Of Snow Days and Jury Duty

The jury summons arrived months ago, but I had ignored it until my good husband gently reminded me that I really needed to tell my colleagues that I would not be in school on February 10—and maybe even a day or two after that. I had never actually been seated on a jury, but he had been on one in federal court that had lasted several days. So I knew that was a definite possibility. On Monday, I finally made the arrangements.

The alarm clock jolted me from the bed at the usual time, and I lay staring at the ceiling for my usual five minutes, convincing myself that getting up really was in my best interest. Adding insult to injury, school had been called off the night before—local meteorologists gleefully proclaiming an icy daytime deluge. Grumbling and groaning, I rolled out of bed, grabbed my fuzzy pink robe, and clumped downstairs. Jim, David, Dan and Sarah did not move.

I tentatively called the courthouse emergency hotline.

Maybe courthouse would be closed in anticipation of the coming snowstorm.

Maybe there would be no cases to hear.

Maybe pigs would fly.

The gravelly voice on the phone reminded me that my presence was required—and we don’t have $2000 to pay the no-show fine. So I resigned myself to the inevitable. At least I could wear my comfy jeans and sneakers.

The courthouse to which I was summoned was a 40 minute drive with no traffic, and since there was no traffic because of the snow day, I arrived 45 minutes early. So I bought some coffee, and shivered on the courthouse steps until a court officer took pity on me and let me in.

The jury pool room was on the third floor. It was a long, narrow room lined with dusty books—files of cases and precedents. The TV was on, ostensibly to entertain us. The room steadily filled until twenty-one potential jurors sat docilely waiting. A tentative conversation here and there interrupted the quiet.

“Where are you from?”

“Cambridge.”

“I work in Boston.”

“I’m a teacher”

“I'm an engineer.”

Finally, the judge came in to address us, a solemn African-American gentleman regal in his black robes. The thank-you-for-doing-your-duty speech was punctuated with an attempt to make us smile. Then he disappeared to sort through the list of potential trials for the day, we watched the required trial video, and we waited again.

At 11:00 the court officer formally called us into the courtroom. It was smaller than any courtroom I had ever been in—there were just enough benches for the jury pool. The trial would involve domestic assault and battery on a pregnant woman, and we were introduced to the witnesses. The defendant was a young man dressed in a wrinkled dress shirt and pants; the plaintiff was also young and sat clutching her knees with red hands. Both were frightened. The other people sitting with the plaintiff sat red-eyed and silent.

Six of us were called to sit in the jury box. Then the lawyers and the judge weeded us out. I was the third one dismissed.

When the selection was finished, we rejected ones walked back into the jury room to gather our bags and coats. There were a few “nice to meet you’s,” but for the most part, we hurried out, anxious to get away from the rawness of the courtroom.

The snow had just begun to fall when I climbed into my car and drove out of the lot. Part of me was relieved that I had again avoided the inconvenience of a jury trial. Part of me wondered about the drama being played out in the courtroom.

I arrived home in time to enjoy the second half of the snow day, and to write this post.

I’m glad that my jury duty is now completed—at least for the next three years. I’m also glad that justice has no snow days.