My morning in federal court

Jury duty: its the obligation of every citizen in our democracy. When I got my summons to appear I knew I could find a way out of it, if that’s what I wanted. How could I consider myself a citizen, though, if I shirked this important responsibility?

After a few days of false starts the day finally came. The 8 AM start didn’t seem as early as I’d expected, though I did walk in a minute or two late. Parking for the jurors is anything but a prime spot. It was a good walk from my space to the entrance to the building. Once I got there it was relatively smooth going through security.
I put my label on my shirt, hit the button for the sixth floor, and wandered into the windowless juror assembly room, already full of jurors.

Scott The Jury Clerk was going over the procedure with the 32 jurors already seated. While we were told beforehand not to bring any reading material or electronics of any kind this seemed to apply more to the courtroom rather than the waiting room. Some people were tapping away at their Blackberries. An attorney worked through a mound of paperwork. Some paged through the newspaper. Some chatted with those nearby and others simply stared into space. Being late as I was, my seat was in the back against the wall, which provided me a convenient place to rest my head.

The jurors were a good mix of society. There were slightly more women than men it seemed, and the ages seemed to skew somewhat older than me. A good balance of blacks and whites. No Latinos or Asians that I could see. The attorney was the only one wearing a suit. Plenty of jeans were present although khaki slacks were the most popular. A number of people had driven great distances to be there, including Clayton, Wilson, and even Benson. I felt a bit sheepish knowing that except for the stormy weather I could have ridden my bicycle.

After the roll call at 8:30 we waited. And waited. And waited. The clerk’s phone would occasionally ring and everyone would hold their breath but it would be for nothing. I saw a woman fetch a magazine and followed her lead, returning with a year-old People magazine. I felt my mind shut down as I thumbed through page after page of plastic celebrities.

Ten o’clock came and went. “They’re probably hammering out a plea bargain right now,” the attorney looked up and said optomistically. I sat back and closed my eyes for a moment.

Then the phone rang. This was it.

“Seeing how the elevator can’t be trusted,” Scott said, “is there anyone here who can’t make it up one flight of stairs one time?” It was true. One of the four elevators was stuck on our floor, half-open. No one complained about taking the stairs, though, and everyone marched upstairs.

The lobby outside the courtroom had a funeral-home quiet to it. A U.S. Marshal held the door open as we filed into the courtroom. We were directed to fill the front rows of the observation area. I was in the front row.

It was my first visit to a courtroom. I smiled to myself as I looked around. I knew it would be nothing like the crime dramas and I wasn’t disappointed. I knew there wouldn’t be floor-to-ceiling windows and beautiful lighting. It was instead a dark-paneled room with fluorescent lighting across the ceiling. The high ceiling gave a spacious feel to an otherwise sterile room.

In front of me were two tables with two people seated at each one. In front of me was an older gentleman seated next to a young man. At the table to my left were two middle-aged gentlemen. At first glance I mistook the young man was the defendant. Perhaps a deadbeat college kid who defaulted on his student loans. Only after the judge made the introductions did I learn he was with the U.S. Attorney’s office.

The accused and his lawyer studied our faces as we walked in. He was an Asian man with shaggy hair and sideburns shaved off well above his ears. He looked nervous, as he should’ve been as we were told he was acting as his own attorney.

I don’t remember the judge entering, as I’m sure the bailiff would’ve asked us to rise, but he soon began to speak. Presiding today was Judge Terrence Boyle. He began by thanking us for our jury service, noting it wasn’t always an easy thing to perform, and informed us today’s case was a criminal one.

He then asked us to stand and enter the jury box when his clerk called our names. Eighteen jurors were called into the box. I exchanged a look of relief with woman beside me as they were seated.

Judge Boyle then described the charges in more detail. The accused was Somsak Saeku, whom police allege shoplifted goods from local stores and then sold them on eBay and Half.Com. He is also alleged to have filed false insurance claims to the tune of over $100,000. I later found news story indicating that when he was arrested he had over 10,000 CDs and DVDs in his home.

The jury would then be deciding on two counts of wire fraud and one count of insurance fraud. He then described the stores where the goods were alleged to have been shoplifted, stumbling on a few.

“REI,” Judge Boyle said, unsure of himself. “I don’t know what that one is.”

“Recreational Equipment Incorprated,” chimed in the attorney next to Saeku. Judge Boyle also had trouble naming the “big … Internet book store … what’s it called … the big one?” I smiled knowing my technophobe stereotype of law types seemed to hold up.

The attorney next to Saeku wasn’t appointed to represent him so much as “back him up,” Judge Boyle explained. He explained to those in the jury box that anyone can represent himself, and that no one is to read anything into anyone exercising that right. The evidence and witnesses are what matters, he stressed.

Judge Boyle then explained how having a back-up attorney for Saeku was a prudent idea, but then threw a curve ball.

“In court,” he explained, “you have the right to represent yourself. However, when you act as your own attorney, you don’t have the freedom to say ‘this time I’m going to ask the questions and next time my other attorney can ask them.’

“You can’t pick and choose,” Judge Boyle said. He was then pleased to tell us that Saeku and his back-up attorney would do just that, and asked if any juror had an issue with this “unconventional” approach. How he could say “you can’t do this” and then tell us that’s exactly what they’re going to do is well beyond my meager legal understanding. When he said “you don’t have the freedom” there were no qualifiers at all. There was obviously some part of “you can’t do this” I don’t understand.

The legal teams were introduced, followed by the jurors in the juror box. Judge Boyle asked each juror where they lived and worked and what their occupation was, stifling an occasional yawn as they replied. Among other questions, he asked if any had been a juror before (several had), if any worked in law enforcement, if any worked in the insurance industry, and if any had bought items from eBay (or were technically proficient to do so).

His question about whether any jurors had been affected by shoplifting brought confusion. One man raised his hand. “You mean, as an hourly employee at a store, were we affected by shoplifting?”

“I’m not talking about being the CEO,” Judge Boyle explained a little defensively. “Just whether shoplifting affected you.” A few hands went up though it was obvious the question was still vague.

“Do either of you have questions,” Judge Boyle asked the attorneys in front of him. The U.S. Attorney had none. Saeku scribbled something on a page, stood up quickly and asked to approach the bench, causing the guards behind him to nearly freak out. Judge Boyle directed the bailiff to fetch the paper for him, which he did.

“Have any of you been the victim of a theft or break-in,” read Judge Boyle from Saeku’s paper. Almost a fourth of jurors raised their hands and described car thefts or home invasions.

Once the jurors had been questioned, the judge asked both legal teams for their strikes.Each side had six strikes to call, and the judge would assist in the negotiations. The U.S. Attorney halfway stood up, said “no strikes for the government,” and quickly returned to his seat.

Saeku conferred with his back-up attorney, scribbled more notes, and handed them to the bailiff to give to the judge. Judge Boyle then dismissed five of the jurors. They comprised nearly all of the white men in the box. One white male remained, chosen to be the alternate juror. I don’t know if the mens’ race was coincidence or the reason behind their dismissal, but that was the only connection that came to mind. They all had different occupations and backgrounds, from what they told the judge.

With that the court had selected a jury. Judge Boyle told the rest of us that we were free to leave at the next recess. He then called the recess and the courtroom emptied. I looked at my watch. It was 11 o’clock.

That was it then. My jury duty obligation had been fulfilled. I’m now off the hook for at least another two years. It provided an interesting into the legal system but not a compelling one. I’ve thought at times that being a federal judge might be a cool job.

That’s just it, though: at times it is. Other times it must be boring as hell. Not every case reins in officials overstepping their bounds, or compels the state (or federal) government to action. Cases like today’s probably make up the bulk of the work. If I had to try them for a living I’d probably stifle yawns, too. One hour was plenty for me, thank you very much.