Nothing prepares you for the shock. The finality of it. One minute you’re free, the next you’re conscripted into the unknown, bound by law. The passing of the bible makes it doubly serious – it’s not merely the rule of man, it’s the command of God. The realization is profound; absent death, there is no escape from jury duty.
I receive my notice weeks before, with its foreboding jury number, the first one since becoming a citizen some five years earlier. Funny, my wife, born and bred here has never received one. It says the trial will last thirty-four weeks. Thirty-four weeks! Figuring this a mere guess, I reckon it’s a bad one. What if it’s fifty weeks? How can I possibly fulfil that obligation? Wait, here we go, further details. On the second page is a list of ways to be legitimately (and, I guess, morally) excused, and I see an out. ‘If you are a sole proprietor,’ is one way. I am a sole proprietor, the possible economic hardship easily proven. Then again, my work is conducted during evening hours. I can both sit on a jury and propel my business forward. Maybe…
I’m torn. Serving on a jury is intriguing, but at what cost? In America I never made it past the general pool. That’s because potential jurors first fill out written questionnaires, and if they make it past that, are then questioned by attorneys. My progressive views counted against me in this latter stage, and either the prosecution or defense, and sometimes both, struck me off. I wonder if I’d somehow make it this time and finally complete a core item on my bucket list. It can’t hurt to at least go through the motions. Why not show up on the day and see what happens?
On Thursday The Downing Street courthouse basement teems with prospective jurors. Standing room only and I loiter in the back of the room, drinking cup after cup of foul instant coffee and eating the free biscuits. After waiting half a day there’s an announcement stating my specific case has been postponed for six months. I’m now excused. “However,” the disembodied voice continues, “Please return on Tuesday to be assigned another trial.” Not certain that’s going to happen, I file out with most of the room, concerned now whether I’ll ever be empanelled. I don’t have high hopes for the next week. Sure enough, on that Tuesday no selections are made for my numbered group. As I leave once again, a court officer hands me a piece of paper, a Certificate of Attendance, both proving I’ve spent half the day in the courthouse basement, and demanding my return the following Monday for selection. Third time a charm?
At 9:30 that morning there we all are and when I sign in I learn two things. One, the next trial up for empanelment is for eight weeks. Which doesn’t seem bad. And two, there’s still the opportunity to get out. The woman behind the counter keeps asking me if I really want to do this, that all I have to do is ask to be excused. I deliberate, hard, thinking through my options. Commit to this or get out? Can I really afford the time? But one fact rises to the fore: the daily payment. My business is in start-up mode, thus no income. And the rate is $110 per day for the first two weeks and $240 a day thereafter. Plus lunches and a transport subsidy. A far better remuneration than in the States, where’s it’s generally $25 per day, no extras, no matter the length. If I can get in, this can be a welcome income stream. Of course, that’ll only happen if I’m actually chosen. I nod and she signs me in.
This time my number is called. Yes! This is it! I make my way to the front of the room where fifty or so people gather. Two court officials appear and tell us we’ll be walking as a group to another courthouse, the Supreme Court complex, across Taylor Square on Oxford Street. One positions himself in the front, insisting we keep together, and a friendly woman takes up the rear, to ensure against potential stragglers. I’m immediately reminded of grammar school, curious why the two don’t loft flags, waving us in line. It feels good to finally leave that room as one of the assigned, but with so many in the group, what’s the likelihood of my being in the final twelve?
We reach the imposing, dark-brown sandstone edifice after a fifteen-minute uphill walk, a silent mass moving up Oxford Street, all of us sunk in our own thoughts, perhaps enjoying our last moments of freedom. I figure I’ll be walking right back to Museum Station later in the morning, once again unchosen. The court officers guide us inside the large, dark-wood panelled courtroom. The high ceiling and spacious dimensions swallow all of us as we take our seats. In the middle of the room are several long tables where bewigged and black-robed individuals sit facing each other. Across the room are twelve empty chairs. To the left of me is a raised area where sit two stone-faced gentlemen in suits. To the right, another raised area, but higher still, from where the generously-proportioned, white-bearded judge peers down. In his red robe he looks like Santa Clause. Is that a twinkle in his eye?
Once we take our seats a court officer reads out a number. We all look around until the owner of the one called stands up and makes her way to the empty jury seats. When she sits down no questions are asked. And come to think of it, I never filled out a questionnaire. Will this be perfunctory, where any called number gets selected? The first person stands, grasps the proffered bible, and swears the oath. Suddenly my palms start to sweat. So it’s not like America. There’ll be no vetting beforehand, no expulsion for presumed soft leanings on punishment. If my number’s called, I’m in. Still, there are many prospective jurors in the court room, and as numbers are called that aren’t mine, I begin to relax. But I also worry, experiencing a strange bout of internal tug-of-war. Though I like the idea of serving on a jury, I’m not enamoured with the commitment, the time, the being together for weeks with eleven strangers. What if they’re all conservatives? In effect, I crave the satisfaction of having served without actually serving.
But then something strange unfolds. Any person of Asian appearance, after hearing their number called and walking to the jury seats, is immediately challenged and excused from service. Nothing is asked, no reason given. Challenges hail from both the defense counsel, of whom there are several, and the Crown. And as each one is allowed three challenges, and the ratio of Asians fairly high, the number of viable prospects quickly dwindles. As I watch them depart I consider the repercussions. Who’s to say they aren’t second-, fifth-, or even tenth-generation Australians? Surely they all noticed it too. What do they tell their friends and family? They aren’t deemed equal in the eyes of the law? And what message does it convey regarding Australia’s multiculturalism? Isn’t a jury supposed to reflect the community at large?
Ten people wearing shell-shocked faces occupy the jury seats when my number is called. Oh shit! I feel all eyes upon me as I make my way around the room. I don’t look Asian and there is no challenge. The court officer hands me a bible. In this country you can choose not to swear on the bible but my Americanness is hardwired. After a simple, “I do,” I sit down, fully conscripted and overwhelmed by the implications.
I’ve said those words before, when I got married. But this seems more immediate, more serious, more final, somehow. Marriage vows are exchanged in an atmosphere of celebration, of free-wheeling positive emotion, without rules, without constraints, where the future lies ahead bathed in bright, optimistic possibility. This vow is anything but. Everyone in the room looks dour, and the way forward looms dark, constrained, and bound by the inhuman, joyless rule of law.
More numbers are called and vows proclaimed. Fifteen in fact. The judge explains three additional jurors will be picked to ensure there are at least twelve in attendance each day during the upcoming cold and flu season. The raised seating area is only built for twelve, though, and the last three sit at floor level in what appear to be stiff-backed chairs scrounged from offices in the building. It’s going to be uncomfortable. For all of us. As a final check the prosecutor reads out a list of the accused and all witnesses to ensure none of us have any prior knowledge of them. None of us do.
The unchosen are then excused and the trial starts. No preamble. No limbering-up exercises. No chance to phone a loved one. The judge begins with basic instructions – daily hours, lunch and travel costs provided, no phone usage during the time at court, no looking up details of the trial on the internet and no sharing of daily court proceedings with anyone outside the jury. And the need to select a foreman, whose duties are but two: encourage every juror to express themselves; and to speak on behalf of the jury in the court room. He also says, almost as an aside, the trial will last longer than eight weeks. That done, he asks The Crown to begin.
Shuffling is heard at the table nearest the judge and one of the bewigged stands up and rests some papers on a low dais. Reading from a prepared text he outlines the state’s case. The Senior Counsel reads. And reads some more. What soon becomes apparent is the complexity of the case. And the sheer multitude of charges up for determination. Names, places, dates begin to blur together as the recitation drones on. How are we supposed to remember this? When he finally finishes and sits down, the judge assures us we don’t need to remember it. That it is the summation of what the state believes, he says, and during the trial it will be covered in exhaustive detail. And that we shouldn’t yet take it as truth, as it will be the Crown’s job to prove its veracity. Beyond reasonable doubt.
After which the judge announces a recess and we file out and see the cramped jury room for the first time. It’s barely large enough for the long table and chairs. A counter runs along one side housing a sink bordered by containers of tea bags and instant coffee. On the table is a large bowl of Arnott’s biscuits. Looking around I’m struck how a random process has resulted in an equitable mix of individuals. A third are in their twenties. Another third are in their thirties and forties. And the final third are fifty plussers, like me. Gender is evenly split between female and male. The only statistical anomaly is that we’re all pretty much the same race. Of course all those of Asian background were excluded during selection, but other than one person of Lebanese extraction, we’re all of European lineage.
We choose seats and the young naturally separate. One young man loses out and sits between me and another older gentleman. People remain quiet until someone suggests we introduce ourselves. I’ve forgotten their names by the time we’re done. But I learn this is the first jury experience for all of us. Some small talk commences but the atmosphere is hushed, muted; we’re in a state of shock. The older man is friendly and talkative and he pulls me and the young man into a conversation. I’m feeling claustrophobic and can’t picture managing the next eight weeks. Correction, it might be double that.
After another courtroom session we’re excused for the day. The court officer unlocks a cabinet and places the white container filled with our phones on the table. This will become a familiar ritual and every day we reach for our own devices like the starved grabbing at UN rations. After we retrieve them we’re escorted out of the building with instructions to return by 9:30 the next morning for the ten o’clock start time.
That night over dinner I try to convey to my wife what just happened. My mind is too jumbled with the selection process and initial facts of the case to make much sense. Besides, I can only share the barest of details. I go to bed wandering what I’ve got myself into.
Arriving at nine-forty the next morning I’m stopped by a clipboard-wielding court officer.
“Number please?” she asks.
I start rattling off my mobile number.
“Nooo!” she says, showing me her palm in that universal sign of ‘Stop!’ “Never tell me that. Or your name. I need your juror number.”
“Uh, Okay.” Not sure I still have it, not realising we’d need it again. Luckily I’ve worn the same jeans and I find it crumpled and half torn in my back pocket and show it to her.
“That’s gotta last the entire trial, honey.” She ticks off my number on the list in her hand. “Only way we let you in.”
Had I known that I would’ve kept better care of it. Perhaps even laminated it. But I hold my tongue, figuring starting a fracas outside the Supreme Court ill advised.
When I enter the jury room everyone else is already there and sitting in the same chairs from the day before. Doesn’t seem right to me. Reduces our chances of getting to know one another. On the third day I arrive early and only the older man is there. I suggest we try different seats and though he laughs, he agrees. We sit in the youth end. When the rest of the jury make their way in it’s as if we’ve taken the wrong assigned seats at a concert. Folks don’t know what to do and ask us what we’re up to. The rearrangement hits the young people especially hard. But when we return for morning tea I don’t try it again. Seems people are under enough stress as it is. At least it gives the older man and me the beginning of a bond that strengthens over the course of the trial.
On the first day of the second week by sheer chance I’m sitting in the front row in the chair closest to the judge. He asks us if we’ve chosen a foreman yet, which we haven’t, and then kindly points out the chair I’m sitting in is reserved for the foreman. When we recess for morning tea I’m unanimously elected. Not for any proven skill but on the basis of where I happened to be sitting. And the fact the rest of the jury gets a kick out of calling me George Foreman. The additional benefit awarded to me by accepting the position only comes to light much later, when the trial shifts to deliberations.
Of the trial I can divulge little. It is a singular event and easily identifiable. Nor can I be definitive about individual jurors. Our lives may be at stake. No, this narrative is about being on a jury, an experience thrust upon us with no rule book, no guidelines, no detailed set of instructions. And a reality rarely covered in novels or movies. There’s 12 Angry Men, and perhaps a Grisham novel or two, but on the whole entertainment inculcates us to the ways of the counsel, the judge, the victims and the accused. In other words, everything about the trial apparatus but the jury. We’re all in the same predicament, feeling our way in the dark.
The State’s case is laid out nothing like how first presented. Witnesses are brought in to confirm single events, but they don’t follow a linear course. A family member describes the crime scene. A detective attests to wiretapped conversations from months before. A prisoner is grilled about possible motives overheard in the prison yard. A point in time here, another there, with a whole lot of nothing between. It’s as if we’re watching the making of a movie, where scenes are shot out of sequence, and it’s up to us to splice and edit, to convert the disparate pieces into a coherent whole.
So the minute we’re back in the jury room we feel compelled to prematurely connect the dots. To assign truth to a single action, to suggest rationale where it’s yet to be explored. In reality everything is unclear but that doesn’t stop us from surmising. And given how much time we spend in the confined space around the table, there is much spirited surmising.
Through these discussions the jury settles into a semblance of community split between the vocal and the quiet. I’m a quiet one, figuring the information too fragmented to allow for anything other than speculation. But the youth as a group are vocal, and as they express their opinions they build rapport with one another that builds over time into ongoing discussions on a range of topics, although curiously much of it centres on American movie, TV, comics and music trivia. The sole Australian subject is rugby, of which I know nothing. But I’m surprised to find I’m almost as clueless about American pop culture, a subject they seem to know a lot better than I.
The jurors in their thirties and forties don’t congeal into a definable group. And neither do us oldsters except for myself and the older gentleman. Though some of us volunteer opinions on the trial, on other topics we prefer subdued, one-on-one conversations. And when those run their course we return to our books, our podcasts and our crossword puzzles. The youth don’t bring anything other than their smartphones, so when those are locked up for the day, talking is the only way to counter boredom. It’s like this for the length of what turns out to be a seventeen-week trial.
Over the course of the machinations of first the prosecution and then the defense, what strikes us most is the unsettling sordidness of the criminal world. Unreeling before us is a real-life narrative propelled by a veritable smorgasbord of pathetic, strung-out characters living day to day, hyped up on meth and false dreams, acting on impulse unsullied by guilt. Or remorse. A lifestyle spectrum we’ve witnessed before only at arm’s length, from movies, TV shows and news sites. And for us it’s one trial. I question how the other court officials survive it, day in and day out, case after case. It’d drive a sober person to drink, or worse. Like become narcoleptic.
One morning the judge admonishes us as to behaviour observed by the tip-staff, or manager of the court. It seems at least one of us has nodded off during the proceedings. No fingers are pointed and no juror numbers cited, but I feel exposed. In the afternoons it’s been tougher and tougher to stay alert. Several times my eyelids have entirely closed. And though I thought I popped them right back open, did I really? Maybe it turned into a five-minute catnap. Now I can’t be sure. And why the sudden bout of drowsiness when we’ve all stayed awake just fine through half the trial? Has the accumulated awfulness begun to affect our consciousness? Are our minds seeking refuge in sleep? During the next recess I discover everyone has doubts about their own wakefulness. It seems we’re all responding to the environment in the same way. Regardless of who it actually is, from that point on we stay vigilant, and no more such warnings are issued.
At the end of the fifteenth week the defense rests and it’s time to deliberate. Which means the court needs to get rid of three of us. And this is when I find out the special designation for the foreman; my juror number will not go into the bowl to be randomly picked. I am the only one guaranteed a position to the very end. The drawing of numbers is planned for the afternoon and during lunch the others are worried. After almost four months they can’t imagine missing out on the final act, of not having the chance to weigh in their opinions to render a verdict. And though the initial jury selection was itself entirely random, this bit of randomness seems especially cruel. And the irony is that none of us fifteen jurors got sick. Some court days were cancelled, but due to illness of either the judge or the accused. All of us have diligently put in the time and now three of us will be asked to prematurely go home.
We talk of how life changing it’s been. Something we’ll urge others to experience. I share that for the first time I feel Australian. Voting hasn’t done it. America is derided for not having mandatory voting but to me it’s more meaningful. There, voting is a choice, and by choosing to vote you are consciously deciding to participate in democracy. Here, voting feels perfunctory and disengaged because it’s not a choice. And what may spur too many people to participate is not civic obligation but fear of exacting a fine. Knowing I could have opted out but chose to serve on the jury fulfils me in a way I hadn’t anticipated.
Though exempt, I get caught up in the group’s anxiety as we file back into the court room. We watch as the judge’s associate starts depositing juror number slips into a box, but not before verifying my number and leaving it on the judge’s bench. As each number is called the relief of those chosen is palpable. No one is keen to leave early. We haven’t shared our juror numbers with each other so we don’t know until the twelfth number is called who’s left out. I look over my shoulder and spot them immediately. All three look stunned, and one of them is on the verge of tears. At the next recess the court officer arrives and summarily excuses them. It’s gut wrenching for all of us. Like losing a close friend. Or a family member. As they gather their belongings we trade hugs and handshakes and when they exit the premises for the last time they smile, managing a brave front. “Good luck!” they shout. “Let us know what happens!” At the back of my mind I’m thinking they might be the lucky ones. Based on the complexity of the case, deliberations could be arduous.
The next day progresses in fits and starts. We’ve been tasked with reaching a verdict but are offered nothing as to how to go about it. The only tools available are blank flip charts, sticky tape and multi-coloured markers. Eventually we decide to record the definitives in one column and the yet-provens in another, enabling us all to offer our opinions with the hope that the process with drive us toward a consensus. Yet, the vocal ones dominate the proceedings. And the quiet ones continue to stay mum. Taking my foreman role seriously I try to elicit a word at least from everyone but it’s hard going. Some just aren’t comfortable sharing opinions in public.
And it soon becomes clear why – opinions on their own carry little persuasive weight. Unused to providing reasoned support for their opinions, their views come across as personal feelings, rather than conclusions based on cold facts. Those of us more able to build arguments upon facts take over the discussion. And in trying to get others to comply with the same sort of dry analysis we end up first alienating, then intimidating those who can’t. Though we do our best to keep our emotions in check, I sense from their body language our attempts at getting them to explain their opinions are coming across as personal attacks. Which of course results in further reticence. Over time it becomes difficult to separate expressed views from the person speaking them, and those yet unsure begin sounding more defensive.
Mid-week we take a poll. Nine for guilt, three unconvinced. We file back into the courtroom and the judge asks our position so far. I stand up and give the count, adding that reaching unanimity will be difficult. But the judge isn’t having it and asks us to keep trying. At the end of the day the split remains the same.
That night I write down the known facts one by one in dry language, with the purpose of making a clear case for guilt that might give support to the undecideds who have as yet been unable to offer their own factual reasoning. For them, I suspect they believe there are yet too many points connected purely by circumstantial evidence, and I think I can help them overcome their doubts. In the morning I present my case for guilty, reading from my prepared notes in an emotionless a voice as possible.
When I finish we poll everyone again. This time the count is eleven for guilty, one for acquittal. Although my attempt helps erase lingering doubt with two, it does not persuade the third. And much to the consternation for the rest of us, that person becomes more defensive in holding their ground. Despite the fact most of us do our best to keep the personal out of it, several jurors begin directing their frustration at them. Not because of the person’s view, per se, but because they don’t offer any rationale for their opinion except, “I don’t think he did it.” Without an articulation of supporting facts to perhaps argue against, it becomes too easy for a no-win “you against the rest of us” predicament to arise. And more frustration engenders more defensiveness. On all sides.
During a break the situation almost leads to fisticuffs, broken off at the last minute when the older gentleman physically steps in between the two erstwhile combatants. The lone not-guilty believer is left visibly shaken and refuses to re-enter the room. At that point none of us can envision a unanimous decision, which I make quite clear when we next appear before the judge. He accepts the eleven-to-one guilty verdict, explaining the law allows non-unanimous decisions to stand. Had we known that before we may not have deliberated as long, and the knowledge influences our behaviour for the remaining deliberations that consume us for another week.
During the difficult back-and-forth discussions I can’t help but ruminate, what if? What if the three who didn’t make it to the final twelve were replaced with a select three who did? How different might the deliberations have been? Based on comments made over the course of the trial I’m certain the absent three would’ve voted, “Guilty!” Though I concede in the end ‘making it easier’ is not in the spirit of the proceedings, nor fair for the accused, it seems incongruous that the preparations and diligent actions pursued by police, defense counsel, Crown prosecutor and judge hinge entirely upon the chance selection of anonymous juror numbers. Until experiencing it first hand, I’ve not appreciated the sheer randomness of it all.
At the end of the seventeenth week we’re done. The judge thanks us for our service before excusing us a final time. Every one of the youths and few of the oldsters retire to a pub. It wouldn’t be proper to go our separate ways without some sort of acknowledgement. To offer a toast for a job well done. I raise a glass and congratulate the young on their laudable comportment and serious commitment, and let them know the future is assured in their capable hands. After a few pints we say goodbye and the over four months of togetherness are no more. We promise to stay in touch but I wonder.
On the way to Museum Station I recognise one of the Senior Counsels for the defense and catch up to him. Although we’ve spotted them during our walks to and from the courthouse, approaching them is strictly forbidden. Once on the footpath a nod from me was met by the Crown with a horrified expression and a violent waving of the arms, signalling, “Stay away!” Now that the trial is over I figure a conversation is safe. He smiles at my approach.
“So about those wigs. They itch?”
“Worse than you can imagine. And hot!”
I laugh.
“And they smell bad, especially after a long summer. There’s no air conditioning in those courtrooms.”
I’ll have to take his word on that.
“Seriously. I don’t understand why we can’t do away with them. Like in America.”
He thanks me for being on the jury, we shake hands and he ducks into a side street. Suddenly a question pops into my head but he’s already too far away to hear me.
“Hey!” I shout. “What was it with the Asians?”
lancasterwrites 