of tissues, dismisses us until Tuesday--Monday being a holiday. I scurry home with almost a full day ahead of me. I feel like I got let out of school early.

I feel like a working girl again. I wear nice clothes and I happen to work at the courthouse. In the deliberation room, my fellow jurors seem to warm up a bit. I feel solitary and shy, but everyone seems nice. Juror number two is about 45 minutes late, and immediately after we buzz, the court officer leads us into the courtroom. The judge looks much better. She beams at us from the bench. We get to hear testimony from the plaintiff, but because she does not speak English, everything comes through an interpreter. It takes forever. I am becoming skeptical of her claims, when juror number one's chair starts to fall apart. Then the court reporter's chair slips off the platform on which he is perched, and he careens backwards. The defense attorney grabs him to keep from falling. Juror number five and I stare open-mouthed at these events, then look at each other, smirking. He's about 30, I'd say, and has worn khaki pants each day. I like him.

The plaintiff's sister is called, and the defendant's attorney seems frustrated with all the interpreter nonsense; the sister doesn't speak English either. I wonder if the interpreter is inadvertently misinterpreting her words. I get nothing out of her testimony, and from the look of my fellow jurors, she said nothing to help her sister's case. We are dismissed until 2 p.m. the next day since no more witnesses are available until then. We are instructed to keep our mouths shut about the case and to enjoy the rest of our day. It's noon.

Today we're all much chattier with each other as we wait for juror number two to show up. I can't imagine what takes her so long, but I keep my opinion to myself. One of the alternate jurors seems cute, until I look him straight on and realize that his eyes are not only asymmetrical, but they are also shaped differently from one another. Before I can scold myself for being a shallow kitten, juror number two slams into the room and hits the buzzer. We've got a routine already.

We hear testimony from two witnesses for the plaintiff, both of them paid experts. I take copious notes. We endure a few objections and frantic whisperings at the bench. The lawyers seem to have some sort of long-standing argument about something we jurors are not privy to: I want desperately to know what. Juror number one's chair falls apart a little more.

When we are sent to our deliberation room for a recess, we tell the court officer about the problem chair, and then we giggle and gossip about the lawyers and the judge--not about the case. We're not supposed to talk about it yet.

Back in the courtroom, juror number one's chair has an "Out of Order" sign on it, and she is directed to sit in the back row with the alternates. The judge tells us how it's "always something" in her courtroom: The last jury had pieces of ceiling plaster falling on them throughout the trial. We all look up. The judge laughs and tells us not to worry. The next witness seems a bit hostile once the defendant's attorney begins questioning him. Voices become strained and I look forward to some courtroom drama. No such luck--just countless redirects. My ass has fallen asleep and every time I try to cross my legs, I kick the edge of the jury box and my chair squeals like a pig. We are dismissed until the next morning for closing arguments. I can't believe all the evidence is in. The defendant offered no case, because in a civil trial the burden of proof is borne by the plaintiff. I'm even thinking in legalese! Proud of myself, I head uptown to meet friends for drinks.

I think closing arguments are much more effective if they are memorized. I'm not saying this because I'm a huge Law & Order fan: I just don't like to see people looking at their notes and reading to me. I can read. I want to be swayed by what you have to say and not think about how you're keeping your place on your legal pad. Both attorneys have their say, and I wonder how many cases each has actually tried. They seem a little green, at least compared to Jack McCoy. We are given instructions by the judge and sent to our room to deliberate. Our alternates are sent home; they only had to sit through the trial in case one of us regular jurors got hit by a bus. The guy with the crazy eyes leaves, but not before taking juror number one's phone number "to get the verdict." We leave for lunch, with instructions to come back in one hour. Juror number five and I get take-out from a deli and discuss our shared backgrounds in the Internet and documentary filmmaking.

We take an initial vote. It's 4-2 in favor of the defendant. I marvel at the implications of this first vote: All in favor of the defendant (a corporation) are young professionals of European decent. The two for the plaintiff (a minority woman) are African-American women--jurors number two and three.

We then go around the table to discuss why we have voted the way we have. Juror number five and I are on exactly the same wavelength. I notice he is wearing jeans today. We speak in tandem, explaining our collective viewpoint and play off each other like seasoned police detectives. Then it's their turn: Juror number two's argument for siding with the plaintiff is essentially "just because," and juror number three seems to be a little conflicted. We subtly try to sway her. We send notes to the judge via the court officer, asking for the pictures shown during the trial, and we ask for her to repeat her instructions, including a definition of negligence. At 5:00 p.m., we are sent home and told to come back tomorrow at 9:45 a.m.

Juror number three and I ride the subway home together. We talk about her job and my lack of one until I get off at Astor Place. I feel a bit sad, knowing my time as a juror will end sometime the next day.

Once we are all in the room, the court officer brings us a deli take-out menu and asks us to write down our orders: We are having lunch on the System. I suppress the urge to order the most expensive thing on the menu, and order a veggie sandwich and water. We are then led back to the courtroom where we hear the definition of negligence again, for the benefit of juror number three--the swing vote. I've never argued with someone with the intention of swaying his or her opinion before. I find it distasteful.

"This case comes down to reasonable safety. Is this area, from what we see in these pictures, a reasonably safe area in your mind?" My voice sounds so calm. I sound like a law student. I sound like my dad. I point to the photo enlargements and look at juror number three. "All we have are these photos. We can't think about anything else. All we have to go on is this." I thump a photo enlargement, which juror number five holds. "Would you avoid this area if you were walking? Would you avoid it because you think it's an unsafe area? If you didn't avoid it, and you are a reasonably prudent person, would this area, as seen in this photo, seem likely to cause a severe injury? That's what you have to think about. That's what we've all thought about." Juror number five chimes in: "We can't tell you what to think or decide. It's only something you can do. But just walking through the city, I know what I think is safe and unsafe--reasonably safe and unsafe. What else is there but this photo? And this photo says to me, 'reasonably safe.'" We nod at each other.

We go on all morning and through lunch. I have nothing more to say. I feel as though we've said it all. Juror number six threatens to change her vote after examining one of the photos for about 20 minutes straight. We go back over testimony from the experts, from my notes. We finish lunch. Lunch is good. Juror number three says, "Let's take a recount."

It's 5-1. We have a decision. We buzz to tell the judge.

I feel tension in the courtroom. I don't know if it's imagined or not. I feel a jolt of "power to the people" guilt, but squash it by biting into an Altoid. Juror number one, our madam forewoman, stands up and gives our decision. The legal jargon is messy and she falters, but in the end, everyone knows how we found. The plaintiff's attorney looks pissed. He scribbles on his notepad. Without looking up, he asks the judge if he might poll the jury. She says he may, so we are asked individually how we found. I try not to look at the stone face of the plaintiff. We are dismissed. We all shuffle upstairs, grab our bags, and head to the subway. It seems anticlimactic, somehow. I'm done with jury duty for another eight years.

At home, I immediately get on the phone to gab with my friends. The other line beeps and I click over. It is the plaintiff's attorney's office, asking why they lost the case. I answer the questions honestly, but I really want to get off the phone. Afterwards, I feel as though my privacy was invaded. Two weeks later, I receive payment for my civil service.