Doing Time

Doing Time

I finish my grilled-cheese sandwich, sitting on a stone wall outside the fortress-like gray building, late sun warming my shoulders like a cloak. Then it’s back through the metal

detector, back to the claustrophobic room and hard wooden chairs. Back to the sweating pitchers of water, ice long melted, and the odd assortment of people with whom I’ve spent the morning. The deputy’s expression is as stern and unforgiving as when we first arrived.

I’ve gotten to know them a bit as the hours pass and conversation loops around and around the Formica-topped table, picking up steam. Two physicists anchor each end; between them, a teacher, an agency director, a chatty lobbyist. A theater owner sits ruler-straight beside me, next to a grocer hugging a giant denim carryall like a baby on her lap. The medical assistant across from me scribbles away with a thick purple pen—I’d assumed she’d been doodling all morning, but it turns out she’s been carefully diagramming everything we’ve discussed. Somewhere in the room, I feel, lurks a 13th juror—a presence not physically apparent but engaged and listening nonetheless, the spirit of the law.

We review the details again: an angry man, the defendant, sped in a blue Buick down a dirt road onto a family’s ranch property after arguing with the owner on the street downtown. As the rancher’s 6-year-old daughter watched with alarm from a nearby pasture, he smashed his car into the front gate, knocking down a pole and part of the fence. He dented his Buick and terrified the horses so badly they reared up and galloped away. Then he spun around to leave, tires squealing, a tornado of dust in his wake.

Malice aforethought? Reckless driving? Vandalism? The defendant claimed it was accidental—he’d only come to talk. But the furious rancher knew the man had meant to hurt them all. Just the morning before, his daughter had hunched cross-legged in the same spot, throwing jacks down into the dirt next to the now-ruined gate. What if his car had raced through just 24 hours before it did, sending the child to her death?

The average citizen can come up with so many reasons to try to get out of jury duty. Now that I’m self-employed, I dread thinking about the major hit my checkbook might take, which jury pay doesn’t even begin to cover. Those of us waiting on the front steps early this morning agreed that a jury summons will always list an appearance date that falls during the worst possible week at work, the only time the in-laws can visit from Maine, or the day you’ll pack for the prepaid week at the lake.

Once selected for a trial, your life will be over. You’ll need to cancel the workshop you signed up for, the anniversary luncheon, the car maintenance, or blood tests you can’t do without. You’ll need to find child care, or a substitute speaker for the conference. Or you just really can’t stomach that bored, trapped feeling, hunkered down at 8 a.m. in a courthouse with a group of fidgety strangers and a dog-eared book. Despite the threat of juror shortages, many people apparently avoid serving for perfectly legitimate, if not strictly legal, reasons.

The murder trial I served on was almost a decade ago. I’d almost forgotten that jury duty is full of payoffs, despite the inconvenience. In this small room, I’m gratified watching so many good people attempt to draw a fair conclusion, and not simply, it seems, because it’s their sworn civic duty to do so. It’s thrilling to observe these fine minds sifting through minute scraps of evidence on behalf of the strangers we are discussing, who might be us one day, or someone we know. We edge toward a verdict meticulously, with care, as if we are carrying a stretcher of the wounded.

The two engineers analyze the turning radius of the car against the fence and pole; the teacher summarizes the mother’s testimony. The older physicist reminds us of the driver’s emotions and speed, questioning the attorney’s assertion that he was simply irresponsible. The medical assistant shyly shows her diagrams, and we realize the rancher’s wife couldn’t possibly have seen the car from her upstairs window as she claimed. Arguments, some vehement and some polite, sail back and forth across the table like tennis balls, until the 12 of us are agreed.

Hungry and tired, we’re relieved to file back into the courtroom. We sense the waiting attorneys watching us carefully, and we try not to look at them. As jury forewoman, I have the task of reading our verdict aloud. Our hours of deliberation, crumpled water cups, careful thinking, and five-minute breaks have resulted in a hung jury, or no true answer. The day’s journey has ushered us into a land, which, in our integrity, we can’t characterize as black or white, innocent or guilty. No one can say for certain whether the destruction involved malicious intent or just stupid, stupid driving by a dangerously angry man. The 13th juror, invisible to everyone else, nods at me, hinting that despite the lawyers’ disappointment, “no answer” is a right, true answer nonetheless.

Everyone who gathered in this building today was involved in practicing right thinking—potential jurors who grumbled until they were dismissed mid-morning, the deputy who had time for only one lukewarm cup of bad coffee before calling us to order, the secretary who found someone parked in her spot again. The grocer hugging her carryall for dear life, thinking of all the overtime she’ll have to pay her clerk for staying late. The defendant, who managed one little prayer before breakfast this morning and who now walks away, his head down and his mouth set in a line, sorry and new and amazed.

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Stacy Appel is an award-winning writer in Lafayette whose work has been featured in the Chicago Tribune and other publications. She has also written for National Public Radio. She is a contributor to the book You Know You’re a Writer When . . . by Adair Lara. Contact Stacy at WordWork 101@aol.com.

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