Few people talked while waiting in the chairs spaced throughout the lobby of the courthouse.
Some watched newcomers look confused as they stepped through the doors, looking at the people seated in rows of chairs, or at the small line forming in front of two women busy checking lists, but most new arrivals walked toward the uniformed men standing at the metal detector – the same uniformed men who pointed newcomers in the direction of the line in front of the two women who, in turn, took their names, gave them a sticker that included name, an individual number and a group number then instructed them to take a seat and wait for their group to be called.
Most people seemed to wait with their heads angled down, staring at the floor or some invisible point in front of them. A place where they would normally be holding a phone, scrolling through social media or texting or watching YouTube or TikTok videos. Instead, our hands were empty, our heads bowed, as if someone stole our reasons to pray.
I thought they ought to at least have a TV mounted on the wall. Something to watch in a world obsessed with screens.
Jury duty.
We had answered the summons. The one that comes by mail in an age when most delivered mail includes bills and circulars and other things we normally ignore. The summons told us we must all be at the courthouse no later than 9 a.m.
The summons didn’t mention if you aren’t there before 8:30, the courthouse parking spaces will be full and you will have to park several blocks away then walk to the courthouse.
The summons warned people not to bring their cell phones but didn’t tell you not to wear your electronic watch. A lot of people walked through the doors then turned around immediately upon being told “no electronic devices; that includes watches,” returning to leave their electronics in their cars parked several blocks away.
The summons said nothing about donuts or coffee.
There were no donuts. There was no coffee.
If you’re considered upstanding citizen enough to sit on a jury and be summoned to spend your morning sitting in a courtroom when you would prefer being at work instead, all while being under the threat of facing repercussions if you don’t show up, seated with a group of strangers, phoneless and fidgety, thinking of ways to get out of having to do this for the next few hours let alone possibly the next several days then wondering what if you make a poor choice and send an innocent person to prison or loose a sly Jack the Ripper onto an unsuspecting world, the county ought to provide donuts and coffee.
Or at least a mounted television playing something non-political like “Andy Griffith” or a game show.
Take the cost out of my property taxes. Or make it a SPLOST item.
After 15 minutes that felt like two weeks sitting in jail, our group was called. We walked through the metal detector. We took turns entering the elevator. We arrived on the fourth floor. We checked in with another group of women with lists. We were ushered into a courtroom. All of the court employees tremendously friendly and courteous.
We sat in benches that looked like church pews. Most folks quiet, as if in prayer, with a few people talking low, like chatting in church during the moments before the choir sings.
Conversations started slowly. A man garnered a few chuckles as he asked a lady if a seat was taken. Court employees reminded a few fellows to remove their ball caps; one guy reminded another guy about his hat to a muttered thanks and removal of the hat. Some folks mentioned the oddly cool temperatures for mid-March. Two women, each one carrying a book, discussed their books.
People compared their past jury experiences, with some telling stories of a quick return and others talking about past selections lasting two days. Some talked about being excused in the past or being selected. One woman said she had been selected and excused in past jury calls.
A courthouse employee announced we may be waiting a while and mentioned restrooms were available, if needed.
No one moved, at first. Then one woman went to the restroom. A few minutes later, I figure I’m old and might as well go whether I need to go or not. Then several people were up and down, going to the restrooms. One man got up and looked out the fourth-floor window before returning to his seat.
Time passed. Slowly. A clock was mounted high on the back wall. To read it, you must turn your head at a hard angle, looking up over your shoulder. The clock slowly ticked toward 10 a.m. …
When a woman entered the room. She announced all of the cases on the docket had been resolved for the week and we were excused from jury duty.
We cheered.
Full-grown men and women stood and cheered and applauded, like kids hearing the bell on the last day of school. Voices that had been silent, whooped. Smiles and laughter spread across faces that had been glum and gray for the past hour.
We rushed out of the courtroom. The elevator already full. Many of us didn’t even wait for its return. We found the staircase exit and we ran down the steps, happy voices, laughter, like children chasing an ice cream truck on a hot summer day.
We spoke happily of returning to work or returning to retirement or just being able to go wherever we wanted to go. One man said he was getting donuts. I said the county should provide donuts for jurors; these fleeing jurors came back with a unanimous verdict for complementary donuts.
We ran all the way down those four flights of steps, hitting the first floor at about the same time as the elevator opened and more ex-potential jurors emptied into the lobby.
We hurried out of the courthouse like fireworks on the Fourth of July, bursting with the excitement of our shared experience and shared release, then sifting and quieting like ashes after the big bang as we moved into smaller groups, again strangers, one by one, going quietly back to our separate lives.
Dean Poling is a former editor with The Valdosta Daily Times and The Tifton Gazette.