judge not lest thee be something something

Wednesday I fulfilled my first-ever jury summons. I was excited about the prospect, which shows within me a certain naivety about civic responsibility. I also harbored a desire to take a free day off from work. I had been diligent and productive the previous few weeks had gotten myself a bit ahead, so I could easily afford the day off.

I also would benefit from a quiet, pleasurable ride down 3rd Ave -- part of the Phoenix Sonoran Bikeway -- to downtown Phoenix and the county courthouse. I don't make many opportunities to have a reason to take 3rd Ave. It's been an indirect route for me ever since I moved from the Avenues to the Streets. Usually when I cycle to downtown it's because I'm cycling through downtown, and there's no reason for me to go through the middle of it.

I love downtowns -- even Phoenix's, which is tiny. I love skyscrapers and public art sculptures and concrete everywhere. I figure if you're going to plaster the ground with concrete, you may as well do a thorough job. I love downtowns and their masses of pedestrians -- people walking to and fro in their business suits and in conversation with in-step coworkers. I love those small shops and restaurants on the street level of buildings that push right up to an expansive sidewalk. Infrastructure is good in downtowns, and I love cycling there because the bicycle has such superior transportative dominance in the setting.

I entered the courthouse and was greeted at the door by the personnel of the security checkpoint. I put my backpack on the conveyor to pass through the X-ray machine. I didn't think much of my bag full of bike tools and accessories until the guard asked to search it. He confiscated my 14mm wrench and my mini-set of Allen wrenches and gave me a white ticket stub so that I could retrieve my tools at the end of the day. There was a question whether my mini-pump qualified as a bludgeon weapon, and I was ensured that, no, it was indeed harmless.

I arrived at the juror assembly room right on time. The room was nearly full to capacity. I signed in, found an empty seat and proceeded to tune out the drone of names called on the speaker system. The seating was uncomfortable, and the air was stale with the noxious mixture of too many strangers' perfumes and body odors and with everyone's continual inhaling and exhaling that taxed the room's ventilation capacity. I had flashbacks to sitting in mass as a kid.

Then my name was called. Forty-something of us queued and then filed into a courtroom impossibly far away. We sat, the judge entered, we stood, the judge sat, we sat. Another flashback of mass. Then we proceeded with the selection process. Surely anyone who has been summoned for jury duty knows this part through and through. It's a spectator sport of social weaseling. People want out of jury duty, and the judge knows this. And the people know the judge knows this, and this makes them squirm with guilt. The ones with legitimate excuses, such as medical problems and starving kids at home, leave early and with their humility intact. Then the real whiners plead their case.

"I'm too important to be here."

"I take advantage of civil society's benefits, such as living my life by and by free of crime, but I don't want to do my part of perpetuating such benefits by serving on a jury."

"I'm an idiot and can't make impartial decisions based on the presented evidence."

And my favorite: "I'm racist."

That last one, I assure you, is my accurate paraphrasing of two women's nervous rambling on their speculation of the immigration status of the defendant -- it was a criminal trial -- and how that status affected their ability to render an impartial decision. I think my paraphrasing captures all the important points they each made.

Nearly half of the original jurors were dismissed in the first round. Then we recessed for lunch. I ate my homemade peanut butter oatmeal bars on the sidewalk in front of the courthouse while observing more urban life, which largely comprised pigeons and homeless people searching for food scraps and everyone else on the move with important things to do. Then I explored a bit before returning and entering the courthouse through a entrance different than the one I entered through in the morning. This was a mistake because the security squad at that door thought that a mini-pump was indeed an effective bludgeon weapon. They confiscated the pump, and I got another ticket stub. This one was blue.

Enter round two of jury selection. Round two was short. We were asked more specific questions about being or knowing victims of crime. My favorite bit of juror-judge dialog occurred at this time.

Judge: Have you or any or your immediate family members ever been the victim of a crime?
Juror: Yes, who hasn't?
Judge: You were a victim?
Juror: Yes.
Judge: What was the crime?
Juror: Well, when I was three someone stole my toy truck...

The juror was well prepared to earn an honest dismissal by pontificating on the meanings of the words crime and victim, but the ever experienced judge cut the joker off. Can you be impartial? -- Yes. No dismissal for you.

After the last of the group-targeted questions we each individually answered a short series of questions that, as far as I can tell, allowed the prosecution and defense to determine how much money we make and whether we were ever in the past a member of a hang jury. Then court took a half-hour recess while the counsels decided on the final twelve jurors.

I left the courthouse to take a quick nap in the plaza across the street. Never learning my lesson, I returned through yet another security checkpoint. The very junior guard in charge of X-ray was quite puzzled by my remaining bike gear -- the inner tubes, the patch kits, the lights with external battery pack, my suspicious strap of velcro -- and prudently confiscated all of it. I received my third ticket stub. Red, white and blue.

Back in the courtroom we jurors awaited our sentence. In hindsight I know I had little chance of being selected. The two main qualifications for being selected appear to have been firstly not being white and secondly appearing to have the least money. We hang-em-judge, affluent white types were dismissed cordially and thanked for our willingness to serve. I made my way to three security checkpoints.

***

I'm a bit disappointed I wasn't selected. The trial was a criminal trial. It was expected to last one, maybe two more days. I had the time. And as much as I am fulfilled by the vicissitudes of my day-to-day life, there's nothing so great about any of them that supersedes what would have been a learning experience -- with corporate sponsorship, no less.

I wanted to witness a real-life court case to restore balance to my head full of Hollywood legal dramas. I wanted to see the interplay between the two counsels. I wanted to see real-world evidence and hear real-world witness testimony. I wanted to see how the jury would react to each counsel's presentation of the case. I wanted to be a part of a deliberation.

And, joking aside, I did want to do my civic duty beyond merely showing up.