The bus took longer than I had expected it to. I got to the courthouse on Bryant Street just in time. There was a line waiting to get through the metal detectors. A line of about 20 or 30 other people who had also gotten there just in time. More were showing up. Belt, cellphone, keys, reading glasses, sun glasses, ear buds – all in the hard plastic gray bin. Maybe I should start carrying a purse. On the third floor, dozens and dozens of people lined the hallway. I was looking for room 307, but when the door to 24 opened and seemingly everyone went in, I assumed it was where I needed to be and I went in as well. I assumed wrong. Something didn’t feel right about it, and I asked the woman next to me. She said I needed to check in down the hall. Several other people made the same mistake. Maybe they were nervous too.
About 160 of us were seated in room 307 (the one with the jury/reception room sign above it, the sign that I overlooked). Some people looked at their phones, most of us fidgeted as we watched an orientation video along with videos telling us that jury duty was both a privilege and our civic duty. The judge came in. He told us it was a criminal case and he expects it to last two weeks. He explained what constitutes a hardship and dismissed everyone who wasn’t asking to have their hardship considered.
I wasn’t claiming a hardship. As such, I had over two hours to kill before I had to be back and in the courtroom across the hall from where we first gathered – district 25. I went looking for lunch. The first place I wanted to try wasn’t going to be open for another hour. The second place, a BBQ joint, didn’t seem to exist (I literally could not find it and the alleyway seemed dubious). The third place, a pub with burgers, wouldn’t open for another 15 minutes. I wasn’t starving, but I wanted a place to hang. I walked a few blocks to a sandwich shop by a park. In line, the guy behind me started mumbling things, “you all think you’re better. all intellectual bullshit. yeah I see you looking.” I couldn’t tell who he was talking to – maybe me (was carrying a book intellectual bullshit?), maybe all of us in line. He was making it about race – most of us were white and he was black. I placed my order for a sandwich called the porkey, and before he could order, he confronted one of the people who was waiting for their order – he accused him of giving him dirty looks because he was black. The man defended himself – wasn’t looking at anybody. A manager stepped in and de-escalated. The whole thing was uncomfortable.
I got my porkey sandwich and went to the park where I sat on a bench and watched a homeless person pick at his scalp by a water fountain. This is part of city life – especially near a courthouse where one encounters offices for bail bondsmen, lawyers’ offices, and the city impound lot located under the highway overpass. Leaving the park, I couldn’t find compost bins or recycling bins like I would in other parts of the city. The gritty parts are often gritty because there’s no basic infrastructure like trash cans. There are fewer trash cans because people tip them over or light them on fire. It’s a cycle of roughness and disinvestment. I felt guilty about throwing everything away.
I still had a lot of time to kill so I stopped at a coffee shop as I made my way back to the courthouse. At the side of the Hall of Justice, I leaned against a low wall in the shade of few trees. It was breezy street which felt nice on a hot day. For such a massive building that has so many people coming and going, there were surprisingly few public places outside to sit or rest. Of the few restaurants that existed, none of them had parklets or outside seating. A taco truck idled in an exposed parking lot across the street.
Belt, cellphone, keys, reading glasses, sun glasses, ear buds, empty coffee cup because I couldn’t find a trash can. I can keep the coffee cup with me. I felt discombobulated. For once, I’d like to be combobulated. In the courtroom, we spaced ourselves out, sitting almost every other seat. They were those fold-down wooden seats like one sees in a school auditorium. There were a lot fewer of us. I would later learn that about half were granted hardship dismissals. The court clerk took attendance which also made it feel like being in school. The judge came in – a tall, lean man with wispy white, shoulder-length hair that framed his face. He was soft spoken, cordial, and overly considerate. We didn’t have to stand, but the bailiff instructed us to turn off our phones and remove our hats. Court was in session.
The judge told us more about the case, an alleged attack on a police officer with a weapon (I think he said it was a saw). He introduced the defense attorney, the defendant, and the prosecutor. He asked us to raise our hand if we had any knowledge of the case and he asked us to look around the room and raise our hand if we knew anyone else in the courtroom. Two women were in the same salsa class. A woman and man were friends through a mutual friend. The judge asked them if they could be impartial if they were both serving and they disagreed with their acquaintance. The clerk read out 18 names, one by one each was seated in the jury box and the seats below the jury box. I wasn’t called.
The judge explained the voit dire process. He explained that none of the questions were meant to intrude or make people feel uncomfortable. If they didn’t want to answer a question in front of everyone, they could answer in private. He explained the role of a jury, the importance of impartiality, and concepts like innocent until proven guilty. He asked all of us to pay attention as though the questions were being asked of us – we might be called if and when someone is dismissed. Being a much better student than I was in middle school or high school, I listened dutifully and answered the questions in my head. I prepared myself to be an excellent juror.
I was surprised by how much I learned about the 18 people seated in the box: a retired chef, two nurses, two guys in tech, a woman who provides program support for a tech team, a psychiatrist, a preschool teacher, a program officer for a family foundation, a nonprofit accountant, a retired hotel manager, a court interpreter, one guy who wouldn’t disclose what he did, a former buyer, a few unemployed people. Several people had been the victims of crimes (one of the questions the judge asked), a few people had run-ins with the law (resisting arrest in college, DUI). One woman had her husband arrested for domestic violence. One man had three kids all in the foster care system. He didn’t know when he last saw them or their ages – he had been homeless but is getting help now. It felt incredibly humanizing to hear these people talk. So many different back stories. People from other cities and states – the guy who met his partner when he was living in Jersey, a few people from Hawaii, one who lived in Kansas City for a few years another from Colorado.
I continued to think of my answers. It was a strange way to conceptualize my life. Yes, I was a victim – group of kids, Philly, surrounded my car punched and kicked it pulled the door open. Nobody was hurt, no, there was no resolution from the police. No, it won’t affect my ability to be impartial. My last interaction with the police was when I called in a hit and run here in San Francisco – I don’t think there was any resolution. I’ve been in the city just under two years, Marina, I’ve lived in the suburbs outside of Philadelphia, also in Memphis, TN, and State College, PA. Single/Divorced, Step-daughter, she’s a nurse. I served on a jury in Pennsylvania – maybe 20 years ago. Yes, we reached a verdict.
The judge got through about 14 of the 18 people before being called to another courtroom where the jury had reached a verdict. We were free to go for the day – report back, room 25, at 9am. Do not discuss the case with anyone. Do not do our own research. It was nice out. I walked home. I stopped at Vesuvio where I had two beers, sat outside and read and wrote – maybe a sonnet – each line about a different juror.