Jury Duty

Monday was the first time I ever had to answer a summons for jury duty. I'd received jury summonses before, but my number never came up, so I wasn't gone with the draft, in the army now, a-blowin' reveille, the boogie-woogie bugle boy of Jury Box B. Something like that. And, given a relatively high number of 339 this time out, I was cautiously optimistic that the wheels of justice could continue to grind without me.

This was not the case. Though **SPOILER ALERT** I was not selected for the jury, I was one of the first 402 called in to the Syracuse Criminal Courthouse. Juror # 339, reporting for duty.

My wife and daughter have served on juries in the past, as has my Mom. My Dad was the jury foreman in a high-profile murder case in the early '80s. So I was due. I really didn't want to deal with it, but I also didn't see that I had any legitimate claim of hardship. I resolved to at least try to be fair and honest in answering questions throughout the process.

I have to commend each and every one of the professionals working at the Criminal Courthouse today. Everyone I encountered there was polite, cheery without seeming saccharine, in good humor, and possessing well-practiced patience. Nor did there seem to be much, if any, surliness among my fellow prospective jurors. The folks with a job to do did the job without complaint or attitude; we the people cooperated.

After questionnaires were completed, and an introductory video was screened, our entire group was escorted two flights up to the courtroom. Once we were settled in our seats, we were informed of the nature of the criminal case at hand: an adult accused of multiple counts of sexual contact with two minors.

My heart sank. I'd prepared myself mentally for the possibility of having to help decide a murder case, a robbery case, but this was even worse, and it hadn't even occurred to me. I eventually glanced at the accused, and tried not to pronounce him guilty. Not yet. But I'm a Dad. Even before I was a Dad, the mere thought of minors being victimized made my eyes sting and my blood run cold. I felt no sympathy, and would consider no clemency, for anyone who would hurt a kid. Child molesters. Drop 'em in a deep hole, and let the mixing cement flow freely.

For all that, I held on to my determination to be fair. Innocent until proven guilty, beyond a reasonable doubt. I was the fourth number called, and the third seated in the pool of potential jurors. When there were 21 of us seated--a lengthy process, as so many were dismissed or excused along the way--we took a brief break, then returned to our seats.

The judge addressed us, reminding us of our collective responsibility to remain open-minded as we weighed evidence, to presume innocence unless and until the Assistant District Attorney had proven otherwise. The ADA addressed us next, asking general questions, then calling on individuals within our pool of 21 to answer further questions. She asked one woman, When did you graduate from high school? "1977," the woman answered. Okay. What color shirt did you wear that day? The woman didn't remember. Okay, let's try an easier one. What did you have for breakfast that morning? The woman could not remember that either. The ADA turned to all of us. Do you believe her, that she graduated from high school in 1977? Even though she's forgotten those details? We murmured that yeah, we did believe her. So you would say someone could still be telling the truth, even if they can't precisely remember all of the details of what happened to them? Yes. Point made.

The defense attorney asked us to look at the accused, and then asked each of us to say whether we would find him guilty or innocent based on what we knew. Since no evidence had yet been presented, Not guilty was the only answer we could reasonably give. One woman said she didn't know; when pressed by the attorney, she added, "I know I'm supposed to say 'not guilty,' but I don't know."

The attorney also pointed out that there could be very graphic, possibly disturbing evidence introduced during the trial; she asked that anyone who might have difficulty dealing with that raise a hand. My hand went up, one of several raised hands. She asked each of us to explain further, and to say whether or not that difficulty would hinder our ability to remain impartial as we weighed the evidence. I don't know, I answered. I want to be fair. But I'm a Dad. I paused, and concluded, I don't know.

And that's likely why I was among those dismissed from the jury pool. If I had been selected, I would have taken the responsibility seriously, and I would have somehow forced myself to remain neutral, letting the facts of the case lead me to an unbiased conclusion. But when asked, in the moment, I didn't feel sufficient confidence in my strength, my moral compass, to guarantee that I could.

So that was my day at the Syracuse Criminal Court. Having now served my obligation, I won't be called back for another ten years. When I am called, I will try once again to be fair and open-minded, to be the impartial juror our system requires. I just couldn't be that guy this time around.