“When you serve, it doesn’t just improve your community; it makes you part of your community. It breaks down walls. It fosters cooperation. And when that happens—when people set aside their differences to work in common effort towards a common good; when they struggle together, and sacrifice together, and learn from one another—all things are possible.”
—BARACK OBAMA
PULLING THE LEVER at the polls, sitting in the voir dire awaiting jury selection, marching on Washington—these governmental systems and practices are all cozy to me. I come by the feeling honestly: at age eight, my father made a run for city council in New York City and forty years later is chair of his town’s board of selectmen. My parents met while working on a presidential campaign, and we were all encouraged to join our student councils.
Jury duty is a chance to participate in one of our country’s most satisfying systems. A lot of people argue with this, find it counterintuitive. I will make a case (pun totally intentional). If some themes of cozy are connection, organization, and self-knowledge, in jury duty, we have a perfect storm.
Do you remember standing in line in kindergarten? You had to find your partner, move into your “line spot,” listen and pay attention. When I think of the feeling of holding Nina Gould’s hand (both of us were Gs), and looking up to the teacher, who had raised her hand in a peace sign to signal us to be quiet, I get the same feeling as I do in jury duty listening to a judge. When asked by a lawyer if I am able to “come to a decision solely based on the facts of the case and how they align with the law as the judge describes it to you,” I am being asked to get specific and real with past experience and consider if I can do the job at hand. In order for our small societies to work, sometimes, we must listen and do as we are told.
When my first solicitation for jury duty came in the mail, I was living with my parents. I recall Dad holding the summons like it was a golden ticket from Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory and saying, not unlike Leslie Knope from the television show Parks and Recreation, “Oh, Ish! Look what came for you!” without a shred of sarcasm or irony. What he knew was that I was about to connect with the greater good—to him, there is no higher honor. And all I did to earn this privilege was register to vote.
After serving on a civil case back in 1988 (I have served three times since then—two civil, one criminal. I was an alternate on one of the civils and juror number eight in the criminal, a drug case that was unsettling and sad), I asked the bailiff at 60 Center Street, the New York State Supreme Court, if I could serve on jury duty as a summer job. Of course, he stoically shook his head no, but I was earnest.
How I wish people could share in my feelings that jury duty is one of the coziest experiences we have as Americans. First of all, just like at school, you must be prompt—everyone, some slightly grumbling, gets there at the same time, paper cup of coffee in hand. You and hundreds of members of the community from all walks of life—CEOs to guitar players—file through the metal detectors and proceed to your assigned jury assembly room.
Once you have checked in, there are choices to be made. You can assert control just like you can control the tap water in a bath. Right away, you can pick a seat near a window, or in a corner, or maybe next to someone who looks interesting to talk to—or not, if you prefer to read, fill out a crossword, or get work done while waiting. You may bring a beverage into the room. As it is the morning, most have coffee or tea. In the New York courts, there are vendors supplying drinks and small snacks. I imagine the lawyers know the guy pouring coffee by name. At some point, the clerk will come to the front of the room and call random names. This is an exciting time, as you might hear, “ISABEL GILLIES,” and then you can go with your group to meet the judge and lawyers who will interview you one by one to see if you are able to be impartial and determine a verdict based solely on what is written in the law.
During this traditional process, even if you aren’t aware of it, you are unifying with those around you. You are being shaped by the system into a population that will eventually put their minds together, determine the facts of the case, fairly consider, and come up with a plan of action in accordance with the law. Trust is being handed to you; it’s an enormous responsibility, but you are not alone. By the time you and the other members of the jury have sat through the trial and come to a verdict, you are a team. You are bonded forever to a group of people you had never met, and in all likelihood will never meet again. You learn about people’s ideals, where they come from, their perspectives, jobs, children, and sometimes even dreams. I wouldn’t doubt there are a few who have fallen in love on jury duty. Just underneath the bureaucracy, there is a genuine humanity that you can feel from the moment you walk up the steps and under the Corinthian colonnade.
It’s an honor given to us in this country, and in New York City, if you deliberate through lunch, a clerk will come and take sandwich orders that will be delivered from a nearby deli. The first time I served on a jury—thirty years ago—I chose to order turkey and Swiss with mayo on a deli roll and chocolate milk. Everyone got exactly what they wanted.
