Jury Duty! Seriously? In downtown Philadelphia? This was my third Summons for Jury Service at the federal courthouse in Philadelphia in the past three years. I was excused from the first one in early 2020 when the COVID-19 pandemic shut down the federal courts.
There’s a saying that the third time is the charm, and
that turned out to be the case with my third Summons. I called in before the
first day of my possible service and was relieved to hear I did not have to
report. But the second day? Well, I guess my luck had run out.
Don’t get me wrong. I had a 30-year career as a
lawyer. Though I was not a trial lawyer, I believe in the American jury system
and recognize there is a duty to serve. But getting to the federal courthouse in
Philadelphia by 8:30AM was, frankly, a bit frightening to me.
I’ve driven countless times into downtown Pittsburgh,
and I’ve crawled along in New York City traffic dozens of times. But I’ve only
driven into downtown Philadelphia a very few times. The instructions that came
with the Summons said I had the option of staying in a downtown hotel, because
I live more than 30 miles from the court. But did I want to pack a suitcase,
drive downtown, find parking and dinner on short notice? And how many days
should I pack for? The train was a third option, but I hadn’t been on SEPTA
train since the beginning of the pandemic.
Fortunately, my wife is braver than I am. She
volunteered to drive me to the courthouse. I agreed to take the train home
since I didn’t have a deadline to get back. We left our house around 6:50AM.
Our GPS told us it would take about an hour to get to the courthouse. We were
somewhat skeptical as the GPS directed us to follow a number of back roads. But
ultimately, it got us to the courthouse by 8:05AM.
I showed my Summons and photo ID to the security
guard, emptied my pockets, removed my belt, and successfully got through the
metal detector. I followed directions to the Jury Assembly room and was checked
in by a clerk. Close to 100 people were already in the room when I walked in. I
poured myself a cup of the complimentary coffee, picked up a pastry and found a
seat that was sufficiently socially distanced from other prospective jurors,
given that COVID is still around. I wasn’t the last to arrive. Others continued
to filter in during the next hour, letting me know that my fear of some awful penalty
for missing the 8:30 deadline was unfounded.
Around 9:30, the person in charge welcomed us and
played a video describing the jury selection process. Shortly after the video ended,
a clerk began to call names to assemble a jury pool for one of the trials that
would take place that day. He called 55 names. Mine was not among them. The
clerk led the fifty-five potential jurors out of the room to the elevators that
would take them to the courtroom.
The group remaining had become significantly
smaller. Another clerk arrived and began
to call names for the next trial. Only 22 prospective jurors were being called
for this one. I held my breath as name after name was called. Then I heard my
name. I was juror number 18. The clerk asked a few of the assembled jurors
questions. I heard my name again. What was my occupation?
“Retired attorney,” I replied. He made a note. Then he
led us to the courtroom on the fifth floor and seated us in the gallery. The
judge introduced himself and briefly described what we could expect. Eight
jurors would be picked from our pool of 22. This was a civil trial involving a
personal injury and an insurance company. The good news, we were told, was that
the trial would be over by the end of the next day.
The judge informed us that the process was more “deselection”
than selection. The attorneys would eliminate prospective jurors based on their
answers to questions posed by the judge. The eight not eliminated would be the
jury for this case. The judge proceeded to ask questions. If a potential
juror’s answer was “yes,” he or she should hold up a sheet of paper with their
juror number, and that number would be noted by the judge.
Some of the questions were obvious. “Do you know the plaintiff?”
“Do you know any of the lawyers?”
Mostly, my answers were “no.” Then, the judge asked whether any of us
had studied tort law or the law of negligence. Well, it may have been forty
years since my first year of law school, but I raised my juror number high to
be sure the judge would see it.
When the judge had finished with his questions, the
lawyers for both sides joined the judge at sidebar to deselect those jurors
that they didn’t want on their jury. I had mixed feelings. If I were picked for
this jury, my service would be over by the end of one more day. If I were not
picked, I could still be picked for another trial, and who knew how long that
would last?
They started to call juror numbers and instructed
those called to assemble in the jury box. “Juror #3, Juror #6.” I counted as
each number was called. They only needed eight. “Juror #11.” That’s seven –
only one more, I thought. “Juror #14.” I
waited. Would they pick alternates? No. The judge dismissed us. I hoped they
would tell us we were free to go home. Instead, they told us to return to the
Jury Assembly room.
The Jury Assembly room still contained a fair number
of people besides those returning with me. It was a few minutes past noon. We
were told we could go to lunch, but that we should be back by 1:30. I took a
walk to find the train station for my return trip home, called my wife, and ate
lunch at a Panda Express. I returned to the Jury Assembly room shortly before 1:30
and waited to see what came next. About a half hour after we returned, we were
told we could go home.
