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porphyryLast Monday, for the first time ever in my life, I responded to a summons to serve on a jury. I thought that typically, as a potential juror, I would go into a large pool with many others—there turned out, in fact, to be about 150 of us—sit around for a day or two and then get sent home (or, rather, back to work). However, the chief judge of the court informed us on the first day that there were several cases on the docket, and that our chances of getting picked for a jury were better than usual. I was glad I had brought a book with me.
Monday passed slowly. I was picked out of the pool in the late morning, went through the long, tedious process of voir dire, and then we were told, right before twelve jurors were to be announced, that the two sides of the case had settled. We all sighed collectively and returned downstairs back into the pool to wait longer.
Hardly had I finished a cup of very, very bad coffee when my name was called again. I traipsed back up three flights of stairs with the others and gathered outside the courtroom. The bailiff waited for us to assemble and then took us into the courtroom. Shortly thereafter, the bailiff instructed us to rise as the judge prepared to enter.
When the name of the judge was announced, I was surprised but decided to wait and see if he reacted to me at all. After he came in and instructed us to sit down, his eyes passed over us—there were about thirty potential jurors—and when his gaze came to me, he hesitated. He smiled slightly—an outsider, unless he were observing closely—would not have noticed the hesitation, or even the slight smile, but I knew then that he recognized me too, that he remembered me.
I have never been in a courtroom before. I had never stood before this judge as either a plaintiff or a defendant (or any judge, for that matter, since I have no criminal history whatsoever, not even a speeding ticket). So no, that isn’t what it was.
I decided to take his lead. If he didn’t say anything, I wouldn’t say anything. After all, it was his courtroom and he knew the law better than I did, and if our having known each other were going to be brought up, I decided to leave it to him to do so.
The plaintiff’s attorney stood, faced us, and said, “Do any of you know either my client or me?” We all shook our heads. “Do you know the defendant or his counsel?” We all shook our heads again. “All right,” he continued. “We will now proceed to the process of voir dire. As you know, I may question you as a group, in small groups, or individually. Given the importance of this case, I would like to speak to each of you, one by one.”
Out of this group of thirty, I counted myself twenty-third. I knew it would take a long time before the plaintiff’s attorney would begin to question me.
In the meantime, I observed, or tried to without being too obvious, the judge of this court who had been, some twenty-three years before, my very first boyfriend.
We had gone to high school together. Because we took the same type of college preparatory classes, we were in many classes together; he was often seated directly behind me because our names were very close in alphabetical order. I can’t recall exactly when he began to get friendly with me, but I certainly remember the way in which he did so. I have always had—and still have--long hair, and so his seating position offered him the advantage of being able to twirl my hair around his pencil. I remember him humming the Doors’ “Light My Fire” while he tickled the back of my neck with his pen. I remember everyone in class laughing at the answers he gave on English tests when he hadn’t read the book we were being tested on—once it was Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. The question read, “What did Atticus make Jem do in order to punish Jem for tearing up the neighbor’s camellia bushes?” The answer was, “Atticus made Jem read to the old lady every afternoon,” but this young man—this judge who now sat before me in this courtroom—had written, “Atticus cut Jem up into tiny pieces and fed him to lice-ridden crows,” and of course we all thought it hilarious, especially since the teacher had written, “This is NOT funny!” in the margin. He was the sort everybody liked, easygoing and friendly; cute but not devastatingly so; a bit of a class clown; intelligent but not diligent. I distinctly remember him asking me out for a date and my having to turn him down, not because I didn’t want to go out with him, but because my father wouldn’t permit me to date until I turned sixteen.
“When is your birthday?” he asked.
I told him.
“Give me your phone number,” he said. “I’ll call you on the next day.”
I gave him my number, fully expecting that after school let out for the summer, he would forget about it, but he did not. He did indeed call. We started dating that summer, and by fall we were officially known as a couple. We did the things teenagers did—went to movies, out to eat, roller skating. We went to school dances together. I let him cheat off me on chemistry tests and wrote most of his research papers for him. And of course he was the first boy I ever kissed, with that awkward awakening of one’s sexuality. It was rather odd, remembering all that as I watched him now, presiding over his courtroom.
I don’t think I ever told him I loved him, the way teenage girls are apt to do. And it wasn’t love; not really. As the school year ended, I was preparing to graduate one year early so I could go to Europe for a year as an exchange student, and after that came college, and we just drifted apart. Probably we tried to keep in touch—letters maybe, since this was long before e-mail. Probably we talked every once in a while, and then finally we talked less. After twenty-three years passed, it was my turn to answer the plaintiff’s attorney’s questions.
I gave my name, the town I in which I live, the number of children I have; I gave my husband’s occupation, too, and this was the only time the judge asked anyone questions personally.
“What kinds of articles does he write?” the judge asked.
“Humanistic subjects, mostly,” I said. “History. The most recent project has dealt with the Middle Ages.” He nodded.
The attorney finished questioning me and all the others; then the defendant’s attorney did the same but much more quickly since he already knew so much about us. When all the questions were finished, the judge said, “I know it’s late, but I want to get the jury picked today. If I could ask you all to step outside the courtroom for approximately—what, counsel? Twenty minutes?—twenty minutes or so, we will have a jury picked and begin this case tomorrow.” We all prepared to stand. “Oh, and there’s one more thing.”
“What’s that, your honor?” the plaintiff’s attorney said.
“I think counsel should know that I know one of the potential jurors.”
“Which one is that?” the attorney asked.
The judge said my name and everyone looked around, trying to figure out who it was again since we’d all forgotten each other’s names by now. The plaintiff’s lawyer counted down his list and said, “The English teacher?”
“That’s right,” said the judge.
The attorney looked right at me, and I nodded. Everyone turned to look at me.
“If I may ask, how did you know her, Judge?” the attorney asked.
“She was my girlfriend in high school,” he said. Now everyone was really looking at me. “Does counsel have any problem with this, if she were to be chosen for this jury?”
The lawyers looked at each other as if this were a new problem for them. Finally, the defendant’s lawyer answered first. “I have no issue, your Honor,” he said.
“Nor I,” said the plaintiff’s attorney.
The Judge looked at me and smiled. “Now, if you are picked for this jury, don’t tell stories about me!”
“I won’t,” I promised.
He was still smiling, but seemed to me to look a bit sad. “You’ve aged well,” he said.
“So have you,” I replied. And that was that. Already, I was starting to feel melancholy.
Monday passed slowly. I was picked out of the pool in the late morning, went through the long, tedious process of voir dire, and then we were told, right before twelve jurors were to be announced, that the two sides of the case had settled. We all sighed collectively and returned downstairs back into the pool to wait longer.
Hardly had I finished a cup of very, very bad coffee when my name was called again. I traipsed back up three flights of stairs with the others and gathered outside the courtroom. The bailiff waited for us to assemble and then took us into the courtroom. Shortly thereafter, the bailiff instructed us to rise as the judge prepared to enter.
When the name of the judge was announced, I was surprised but decided to wait and see if he reacted to me at all. After he came in and instructed us to sit down, his eyes passed over us—there were about thirty potential jurors—and when his gaze came to me, he hesitated. He smiled slightly—an outsider, unless he were observing closely—would not have noticed the hesitation, or even the slight smile, but I knew then that he recognized me too, that he remembered me.
I have never been in a courtroom before. I had never stood before this judge as either a plaintiff or a defendant (or any judge, for that matter, since I have no criminal history whatsoever, not even a speeding ticket). So no, that isn’t what it was.
I decided to take his lead. If he didn’t say anything, I wouldn’t say anything. After all, it was his courtroom and he knew the law better than I did, and if our having known each other were going to be brought up, I decided to leave it to him to do so.
The plaintiff’s attorney stood, faced us, and said, “Do any of you know either my client or me?” We all shook our heads. “Do you know the defendant or his counsel?” We all shook our heads again. “All right,” he continued. “We will now proceed to the process of voir dire. As you know, I may question you as a group, in small groups, or individually. Given the importance of this case, I would like to speak to each of you, one by one.”
Out of this group of thirty, I counted myself twenty-third. I knew it would take a long time before the plaintiff’s attorney would begin to question me.
In the meantime, I observed, or tried to without being too obvious, the judge of this court who had been, some twenty-three years before, my very first boyfriend.
We had gone to high school together. Because we took the same type of college preparatory classes, we were in many classes together; he was often seated directly behind me because our names were very close in alphabetical order. I can’t recall exactly when he began to get friendly with me, but I certainly remember the way in which he did so. I have always had—and still have--long hair, and so his seating position offered him the advantage of being able to twirl my hair around his pencil. I remember him humming the Doors’ “Light My Fire” while he tickled the back of my neck with his pen. I remember everyone in class laughing at the answers he gave on English tests when he hadn’t read the book we were being tested on—once it was Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. The question read, “What did Atticus make Jem do in order to punish Jem for tearing up the neighbor’s camellia bushes?” The answer was, “Atticus made Jem read to the old lady every afternoon,” but this young man—this judge who now sat before me in this courtroom—had written, “Atticus cut Jem up into tiny pieces and fed him to lice-ridden crows,” and of course we all thought it hilarious, especially since the teacher had written, “This is NOT funny!” in the margin. He was the sort everybody liked, easygoing and friendly; cute but not devastatingly so; a bit of a class clown; intelligent but not diligent. I distinctly remember him asking me out for a date and my having to turn him down, not because I didn’t want to go out with him, but because my father wouldn’t permit me to date until I turned sixteen.
“When is your birthday?” he asked.
I told him.
“Give me your phone number,” he said. “I’ll call you on the next day.”
I gave him my number, fully expecting that after school let out for the summer, he would forget about it, but he did not. He did indeed call. We started dating that summer, and by fall we were officially known as a couple. We did the things teenagers did—went to movies, out to eat, roller skating. We went to school dances together. I let him cheat off me on chemistry tests and wrote most of his research papers for him. And of course he was the first boy I ever kissed, with that awkward awakening of one’s sexuality. It was rather odd, remembering all that as I watched him now, presiding over his courtroom.
I don’t think I ever told him I loved him, the way teenage girls are apt to do. And it wasn’t love; not really. As the school year ended, I was preparing to graduate one year early so I could go to Europe for a year as an exchange student, and after that came college, and we just drifted apart. Probably we tried to keep in touch—letters maybe, since this was long before e-mail. Probably we talked every once in a while, and then finally we talked less. After twenty-three years passed, it was my turn to answer the plaintiff’s attorney’s questions.
I gave my name, the town I in which I live, the number of children I have; I gave my husband’s occupation, too, and this was the only time the judge asked anyone questions personally.
“What kinds of articles does he write?” the judge asked.
“Humanistic subjects, mostly,” I said. “History. The most recent project has dealt with the Middle Ages.” He nodded.
The attorney finished questioning me and all the others; then the defendant’s attorney did the same but much more quickly since he already knew so much about us. When all the questions were finished, the judge said, “I know it’s late, but I want to get the jury picked today. If I could ask you all to step outside the courtroom for approximately—what, counsel? Twenty minutes?—twenty minutes or so, we will have a jury picked and begin this case tomorrow.” We all prepared to stand. “Oh, and there’s one more thing.”
“What’s that, your honor?” the plaintiff’s attorney said.
“I think counsel should know that I know one of the potential jurors.”
“Which one is that?” the attorney asked.
The judge said my name and everyone looked around, trying to figure out who it was again since we’d all forgotten each other’s names by now. The plaintiff’s lawyer counted down his list and said, “The English teacher?”
“That’s right,” said the judge.
The attorney looked right at me, and I nodded. Everyone turned to look at me.
“If I may ask, how did you know her, Judge?” the attorney asked.
“She was my girlfriend in high school,” he said. Now everyone was really looking at me. “Does counsel have any problem with this, if she were to be chosen for this jury?”
The lawyers looked at each other as if this were a new problem for them. Finally, the defendant’s lawyer answered first. “I have no issue, your Honor,” he said.
“Nor I,” said the plaintiff’s attorney.
The Judge looked at me and smiled. “Now, if you are picked for this jury, don’t tell stories about me!”
“I won’t,” I promised.
He was still smiling, but seemed to me to look a bit sad. “You’ve aged well,” he said.
“So have you,” I replied. And that was that. Already, I was starting to feel melancholy.
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no subject
Date: 2007-11-12 10:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-12 01:57 pm (UTC)I suppose the attorneys saw no real conflict of interest since almost all the interaction took place between the attorneys and the jurors; the judge mostly settled the disputes between the lawyers and when we were given the case, he instructed us about the laws that applied to help us reach our verdict.
no subject
Date: 2007-11-12 01:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-12 12:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-12 01:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-12 04:58 pm (UTC)I did jury duty in Bristol and was SO annoyed that I never studied law because the barristers seemed to have SUCH a fun job; performing in front of an audience like that and tarting about in 16th century costume. I could have done that easily. A missed opportunity.
I discovered that my first girlfriend is living quite close to me now. I hope I don't meet her.
no subject
Date: 2007-11-12 11:50 pm (UTC)I missed the same opportunity--one of my old college professors strongly encouraged me to go into law for those very reasons: strong writing and reasoning skills, comfortable in front of groups, able to perform. But I didn't do it either.
I hope you don't meet your old girlfriend either, if you don't want to. :) I never thought I'd see T. again... I hadn't thought about him in years and years. And we didn't part on especially bad terms... we just--parted. How come you don't want to see your first one again?
no subject
Date: 2007-11-15 03:28 pm (UTC)She sent me a letter a few years ago telling me that her marriage had failed, that all men were liars and she would never trust one of them again, but added that I was the one honest exception. I think it was supposed to be flattering but it sent a shiver down my spine.
no subject
Date: 2007-11-12 07:18 pm (UTC)O.
no subject
Date: 2007-11-12 11:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-12 11:56 pm (UTC)The other day my insane ex, an American, got on the bus while I was on the way to the barracks. She had the same insane look on her face the last time I saw her. Dodged my way off the bus without being made.
My ex wife recently appeared in the middle of a crowd, kissed me on the lips without saying hello, and disappeared again. A sad moment out of a no play. I certainly believe in ghosts now.
no subject
Date: 2007-11-13 02:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-13 04:49 pm (UTC)