Jury Duty Blog
Jury duty is something that DC residents have to perform much more than almost anyone on the planet, at least according to my unofficial anecdotal surveys. In ten years in the District I have served five times, just within the legal limit of how many times they can call you. Today I did my latest.
The experience is always heavy for me as it is a window into the underbelly of DC and the daily tragedies that are played out in the criminal justice system.
I arrived at the I. Carl Moultrie III courthouse on Indiana Ave at 10:30. The building itself is an assault on the senses: ribbed concrete stained by the years and on a windy, cold plaza. The building is named after the head of the DC Superior Court at that time, 1972. The exterior of the building is etched with the names of about ten other civil servants and the walls of the atrium inside are filled with the names of former judges. I cannot imagine a private sector equivalent to this sort of vanity and self-importance.
Outside, there were two long lines to pass through the metal detectors and screening machines so I joined one of them. Sadly, the eye can immediately distinguish those serving jury duty and those who are there to see a trial of friends or family members. The jury pool comprises all races and nationalities: the hip urbanista, the business woman reading the WSJ, the somewhat frail and elderly genteel black woman behind me and the doddering elderly WASP man wearing a tie and tweed jacket but looking sort of rumpled, like his wife passed away years ago and he doesn't quite know how to launder his clothing properly.
In contrast to the diversity of the jury pool, the court attendees were uniformly black and underclass. Think: The Wire in DC.
After passing through security, I went to the juror check-in. The line was unimaginably long. It took me one hour and 45 minutes to check in, a new record. The frail woman behind me was ready to pass out. We were then dismissed for lunch and a couple of hours after lunch were dismissed for good. In the line to get our $4 for serving, the man ahead of me was illiterate and couldn't understand the screen prompts. Ten minutes later after I helped him get through the transaction II thought, how could an illiterate man serve on a jury?
DC jury duty confronts you with all of the dysfunction of this city, from having so many felons that we get called every two years to having potential jurors who cannot read or write. It also confronts you with the long arm of the law, as so many cases are drug-related. It also reminds you that judges are so entitled and imperious that they get their names etched into a public building.
The experience is always heavy for me as it is a window into the underbelly of DC and the daily tragedies that are played out in the criminal justice system.
I arrived at the I. Carl Moultrie III courthouse on Indiana Ave at 10:30. The building itself is an assault on the senses: ribbed concrete stained by the years and on a windy, cold plaza. The building is named after the head of the DC Superior Court at that time, 1972. The exterior of the building is etched with the names of about ten other civil servants and the walls of the atrium inside are filled with the names of former judges. I cannot imagine a private sector equivalent to this sort of vanity and self-importance.
Outside, there were two long lines to pass through the metal detectors and screening machines so I joined one of them. Sadly, the eye can immediately distinguish those serving jury duty and those who are there to see a trial of friends or family members. The jury pool comprises all races and nationalities: the hip urbanista, the business woman reading the WSJ, the somewhat frail and elderly genteel black woman behind me and the doddering elderly WASP man wearing a tie and tweed jacket but looking sort of rumpled, like his wife passed away years ago and he doesn't quite know how to launder his clothing properly.
In contrast to the diversity of the jury pool, the court attendees were uniformly black and underclass. Think: The Wire in DC.
After passing through security, I went to the juror check-in. The line was unimaginably long. It took me one hour and 45 minutes to check in, a new record. The frail woman behind me was ready to pass out. We were then dismissed for lunch and a couple of hours after lunch were dismissed for good. In the line to get our $4 for serving, the man ahead of me was illiterate and couldn't understand the screen prompts. Ten minutes later after I helped him get through the transaction II thought, how could an illiterate man serve on a jury?
DC jury duty confronts you with all of the dysfunction of this city, from having so many felons that we get called every two years to having potential jurors who cannot read or write. It also confronts you with the long arm of the law, as so many cases are drug-related. It also reminds you that judges are so entitled and imperious that they get their names etched into a public building.
Labels: Leonardo
posted by Leonardo at 5:57 PM
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