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my day in court
Oct. 6th, 2004 11:02 pmI went to the Cambridge Courthouse for jury duty last week. I wasn't really expecting to be called for the kind of glamorous case they write courtroom dramas about. The day before, I reminded my research group that I was going to be away from the lab, and they started suggesting ways for me to get out of it. (All taken from Hamlet, more or less.) I explained that I didn't want to try to get out of it...I didn't like the idea of having lives decided only by people who were too stupid, or too bored, to get out of jury duty. And I reminded my grandboss of what he'd said a few days earlier, about how you should organize your project well enough that it can get by without you for a little while.
If I were trying to be difficult, and if it weren't raining hard, I'd have wanted to carry my gear in a bag printed with the fourth amendment. I was amused by the thought of sending a bag like that through a metal detector (even though I think metal detectors at the door of a court building are a reasonable precaution, and the security people seemed sensible and courteous.) I read something about plans for such bags, back in July, and I've just now started seeing them in Somerville. Where can I get one?
I wasn't expecting high drama, and I didn't see any. I was expecting a lot of waiting around, and there was plenty of that. The Cambridge Public Library contributed a cart full of books for the waiting room, which is good of them. I was reading _Niccolo Rising_, which failed to grab me right away, and listening to Ruth Rendell's _Babes In The Woods_. (Not at the same time. I'd read Dunnett until I got fidgety, then put it away and start the tape player.) I also had some short but pleasant conversations with fellow jurors (not jurors, really. waiters?) about _The Jewel In The Crown_, _Ender's Game_, and electric stand mixers.
A group of us were called upstairs, to wait in a small room. There was going to be a criminal trial, and they might need a small jury. There was more waiting around. Prospective jurors watched the rain pour down, and complained about the long wait. We all filed into the courtroom and promised to tell the truth. The judge introduced herself, and the people involved with the case to be heard that afternoon. It all seemed overwhelmingly pathetic.
A man was accused of violating a restraining order. He introduced himself to this group of strangers who were about to decide what happens to his family. He looked terrified and confused, as if he wanted to ask how his life had gotten so far out of control. Every time he looked at the woman who had taken out the restraining order, he looked away. My heart ached for her. People don't get restraining orders unless they're in the middle of so much conflict they can't see any other way out of it. It's supposed to let a person get away from useless repeated conflict, not force new confrontations. Her eyes darted between her lawyer and the people who had come to witness how many times the restraining order had been violated. She looked like an animal in a trap.
The first dozen potential jurors lined up, and were asked if any of them knew anyone involved in the case. The judge asked if any of them had any reason they might be at all biased. There was a huddle of lawyers, and a round of musical jury box. Lather, rinse, repeat. The person next to me read a surreptitious page of _Jewel in the Crown_. I mused about my own biases, when people are talking about domestic violence. It turned out not to be relevent, because they agreed on a jury before they got around to calling me. The judge thanked the rest of us for our time and sent us home, grumbling about the rain, the wasted day.
I don't know how that trial worked out. By the standards of most people who write about these things, or work on them, it was a very minor case. Nobody was dead. Large sums of money didn't change hands. But a woman was tharn and a man was helpless with frustration and anxiety. For the people involved, just being here, dealing with this, was clearly horrible. I don't know how far out of control their lives are...maybe the train is going to other kinds of violence, or maybe they can get off, and this will be the worst that happens to them.
If I were trying to be difficult, and if it weren't raining hard, I'd have wanted to carry my gear in a bag printed with the fourth amendment. I was amused by the thought of sending a bag like that through a metal detector (even though I think metal detectors at the door of a court building are a reasonable precaution, and the security people seemed sensible and courteous.) I read something about plans for such bags, back in July, and I've just now started seeing them in Somerville. Where can I get one?
I wasn't expecting high drama, and I didn't see any. I was expecting a lot of waiting around, and there was plenty of that. The Cambridge Public Library contributed a cart full of books for the waiting room, which is good of them. I was reading _Niccolo Rising_, which failed to grab me right away, and listening to Ruth Rendell's _Babes In The Woods_. (Not at the same time. I'd read Dunnett until I got fidgety, then put it away and start the tape player.) I also had some short but pleasant conversations with fellow jurors (not jurors, really. waiters?) about _The Jewel In The Crown_, _Ender's Game_, and electric stand mixers.
A group of us were called upstairs, to wait in a small room. There was going to be a criminal trial, and they might need a small jury. There was more waiting around. Prospective jurors watched the rain pour down, and complained about the long wait. We all filed into the courtroom and promised to tell the truth. The judge introduced herself, and the people involved with the case to be heard that afternoon. It all seemed overwhelmingly pathetic.
A man was accused of violating a restraining order. He introduced himself to this group of strangers who were about to decide what happens to his family. He looked terrified and confused, as if he wanted to ask how his life had gotten so far out of control. Every time he looked at the woman who had taken out the restraining order, he looked away. My heart ached for her. People don't get restraining orders unless they're in the middle of so much conflict they can't see any other way out of it. It's supposed to let a person get away from useless repeated conflict, not force new confrontations. Her eyes darted between her lawyer and the people who had come to witness how many times the restraining order had been violated. She looked like an animal in a trap.
The first dozen potential jurors lined up, and were asked if any of them knew anyone involved in the case. The judge asked if any of them had any reason they might be at all biased. There was a huddle of lawyers, and a round of musical jury box. Lather, rinse, repeat. The person next to me read a surreptitious page of _Jewel in the Crown_. I mused about my own biases, when people are talking about domestic violence. It turned out not to be relevent, because they agreed on a jury before they got around to calling me. The judge thanked the rest of us for our time and sent us home, grumbling about the rain, the wasted day.
I don't know how that trial worked out. By the standards of most people who write about these things, or work on them, it was a very minor case. Nobody was dead. Large sums of money didn't change hands. But a woman was tharn and a man was helpless with frustration and anxiety. For the people involved, just being here, dealing with this, was clearly horrible. I don't know how far out of control their lives are...maybe the train is going to other kinds of violence, or maybe they can get off, and this will be the worst that happens to them.
