Before the holidays I mentioned I’d been selected for the jury pool–the week family was coming for our family Christmas gathering; I’d set aside the week to make gingerbread houses. But here’s the thing, I truly do believe it’s a privilege to serve on a jury. Though I hope to never be on the other side of the courtroom, if ever I am, I hope the people in the jury box will want to be there, will listen, and will be fair. So of course, I arrived at the courthouse that Monday morning.

I also knew if I didn’t show up it might result in a bench warrant that could pop up later at an even more inconvenient time. But I really did want to go.

I’ve been summoned several times. For some reason a letter from the Clerk of Courts arrives in my mailbox fairly regularly, maybe every other year? I’ve been called for magistrates’ court (where cases for DUIs and speeding tickets are heard), and civil court (where landlords and renters sometimes have a difference of opinion). I’ve been seated on a jury in both courts and I find the trials interesting. One defense lawyer got so nit-picky he proffered the line indicating speed might be so wide as to render reading the actual speed ‘iffy’. He lost. This recent summons was my first for criminal court.

In the waiting area, as expected, the assembled jury pool was a cross section of our local population, but I was in the minority of those interested and willing to be there. Many of the others hoped to be excused, grumbled about missing work, and like me, admittedly, thought the week before Christmas was inconvenient timing. We mingled, chatted, and paced for 20-30 minutes. Once inside the selection room, we waited some more and continued chatting with each other, or looking at phones, or reading books. Surprisingly I’d not brought a book. The waiting tested the patience of more than one or two.

The judge finally arrived and from the onset, in a very polite but business-like manner, stressed the importance and privilege of being selected as a juror, and that he wasn’t very lenient when it came to being excused. There was an audible release of breath as some realized they may be stuck for the week.

Then came roll call. As each number and name was called, we had to answer personal questions about our marital status, work, if married the occupation and work of our spouse. Sharing that information with each other while we waited felt different than giving the defendant our personal information. The tone in the room shifted. The judge let us know he’d be asking two sets of questions and we had to pledge to answer them truthfully. The mood shifted a bit more.

The first questions were simply to determine eligibility: questions about residency, previous jury experience, being a care-giver, and any other reasons that might preclude us from serving. Hands went up or down with each one, a few questions resulted in sidebars with a potential juror, the judge and attorneys. True to his word, the judge excused only a handful.

The second set pertained specifically to the kind of crime being heard. That’s when we learned the defendant was charged with murder. The gravity of the case settled like a pall. There were few questions, but each seemed to have a subset. Questions about guns, domestic violence, prior knowledge of the case. Two questions in particular still make me uneasy: could we handle viewing graphic photos of the crime scene, and our thoughts about minor children testifying.

The roll began again as the prosecution called our names for the twelve to be seated. Each side had ten ‘strikes’, excusing a juror for whatever reason. I’ve been stricken before and I’m always curious why. The clothes I wore that day? My age, gender, or race? Did I look at the defendant funny? I never know. That afternoon the defense used their ten strikes quickly, and my name had still not been called. I was the twelfth juror seated.

Everyone else was dismissed for the day, we twelve were led to the jury room where we waited again. Our last order for the day was filing into the jury box and admonished not to discuss the case with anyone, not to read anything about it on-line, and the announcement of the foreman. I was relieved it wasn’t me.

We’d arrived at 9:30 and it was 2:00 when we were dismissed for the day. The trial would start in the morning. One of the bailiffs escorted us out of the building and watched to make sure we made it to the parking lot without being approached by anyone. There was little conversation walking out.

That evening, the meditative rhythm of mixing and kneading dry and wet ingredients for gingerbread dough led to questions of my own: How well will we twelve work together? What if I miss something? How graphic are the photos? How old are the minor children? How thin is a shadow of a doubt? How far is beyond it?  Who am I to hold the fate of someone else’s life in my hands? The time also led to the prayer that we’d be wise jurors. The whimsy of gingerbread houses didn’t lighten the weight I held.

The next morning the bailiff met us in the lobby and escorted us to the jury room. Conversation was light, primarily between two or three who ‘held court’ with family stories. We waited, again. The longer we waited the surer we became the case was being settled. We were finally taken back to the courtroom and told the case had been resolved. Apparently, the other jurors’ prayers were different and stronger than mine! That evening a phone call dismissed the jury pool for the rest of the week.

Yet I remained shaken. I was relieved, but realizing how close we came … It was Saturday as wonderful family frenzy filled the house before I relaxed. After Christmas, the newspaper reported the gentleman had been sentenced to 30 years. Part of the decision was sparing the minor children from the trauma of testifying. Reading it brought back the emotions of those 48 hours when I was almost part of his story. The experience will always be part of mine.

Next week a lighter post, I promise. I hope you have a wonderful week. May we all pray for those impacted by the fires in California – residents, first responders, wildlife. See you Monday.