During Christmas break, I received a Juror Questionnaire. When I was about thirteen, my Mom received one. She groaned and whined about it, and I proudly announced that I couldn't wait until I was called for jury duty. My, what a difference eight years makes.
I looked upon this piece of mail from Gloria D'Amico, Commissioner of Jurors with annoyed dismay and a tinge of guilt. I've grown to dislike doing things I don't want to do but seem to have to do, anyway. However, the idealist whisper in me served as a reminder of civic duty - that if I really love my country as much as I say I do, I should be honored to be part of the judicial process.
The whisper was quickly overtaken by a series of rhetorical questions. Do they know I'm a full-time student? Do they know that I can't get someone to go to class for me or waste time on campus with my friends for me? In short: Do they know who I am? Not one to cause an unnecessary ruckus, however, I sent the form back immediately and remarked in the special notes section that I'm a full-time student.
About a month ago, I heard from good old Gloria again, this time in the form of a Jury Duty Summons death knell. That was it, I told myself. They were really starting to piss me off. But powerless, I followed the instructions on my summons to attempt an excusion. This being the painfully tedious New York City bureaucracy, I couldn't call or express my condition on-line. My presence was cordially required at Queens County Civil Courthouse itself.
I prepared for my visit with an answer to every question the judge could possibly have for me. I say judge because for some reason I assumed I'd have to go before a judge. I was ready to explain my status at Fordham University, complete with class schedule in hand. I even brought my internship contract with PricewaterhouseCoopers in case he wanted me to serve in the summer. If he did, I would have asked nicely if he'd reconsider because, well, something about how this internship could hinge on my entire future. After those initial formalities, he'd remark his daughter went to Fordham and that his wife is a tax partner at PwC. He'd say, "Who's your team?"
"The Mets," I'd reply.
"We gonna show those Cardinals who's boss this year?"
"I certainly hope so, your honor."
"Get out of my court, kid. We'll see you back here when you can grow some fuzz on your chin."
It eluded me that judges do more important things with their days, like roll their eyes at defendants and put ambitious lawyers in their place, so I'd have to deal with one of the peons.
For those of you who don't have experience with any New York City agency, consider yourself lucky. They all employ under-educated, barely competent, and soulless individuals who stand in your way of getting what you need from them, whether it be a driver's license or a burial permit (I work in a funeral home. Different story for a different day). City clerks must get some sort of pleasure out of their ability to exert control over another's life for a short period of time, because no one could naturally work that slow. Or be so oppressively ignorant with regards to another's situation.
Walking into the building, I was greeted by the requisite metal detectors. I smiled a tacit good morning to the court officer running the scanner, but she waved me along with an annoyed hand. Seriously, what's the harm in returning a smile? I walked up to Room 244, the one for Jurors with Questions. I'm sure if you took a survey of the clerks and asked what kind of questions they get, they hear, "How the hell do I can out of serving," quite a bit more than, "What sort of mental preparation should I do to serve most fairly as a member of such a prestigious body?" But that's all just conjecture.
The only moment of my visit that pleasantly surprised me was that there was no long queue loaded with smelly, unshowered bodies or children with sticky hands touching every wall in sight as their parents ineffectively called after them. In fact, I seemed to be the only juror with a question at the time. A person of indeterminate gender greeted me on the other side of the room. And by greeted, I mean indifferently calling out, "How can I help you, sir."
"I came to get excused from jury duty. I am a full-time student."
"Do you have proof that you're a student?"
"Um, I have school ID and a schedule."
"Your schedule please."
"Umm, so what do I do now?"
"Please write the date you'll be able to serve by on your summons."
"Well, I graduate in a year and a half, so should I put August 2008?"
"No, that's longer than the six month window. You'll simply have to come back if you're called again and prove that you're still in school."
"But. But. But. Won't that be a colossal waste of time since I've already told you that this will be my situation for a while?"
"Sir, that's all I can tell you."
Sir, that's all I can tell you?! If he or she (probably a he, I think that's what I may have decided at the end of our wonderful conversation) said that to a client in the private sector, he or she would find himself or herself on an unemployment line rather quickly. I left the courthouse in a rage, and thought long and hard about what I just went through.
Looking at it from a utilitarian perspective, shouldn't what we do for our society be the best alternative that services the greatest good for the greatest number? How will my city be better served: By me sitting on a tedious case with tedious facts making a tedious decision with eleven other painfully bored citizens, or by me spending this time studying and working towards my degree, which will earn me a good job and allow me to pour money back into the New York economy in which I plan in participating for the rest of my life? THAT should have been a topic of discussion during my trip. If this ridiculous bureaucracy had room for negotiation and logical discussion, my whole situation would have been a non-issue. To solve this from now on, they should first draw a jury pool from the retired and the unemployed. It would give the elderly something to do and much needed self-esteem by feeling needed, and it would give the workless something productive. And don't they pay (slightly) jurors, anyway? Then they can tap into people who have jobs.
"Hey, are you busy at work? Could you take a few days and serve?"
"Sure, the boss has been riding my ass and it'll be good to get out of the office for a few days. Hell, put me on the case of the century if ya got it."
Or maybe:
"Eh, you know, I'm up for partner this year. Really not available right now. But my wife's always complaining she's got nothing to do. Call her up, I'm sure she'll be glad to help."
See? Negotiation. It works if people give it a try. And don't tell me that this doesn't fall into the notion that one should be tried by a jury of his peers. Minors and non-citizen immigrants are part of our society, and they're not expected to serve, either.
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