Her name was Patricia Presley and she didn't look a bit like Priscilla or even Elvis. She looked more like Sarah Palin. She was Clerk of the County Court and she had summoned us into her presence on this first day of December, 2008. There were about 502 of us packed in the jury assembly room, a larger crowd than normal, which would account for the line which was longer than the lines on Black Friday and a lot less fun. By the time they had checked everyone in, the seating possibilites were exhausted and the latecomers ended up standing along the wall. "Sarah" assured us that people would soon be leaving and everyone would get a seat. I will only say that her definition of "soon" and mine were radically different.
People started settling into their books, their sudoku games, their crocheting, their texting, or their ironing(just kidding). Some unhappy souls, who had more faith in the system than I did, brought nothing to do, naively believing that things would move along quickly. For these people, they had a lovely selection of magazines to choose from, including the AARP Journel, Southern Living, Cars Today and Martha Stewart. The deputy sheriff walked up and down the aisle, recruiting people to join him in a game of dominoes. (I am not making this up)
Finally, a smartly dressed young lady came in with a wooden box and a stack of papers. They shuffled the papers around for awhile and then got down to business. I soon learned that the lists were in alphabetical order and by the time they called Richard Owens or Amanda Perkins or even Billy Norton, I was good to get back to my book or my sewing or my lesson planning or my macrame. (why do you think I am kidding?)
It took about 4 or 5 paper-shuffling, name calling episodes before we really had enough room to get comfortable. By this time, I had sewn on 17 buttons and made several friends: the Affair of the Heart lady, the gentleman with the ice-blue eyes, the new mom who liked to work out, the very young grandma who was a veteran of the jury selection process and a group of three women who I called the "Red Hat Ladies", who were having a good time!
At noon, we were released for lunch. I decided to explore a bit. Long, echoing halls with doors on either side, courtrooms with huge double doors that had ornate door handles and several old elevators. One seemed different from the others, complete with a real, live elevator operator and a computer panel and telephone. Then I noticed the sign above the closing doors: JAIL ELEVATOR. And suddenly the enormity and the reality of this whole experience hit home with me.
Twenty four hours later, I was again in the courtroom area but this time, it was not on an expedition to satisfy my curiosity. It was serious business. My name had actually been called and we were ushered into the courtroom. It was strangely quiet while we waited for the judge to appear. It felt surreal to be there and to hear the bailiff call out "All rise!" It was lot like the Perry Mason show, (which I am, of course, way too young to remember).
It wasn't long, however, before frivolus thoughts flew out of my head. The judge told us the type of case we might be listening to and my heart sank. This was where the choice of Adam and Eve had led us as a human race, here in a courtroom, beginning the process that would only legally determine the guilt or innocence of the man who sat before us. God alone knew the truth of the matter and was ultimately in control. That didn't ease the sick feeling in my heart.
I was not chosen to be among the first group the judge would interview and for that I was grateful. I listened to the questions that my peeers were asked and formulated my own answers. Several hours later, the lawyers eliminated about half of the potential jurors, leaving twelve seated there. The jury had been selected and I wasn't on it. Or so I thought.
The judge called three more people to be considered as alternates. Mine was the first name he called. With shaking knees, I somehow made it to the jury box. We were addressed as a group and questioned as a group. The judge noticed my hesitation to the question whether we would be able to set aside any preconceptions and be able to view the man as innocent. I knew I should be able to consider him innocent and I wanted to be salt and light in the jury, but deep inside me, emotions were churning. I glanced at the man who sat before me in all his presumed innocence. And I thought of the little girl whose life had been torn apart, who would have to stand before judge and jury, a solitary little soul who would be asked heart wrenching questions while he sat calmly, safely with his lawyer by his side. Tears came to my eyes.
I asked if I could speak privately to the judge, which he granted. I admitted to him that I didn't think I could be impartial. I am not an overly emotional or dramatic type of person but I could not hold back my tears. Neither lawyer had any objections to the judge's request to release me and I soberly took myself back to the jury assembly room, red eyes and all. The room was empty except for the court clerks; all of my "friends" from the past two days were gone. I gave my paperwork to the clerk, fully expecting to be told to return in the morning. They took my identification badge, scanned it and thanked me for my service. My jury duty was over.
er the cross, Grief cannot touch me because here is Grace---Grace that can erase and obliterate all the remorse and regrets and accusations that Grief can throw at me.
