July 7, Tuesday
ALL THREE hundred of us were seated in a large courtroom on unforgiving pews, waiting for the judge to arrive.
More waiting. I was wishing I'd taken the time to pee when the door behind the bench opened and Judge Arnold walked in, black robe flapping.
As he settled behind the bench, a door to his left opened.
The U.S. Attorney and her team walked in carrying briefcases and sat down behind a counsel table.
After a few loaded minutes, a door to the judge's right opened and a stocky man in an orange jumpsuit was led in wearing leg chains.
"That's Robert Blackthorne," a man near me whispered excitedly. The defendant walked slowly and swept an arrogant smile over the jury pool before sitting heavily behind a second counsel table with his own team of attorneys. A murmur traveled over the room. The judge banged his gavel.
"Silence in the courtroom," Judge Arnold said in a tone that suggested it wasn't a request. "And silence all cell phones, now." I followed his directions because… well, I follow directions. Plus I was happy to have a reason to ignore the kids' barrage of texts asking where things were.
But throughout, my gaze kept getting pulled back to Robert Blackthorne. He looked like a violent man. Then I stopped myself—that was the kind of conclusion I shouldn't be jumping to, especially on day one.
"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," the judge said.
"You have been summoned as prospective jurors in the case of The United States of America versus Robert Blackthorne.
This is a federal criminal prosecution. The indictment alleges violations of the federal racketeering laws, narcotics trafficking, money laundering, and related offenses.
" He paused and glanced over the courtroom, as if waiting for a reaction.
He got one.
One woman from the jury pool stood, retching, and hurried down the pew to the exit. A half dozen people followed proclaiming loudly.
"No way."
"Let me outta here."
"I ain't doing this."
The judge glowered, but gestured for the bailiff to let them exit, directing him to gather their jury numbers.
I can't lie—the commotion left me rattled, especially since Robert Blackthorne grinned throughout.
I was glad I was sitting near the back, with lots of bodies between me and him.
I reminded myself again the chances of me making it onto the jury were practically nil.
But maybe I'd get a good party story out of it.
"Prospective jurors," the judge said, reclaiming command of the room, "you'll begin today by answering questionnaires. You must answer truthfully and to the best of your ability. Take as much time as you need."
We each received a thick questionnaire, along with a clipboard and pen. It was old school, with spaces for hand-written answers.
Section One asked for personal info that should've been rote but at this juncture in my life, seemed fraught with meaning.
Age: 42. Although I felt like I had less wisdom now than when I was in college.
Marital status: Seeing the word "divorced" in black and white was jarring, but I checked the box.
Education level: Bachelor's degree, business.
Current occupation: I wrote "homemaker," resisting the urge to add a parenthetical explaining years of unpaid logistics work.
Prior occupations: Marketing assistant, two years.
Well, almost two years. I was sure I could handle working and having a baby, but Warren had been offered a promotion that required longer hours so we agreed I'd "take one for the team.
" Spouse's occupation: I added an "ex" in front of spouse, then wrote "car salesman.
" I knew it was petty of me not to list his title as general manager, but I was okay with it.
Household members and ages: two children, 16 and 14.
Length at current residence: 10 years. The big house in Alpharetta had been an upgrade from our little ranch in Doraville, but it had never felt as homey.
Section Two, the money section, made my stomach do a somersault.
Employer: None. Sources of household income: Child support and alimony, two words that still felt strange in my own handwriting, like I'd borrowed someone else's life.
Would jury service create a financial hardship?
No. Since I wasn't bringing in any income, my income wouldn't be missed.
Section Three asked what I thought about the justice system.
Did you trust police testimony? I wrote "generally.
" Do you trust government agencies? "It depends.
" What are your views on prosecutors, defense attorneys, plea bargains?
I sat there for a long moment, pen hovering, genuinely unsure—and then realized that the uncertainty itself felt like a small miracle.
I couldn't remember the last time anyone had asked me my opinion about anything.
I took my time to express the fact that I made my decisions about trustworthiness based on the individual, not on their title or role.
Section Four dealt with the logistics of being a juror.
Would restrictions on phone and internet access create a hardship?
I thought about the PTA and neighborhood watch group chats and my neglected laptop that I used mostly to find recipes and knitting patterns, then wrote "No.
" Could you be away from professional and personal responsibilities for approximately six months?
I hesitated, twirled my pen, hemmed and hawed, then reminded myself it didn't really matter because I'd never be selected for this jury.
So I wrote "Absolutely."