The Verdict Is Still Out on Would-Be Juror’s Abilities

The early morning sky was steely gray, just like my attitude. After 25 years as an adult, finally, a summons to serve as a potential juror. Seldom have citizen and civic responsibility been better matched.

Driving toward the courthouse in Westminster, wave after wave of heightened discernment and reasoning power coursed through my body. Or, possibly, it was that feeling you get when you haven’t had breakfast. Either way, my stomach was churning.

Walking from the parking lot toward the courthouse and mingling with the other potential jurors streaming in, I tried to conceal my exhilaration. It felt much like the first day of school with new classmates. We would all start off as equals, and yet I could only chuckle as I surmised that few if any of them could use the phrase ipse dixit in a sentence.

Ah, the looks on my fellow jurors when I spring that on them during deliberations!

We went into an assembly room for general instructions. There appeared to be about 125 of us and I began sizing up the competition, looking both for potential foremen and those who could be swayed. I started with the row in front of me: sheep, control freak, sheep, control freak, sheep, sheep, sheep . . . .

We watched a film on the jury system. When it was over, a court officer asked if anyone had any questions. A man raised his hand and said the coffee machine in the back of the room was out of order.

About 9:30, my group was dispatched to Courtroom 16. Judge Thomas Borris introduced us to to the attorneys and to the defendant, charged with drug possession. The defendant stood, turned to face us and waved. I made a mental note not to let that affect my judgment.

Some potential jurors were excused for medical or financial hardships. From the remaining group of about 50 or so, 12 were picked by lot to sit in the jury box as the first potential jurors.

I spotted at least four that I might replace, if fate would only be so kind.

The judge spent the rest of the morning quizzing the 12 about their attitudes on drugs, law enforcement and the American judicial system. That did nothing but reinforce in my mind that I belonged on that jury.

Inevitably, a juror was dismissed--a young woman who admitted she would have difficulty being impartial.

The clerk read a replacement name: mine.

We had just a few minutes before lunch. I leveled with the judge, telling him I had written one column about drug legalization, that special-interest drug groups had subsequently sent me information and that, oh yeah, a colleague told me recently that at least two deputy district attorneys said they hated me. Fearing that might lead the prosecutor to excuse me from the jury, I mentioned that my brother is a deputy district attorney in Denver.

I thought I had all the bases covered.

The judge asked if any of what I had just told him would make it impossible for me to be fair.

I assured him it would not. I did my best Oliver North earnestness impression.

After lunch the prosecutor asked me my position on drug legalization. I said I was on the fence. She asked several questions, and I thought I answered every one in the most fair-minded manner. In short, I considered it a stunning defense of my fairness.

When she was finished, she asked the judge to excuse “Juror No. 6.”

I counted from the end of the jury box.

What? I’m Juror 6!

The judge thanked me for my time and off I trudged, past all the other jurors and potential jurors who now knew me as nothing more than another reject. Now they would never find out how cogent my thought processes were, not to mention my mastery of obscure Latin legal phrases.

Some of them had predicted to me over the lunch break that I would be canned. I feared the same; I didn’t dare let on how much I wanted to stay.

For one brief moment while exiting the courtroom, I pictured the other jurors rising up and demanding that I stay. “ If he goes, we all go!” they cried out to the judge.

Alas, nothing. A friendly goodby from the prosecutor as I passed the attorney’s table. A word of condolence from a potential juror in the back of the room.

If only they knew how close I came to stopping at the door and screaming, “You people just lost a damn fine juror!”

Aw, it wouldn’t have helped. So I merely slunk back down to the assembly room, where instead of weighing evidence and dispensing wisdom, a bunch of us watched “General Hospital.”

By 4:30, we were sent home.

I see now what they mean about jurors bonding. I’d like to have them all over for dinner. And the judge. And the attorneys. And the defendant.

Hell, bring the bailiff, too.

Someone said I might get summoned again in a year or so.

I hope so. I just need a chance to show what I can do.

Dana Parsons’ column appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Readers may reach Parsons by writing to him at The Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, Calif. 92626, or calling (714) 966-7821.