I originally had different plans for my Christmas vacation than serving on a jury for a criminal case. Yet, when I initially arrived home to sunny San Diego from snowy Charlottesville, I was appalled when my mother presented me with an envelope that read “Jury Duty” across its front. Nevertheless, I was told by many not to fear my untimely summoning.
“You won’t get picked,” one said.
“Be prepared to sit in a waiting room all day. Then you’re done,” offered another.
“You might even be dismissed by lunch.” That guy was a bit too optimistic.
I had postponed my service on multiple accounts due to school and summer study abroad, so I figured I might as well bite the bullet. On the fateful morning of Jan. 3, I witnessed the break of dawn for the first time in months — my alarm clock blaring at an ungodly hour. It seemed like no amount of coffee could boost my justice-serving morale, but I threw on a comfy outfit, packed some trail mix and magazines and began my hour-long drive to the Vista County Courthouse.
As I pulled into the parking lot, I quickly realized the distinction between those walking into the courthouse for jury duty and those walking there for even less desirable reasons. I clutched my jury duty notice tightly as I scurried past a woman generously dropping f-bombs to her four-year-old son. It would be an interesting day.
Expecting a sort of “DMV mentality,” I was pleasantly surprised by the attitudes of the Vista Courthouse employees. Everyone there seemed extremely hyped-up on the American judicial system — from the woman who gave me my plastic juror badge with a fat smile to our orientation speaker, who attested to making a lifelong friend at her duty. By the end of the very cringeworthy yet somehow inspiring ‘80s introduction video, I found myself almost hoping to be selected to serve — until the lights came on and the shades were lifted to reveal a beautiful, warm day. Be careful what you wish for.
I had a strategy, you see. I fully intended to sit in the waiting room, reading up on Meghan Markle and watching Netflix for the next nine hours so that the day would count as my service. In the case that I was called, however, I planned to state that I was to return to school in five days and could not sufficiently serve a three to seven day case. About 20 minutes into my reading session, a woman announced the first 41 jurors randomly selected to go to a courtroom. As Effie Trinket would say, the odds were ever in my favor — I was juror number 27.
The first 22 were questioned. The judge — who was as kind and gentle as Mr. Rogers — explained the concept of bias to us through an anecdote about how he naturally prefers big dogs to little dogs because he has a German Shepherd. I couldn’t quite tell what the case was about, other than the fact that it involved police and firefighters as witnesses. Conveniently, many of the jurors had spouses or close friends and family, who held these positions and stated that they would find it hard to discredit such individuals. When asked if her brother’s job as a cop would cause bias, one woman even yelled, “German Shepherd! German Shepherd!” Eleven of the 22 jurors were dismissed. I was up next.
Unfortunately, I had no relations to police officers or firefighters, and I did not feel confident enough to exaggerate or lie on the stand. After we clarified this fact, the attorneys asked, “Where do you live? What do your parents do? What is your job? Where do you go to school? What are you majoring in?” The defense attorney became particularly interested in the last question, to which I answered Media Studies and English. The prosecutor had hit her limit on jurors to dismiss, and the next thing I knew, I was asked to fill the final seat on the jury. The judge felt confident that there was enough evidence in the case for it to finish before I returned back to school — I was stuck. Goodbye break!
The trial began the next day. The defendant, who looked like Lord Farquaad with a bad perm, had been driving along a San Diego freeway when he saw a wildfire occurring on a hill paralleling the road. He pulled over in order to film a livestream for the up-and-coming Twitter news media site Democracy Watch News that was inspired by the Occupy movement.
Problems arose when firefighters and police officers shut down the freeway, and the defendant did not leave. He got into a confrontation with a police officer trying to escort him to his car, which led to his eventual arrest. The defendant refused to leave in the name of journalism — even though he was a self-proclaimed journalist with no credentials to be a member of the media on the site of a calamity. He was charged with trespassing on the closed site of a fire, as well as delaying a peace officer trying to lawfully perform his duties. He was also wandering around the fire site in socks — not shoes — which really didn’t help his case.
The trial went on for a few more days, and each time I walked into the courthouse with my badge, I began to feel more and more official. Break time was boring, however, and it was evident that an exclusive old lady clique was forming — the grandma juror with a purple streak of hair was obviously the queen bee of the squad. One of the days, my mom drove out to meet me for lunch, but I became slightly horrified when she showed up to watch the case later that afternoon and snapped a picture of me on the jury. It was on her Facebook feed within moments.
During deliberation, the true personalities of the jurors came out. We had the hairdresser who was so torn-up about potentially convicting someone that she threw up in the bathroom. We had the retired teacher, who compared everything the defendant did to the behavior of middle schoolers. We had the freshman in college, who was too shy to say a word. I became thankful for my many discussion sections and small classes at the University because I felt totally comfortable holding my own in the conversations and backing up my points with hard evidence — sort of like writing an academic paper. It became apparent that Joe, an old Cal Poly alumnus, and Cole, a young hipster dad, were really “vibing” with my arguments, and they invited me to a glamorous lunch at Chili’s during one of the breaks. Take that, purple haired grandma!
In the end, we found the defendant guilty on both charges. I knew the defense attorney had been hoping my majors would lead me to sympathize with Lord Farquaad, but the facts were facts, and evidence from his own live streaming video convicted him in the end. I was once again reminded about the importance of journalism and its necessity as an instrument of democracy. The case also highlighted the ramifications of obstructing authority figures and not having the credentials to be in dangerous situations. I don’t necessarily plan on entering calamity sites for The Cavalier Daily, but if I did, I would most likely listen to the authorities around me — and I would most definitely wear shoes.
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