Justice is a Lady
When the notice arrived that I’d been selected for jury duty, I was almost pleased. I’d been voting for half a century and I’d been a licensed driver even longer. They don’t call people 70 years old and up in this state, so it was probably my last chance. My last chance for what? To fill a patriotic duty. To play my part in assuring that justice was done. To judge a case on the evidence.
Twenty-two days into the month I was finally summoned to appear at the courthouse. Today was the day for the two-mile drive down 12th Avenue to the courthouse building attached to the county jail. I wore my sling as I’m supposed to do for a few weeks after shoulder surgery on July 13, but also thinking maybe it would come in handy later on.
We met at 8:30 a.m., in the “Jury Assembly Room” in Room 334 of the courthouse. We were an amiable group of about 26 Idaho folks in a room just big enough to accommodate all of us. Brian the Baliff welcomed us and told us to help ourselves to the coffee. I didn’t know anyone there, but they looked just like the Idaho people I did know, and I felt comfortable.We were ordered to turn our cell phones off, to be respectful, and not to feel bad if we weren’t chosen.
After watching a twelve-minute video describing the jury system in Idaho, Brian the Bailiff escorted us to the courtroom on second floor where the trial would take place. With a flurry he announced the arrival of “Judge James J. Morfitt!” It must be a standing joke because he’d already told us that the judge for our trial was James A. Schiller, and when the judge swept into the courtroom he was laughing and said, “I’m not Judge Morfitt!” Later I learned that Judge Morfitt was presiding in a trial down the hallway.
We were all sworn in, and the judge told us it would be a criminal case, a motorcycle DUI.
They only needed six jurors for this trial, so they called up six of us by number only, no names were to be used. Then they asked the “panel” of six a series of 20 or so questions, half by the prosecuting attorney and half by the defense attorney. The rest of us were ordered to pay attention and remember our answers because we might be hearing the questions a little later.
Sure enough. After all six had been questioned at some length, the attorneys began calling up other prospective jurors and asking them questions. Not all of us were called up, but I was one of the last of about ten or twelve who was asked to take a seat stage center and answer questions.
The judge was still grinning. “I’m intrigued by that sling you’re wearing,” he said. “What is that about?” He probably thought I was wearing it for sympathy, which might have been a good idea.
I said, “I’m recovering from shoulder surgery a week and a half ago, but I’m fine.”
“You’re not in pain?”
“No pain at all. I’m only wearing the sling to keep from being injured if someone hugs me.”
The judge raised his right arm. “There will be no hugging in the courtroom,” he ordered.
The state’s attorney was curious about my work as a consultant. When I told him I edited books and produced two newsletters for Saint Alphonsus, he wanted to know if I ever dealt with alcohol.
“Yes,” I said. “One of the newsletters deals with health issues in the workplace.”
“And what do you write about?”
“Alcohol is a poison,” I said, “but it’s one of the oldest substances known to man. I would never support making alcohol illegal because it just won’t work.” That was fun, so I kept going. “Alcohol is not digested like other foods and drinks,” I said. “It is absorbed directly into the bloodstream.”
“Do you believe it changes all people’s behavior immediately?”
“To some extent.”
My testimony ended, and I went back to the front row. Another prospective juror was questioned, and three persons on the panel of six were dismissed from service. Three other numbers were read aloud. People with those numbers took their places in the empty seats in the panel, and the rest of us were given a pleasant thanks for our service by the judge.
It’s over. I resented the manipulative tone of the defense attorney as he tried to weasel support for the man accused of DUI from prospective jurors.
“Do you believe that different people respond differently to alcohol?”
“Do you realize that it is legal to drink and drive in Idaho?”
“Do you believe that a police officer will ever lie or distort the truth?”
“Do you believe that the tools used to measure alcohol in the body must be calibrated properly and that this calibration must be proved for a DUI charge to be sustained?”
And so on. Making a case that since a little alcohol is okay, why is alcohol above a certain level terrible and below that level acceptable? If we’re that confused, maybe we shouldn’t prosecute this man who may have been in full command of his senses.
I was glad to leave. Glad to get back home to work. Glad I’ll probably never be called to the courthouse again.
I planted a puny little garden this spring: three broccoli plants, half a dozen infertile strawberry plants, a pepper plant, some parsley, and a dozen tomato plants. I’ve been watching two nice-sized tomatoes for a couple of weeks. When they become light-colored, I was told, they’re about to go ripe.
If you were nearby
