The Silken Tent My Letter to the World September, 1999

The summons came in mid-August -- a hefty envelope marked "Official Business" and bearing the embossed seal of the county sheriff. I immediately thought the worst -- the long arm of the law in Ocean City, New Jersey, where I have an outstanding parking ticket, had reached out and I was about to be extradited.

It turned out to be merely a notice to report for jury duty, which some people might think worse than another reminder from Ocean City that I owe them $25 (which, by the way, I do not, since I am not guilty, which is probably beside the point now). I sent back the postcard indicating I was alive and still at a Dauphin County address, put the orange JUROR parking pass in my glove compartment so I wouldn't lose track of it, marked my calendar, and went about my business for a month. And last Monday, at 8:15 sharp, I hearkened to the cry of the court administrator and drew near the bench to attend to the business of the Dauphin County Court of Common Pleas.

Most people hate the idea of jury duty. Many who are called must serve at considerable sacrifice. A juror's pay is $9 a day (a standard in place since 1957, when the minimum wage was less than a dollar an hour), and while many employers support this civic duty, allowing released time and continuing regular salary (minus that $9), others do not, forcing a worker to take vacation or unpaid leave. The self-employed endure missed business opportunities, and at-home parents must arrange for child care. Although some cases can be interesting, most are routine, and civil cases can be so boring that one can begin to wish the death penalty on all involved. And there's always the risk that a high profile criminal case will turn into the trial of the century (or the year anyway), with testimony dragging on for weeks and the jury sequestered (at the Econo Lodge just north of town, not the Hilton on Market Square).

I tried to be optimistic. A writer need never be bored, especially when given the opportunity to observe first hand a world which she knows mostly from television dramas and talk show jokes. And so I arrived Monday morning, notebook in hand and a volume of short stories tucked into my bag, ready to serve.

More than 200 citizens (the initial array) presented themselves in the President Judge's large and impressive courtroom and answered the roll call. Four or five were inexplicably absent, and the judge ordered that the sheriff prepare to arrest them. We were then herded through a narrow passage and up a flight of stairs to the Jury Assembly Room, a rather more utilitarian space where we received a booklet of instructions and reminders and where we began what is the major activity of a prospective juror -- waiting.

If justice turns on proverbial wheels, those wheels seem attached to an ox-drawn cart and not a high speed locomotive. Although every effort is made to keep us comfortable ("unhappy array members do not result in happy jurors" I read in a memo about parking problems tacked up on the wall), the conditions in the jury assembly room are the ones least likely to make someone of my personality type and personal habits feel good.

The room is a large open space poorly lighted for reading. The first hour or so was taken up with the Clerk of the Court's orientation speech, something reminiscent of (but livelier than) any principal's opening faculty meeting I've endured over the years. For another hour I enjoyed a conversation with a former student, a particular favorite now 25 and a junior administrator for an HMO. Lunch was an hour and a half, and as the day was pleasant my young friend and I walked along the river reminiscing.

Back in the jury assembly room, however, I began to feel as if I were in a study hall that just wouldn't end. Multiple conversations that rise up and fill the air are distracting to me, making reading difficult. After I was chosen (at random) for a 36-member panel, I had to sit in a particular chair. This was like being on a flight going nowhere, with the occasional trip down the aisle to the bathroom.

Finally, my panel was taken (again, "herded" is the best word) to another courtroom where a case was about to begin. We were led through the process of voir dire (literally, "to speak the truth") and heard an informative monologue from the judge about the history of the court house (meant to entertain or at least distract us while the lawyers exercised their peremptory challenges). Evidently, neither lawyer thought I was unfit to hear their "unlawful delivery of a controlled substance" and "possession with intent to deliver a controlled substance" case, and by 3:30 I was seated on one of the most uncomfortable padded chairs ever designed, ready to judge a fellow human being.