I was a juror in county court last week. This was the first time in all my years living here that I received a summons. It shames me to admit that the first thing I thought about was how to get out of it. Afterall, isn’t it part of the constitution that everyone has a right to a jury trial by their peers? Nope. Not there. The Sixth Amendment gives us the right to a speedy and public trial by an impartial jury. The Fourteenth Amendment guarantees equal protection under the law. Interesting, but it did not particularly cheer me up.

Prospective jurors are given the opportunity to provide compelling excuses to get out of jury duty. Among those: if you are over 70 years old; if you are a firefighter or an ambulance crew member; if you are the sole caregiver for the very young or elderly; if you are a professional (lawyer, nurse or doctor) or if you do not have transportation. I provided The Court with none of those reasons. I just told my office the news, cancelled my noon hair appointment and dutifully showed up.

The Summons indicates jurors are to report at 8:30 a.m. The Summons does not tell you that 200 or so jurors will also be reporting at 8:30 a.m. The Security Department can only process about twenty people a minute. So, while the courthouse staff display their id badges and blow through, we’re checked for knives and uzzis. I got my cell phone in with me on Day One, but they caught me on Day Two. I didn’t try on Day Three.

The jury holding room is on the second floor. It’s large enough to accommodate everyone. You’re given a clipboard with a questionnaire and a jury badge. You fill out both sides of a questionnaire (there’s no place to indicate “Hang ‘em” ) and then we had to pass our forms for the front of the class. Then silence… silence… and more silence. During the half hour that passed before the judge came in, we were left to reflect how 200 or so random people got stuck in the same room. People looked around the room; presumably for someone they knew or wondered what we all had in common. The majority of jurors, oddly enough, were male. Most were white. The ages certainly did seem mixed. Some dressed in semi formal, some in business casual. More than I expected were dressed casually in sweats or jeans. The only bonding that happens instantly is between the smokers. Interesting to watch.

Finally, Judge Peter Paul Olszewski, Jr. (dressed in a splendid robe) came to welcome us. Other than telling us we were picked because of our driver’s license and that we wouldn’t have to serve for another three years, he didn’t have much to say. He asked for a group to be sent to him in 30 minutes. Thirty minutes passed six times. Nobody went anywhere until lunch. All 200 or so of us sat in the room for the next three hours. There was one television in the room. While news programs are not allowed, jurors can watch movies (VHS). Someone put in “Dumb and Dumber”. Now, on so many levels, they should NOT have that movie anywhere in the Luzerne County Courthouse! But they did and the whole ridiculous thing played before we went to lunch. We all came back at 1:00 and sat some more, but were all dismissed for the day at 2:30.

The second day was more of the same and I was told by the Not-So-Nice Boy that this doesn’t usually happen. Figures. They let all but 43 people go home on the second day. On the third day, of the remaining 43, I was Juror Number 42. We were taken to the a courtroom where Judge Chester Muroski resided over a criminal trial. He asked us a series of questions in front of the prosecutor, defendant and defense counsel. Anyone answering yes to any in the series was called up to explain their answer. Many said “yes” to various questions and walked to the front to explain themselves. After this part, the attorneys began their quiet process of voir dire (vwa-deer).

While the attorneys selected their jury (actually, they decide who NOT to pick), we were silent and respectful. We all looked at the defendant. Such a young man. He was someone’s son. Who doesn’t think about the mystery of being part of a jury? You are confined to deliberate with twelve strangers deciding the fate of another human. Afterward, you need offer no reason for the chosen verdict. I couldn’t make up my mind whether I wanted to serve to find out about this mystery process or if I hoped not to be picked more.

The choice was made for me. I was dismissed. My total earnings — plus mileage — $30.06.

I don’t know what the verdict was. His fate was not in my hands.