July 10, Friday
A BAILIFF announced there were roughly one hundred of us left in the running for six months in a windowless courtroom.
And then they split us up further. We were called forward in groups of twenty to sit on the front rows.
Since I was in the last group, I had the benefit of watching the judge quiz the other groups and dismiss many jurors based on their responses.
I thought I was prepared when he called the last group, but I was strangely nervous.
"I'm going to ask you a series of questions," he said. "If the answer applies to you—if you feel you could not be fair, could not set aside a bias, or could not fulfill the obligations of this jury—I need you to raise your hand. There's no wrong answer. There's only an honest one."
I sat up a little straighter, the way you do when a teacher says "this won't be on the test" and you immediately assume it will be.
"Is there anyone here who has a personal connection to organized crime, either as a victim or otherwise, that would affect their ability to be impartial?"
One hand went up, near the end of the row.
The judge made a note, thanked the man, and—with an efficiency that felt almost gentle—excused him on the spot.
He gathered his things and left fast enough that I nearly envied him, then felt guilty for envying someone whose reason probably involved real pain.
"Does anyone here distrust law enforcement to the degree that you could not weigh police testimony fairly?"
One hand, slow, reluctant. Excused.
"Conversely—does anyone trust law enforcement so completely that you could not consider the possibility of police error or misconduct?"
A man two seats down from me raised his hand, looking almost relieved to have a category that fit him. Excused.
It went on like that—questions about defense attorneys, prior jury service, or relationships with anyone in the courtroom, including the attorneys, their offices, bailiffs, court reporter, and the judge himself. One more hand. Then another.
By the time the judge finished, about half of the original group was gone. And I was still standing—er, sitting.
"For those of you remaining," the judge said, "I'll ask you to return Monday morning. At that point, we'll move to individual voir dire—one-on-one questioning, in this courtroom, with myself and counsel for both sides."
He paused, and something in his tone shifted—not unkind, but more deliberate, like he was choosing each word.
"I want to be honest with you. Some of these questions can feel personal.
Occasionally, they bring up emotional responses people don't expect.
That's normal, and it's nothing to be embarrassed about.
" His expression was almost fatherly. "By the time this process is finished, I'll know each of you considerably better than I do right now.
And I suspect some of you will know yourselves better, too. "
I laughed along with everyone else, the polite laugh a room makes when a judge says something almost funny. But underneath it, something in me went very quiet.
Walking out to my car, I turned the judge's solemn words over in my head, expecting the obvious worry to surface—that strangers were about to learn about my marriage, my finances, my whole messy year. But that wasn't it. It wasn't what they might find out about me that had my stomach in knots.
It was what I might find out about myself.