I vividly remember when I received my first ever jury summons. Suffice it to say that I was not pleased.

I immediately began trying to rationalize the reasons for my frustration. My internal dialogue went something like this:

I’m too busy with work!

But yesterday you said that work has been super relaxed…

It is going to mess up my routine!

You don’t have a routine…

I have plans those days!

Haha now you’re just lying to yourself…

Fine! I just don’t want to do it, damn it!

Yeah me neither.

Frustrated with my inability to come up with any reasons other than my own laziness, I decided to console myself with a promise: I’d figure out how to get out of it! Surely it couldn’t be too hard, right?

In the following days I asked my friends and coworkers to help me brainstorm tactics that I could use to get excused from the jury. Here is a sampling of the wonderful advice I received:

  • When the judge asks if you have any biases, tell them that you don’t trust attorneys, judges, or the police!
  • Show up to the courtroom with an NWA hoodie that says ‘F*** the Police.’
  • Just show up super drunk.

The suggestions were absolutely ridiculous. One comment really stuck with me though. A very respectable coworker of mine said to me flatly, “If you’re smart, you can get out of it.” It was as if he was challenging me. I’m a smart guy. I can get out of it, right? Wrong. Fast forward two weeks and I was selected as a jury alternate.

Before explaining how it happened, some basic context on juries might be helpful. In California, criminal trials require the selection of twelve active jurors and two alternates. Both groups sit through the trial and listen to all the evidence and arguments. However, only the active jurors participate in deliberations and deliver the verdict. So what is the purpose of alternates? Basically, alternates are there in case a juror is unable to complete their service for any reason i.e. they keeled over. Enough context, how did I get selected?

I was due to arrive at court room by no later than 9:30am on Tuesday. Naturally, I hopped out of the Lyft car at 9:28 and ran into the building. After racing through the metal detector and up the stairs, I found myself outside of Court #21, right on time. Turns out there was no need to rush. Courts, like most other government institutions, typically run late. At around 9:45am the bailiff opened the doors to the courtroom and ushered in everyone summoned for jury selection; about 50 people in total. We were each seated in a chair outside of the main section of the courtroom, and were instructed to wait for the judge’s arrival. After a few more minutes of low volume grumbling about the lateness of the proceedings, the judge arrived. He seemed to be a jovial man, and greeted us all with a warm hello and a smile. This slightly irritated me because before his pleasant arrival, he seemed to be a natural scapegoat for my annoyance.

The judge began by thanking us at length for showing up and performing our civic duty. He showered us with compliments and basically said that it was people like us that allowed our society to prosper. There is no doubt that this was a disarming tactic; one geared towards buttering us up to maximize our cooperation moving forward. It worked. He then continued by explaining our responsibilities as possible jurors which included some sleep inducing legalese. Basically, we were not to talk about the case with anyone, or investigate the case in any way for the entirety of the trial. He had more to say than this but honestly, I might have dozed off in the middle of it. He concluded his spiel by telling us the nature of the case: a DUI charge. Satisfied with his introduction, he handed the reins over to the courtroom clerk. She did not have a friendly disposition to match the judge. The whiner in me finally had a scapegoat.

The clerk stood before us and explained the logistics of jury selection.

I am going to read off 24 names, one at a time. Each name called will be assigned a chair number. If I call your name, you are to grab your belongings and take a seat in the chair labeled with the number you were assigned. This group of 24 will be the first group of potential candidates for the jury (technical term is venire). Only if the court fails to find 14 suitable jurors from the original 24 will those whose names I did not call be subject to questioning.

Everyone held their breath as the court clerk began to read off names; no one wanted to hear their name called.

“In seat number 1 will be John…”

About 49 simultaneous sighs of relief swept through the courtroom while a downcast John grabbed his briefcase and took his seat. One down, 23 more to go!

“In seat number 2 will be Elizabeth…”

Good not me. The numbers continued to be called out one by one.

“In seat number 23 will be Becky…”

Oh my god, just one more, I can do this!

“In seat number 24 will be Joseph…”

At this point I had to hold back a cry of relief. I had survived. Thinking back, the amount of stress that had built up around this process was totally absurd. You would’ve thought that hearing your name called was meant you were to be marched off to prison yourself. Regardless, I was thrilled. That is, until I heard the clerk’s voice again.

“Joseph, are you here today?”

Crickets. The damn guy was a no-show.

“Alright, I will call another name to fill in seat number 24. That name is…”

I knew it was going to be me before I heard clerk utter the first syllable of my name. Of course I would be unlucky enough to take that seat. As I grabbed my backpack and sat in seat number 24 in the courtroom, I silently cursed Joseph Whatever His Last Name Was.

After getting over my initial disappointment at being selected for questioning (technical term is voir dire), I resigned myself to the situation. It was fine, I could get out of this. All of the ridiculous excuses I had planned filled my mind. I was ready. That is, until the judge dropped the perjury bomb. He kindly reminded us that as we were all under oath, any misrepresentation of our true beliefs would make us subject to perjury charges. Yikes! Was it an empty threat? Probably. Did I care? Hell no. Any inclination to make up a bogus belief evaporated. Perjury? Yeah, not worth it to me. I was scared straight.

The judge opened with questions regarding any potential financial or medical hardships that would make one incapable of serving on the jury. I wanted to remind the judge that when you live in San Francisco, any time off work leads to financial hardship. Anticipating this retort, he proceeded to define financial hardship, making it clear that unless you were a homeless single mother of four he was going to laugh you right back into your seat.

The next round of questions pertained to the specific nature of the case - it being a DUI. This segment of questioning is where all the fun stuff went down. There were three types of potential jurors in the courtroom that day: Those who were willing to say anything to get excused from serving. These people weren’t phased by the threat of perjury. Those who were trying desperately to recall honest beliefs that would get them excused. These people were scared into honesty. Those who had resigned themselves to performing their civic duty. These people were goody-goodies. Just kidding!…. sort of.

I was in Group 2 — too honest to misrepresent my beliefs but too selfish to want to spend my time on a jury. The funny part about these three groups is that it was very easy to figure out to which group each person belonged. The Group 1’s voiced opinions to nearly every question, sometimes eloquently, sometimes confusedly, and sometimes obnoxiously. Us Group 2’s waited for opportune moments to express our sincere personal biases but when questioned about whether we’d be able to put our biases on hold for the trial, we invariably capitulated. The Group 3’s were boring because they just didn’t raise any concerns whatsoever.

Most of the action centered around the people in Group 1. Their commitment to getting out of jury duty was both entertaining and infuriating. Take this one guy, a psychiatrist who had been practicing for some 30 or so years. This guy was very articulate, and clearly pretty smart. However, he was adamant that he couldn’t serve on the jury.

Psychiatrist: Your honor, I work with alcoholics and drug addicts all the time. At this point, I am incapable of trusting anything that someone who uses drugs or alcohol says.

Judge: I understand that you have developed those biases from your professional life. Would you be able to put those biases aside for the purpose of this trial?

Psychiatrist: No. It would be impossible for me to do so. I can’t trust the word of someone who uses drugs or alcohol.

Dude… The guy was either the most psycho psychiatrist on the planet or had a killer poker face.

Many people shared personal stories about friends or family members who had been involved in car accidents. Some were alcohol related, others were not. I believe that everyone who shared a story was hoping that these honest (or imaginary) personal connections to traumatic car accidents would make them unsuitable candidates for serving on a DUI case. I thought it was a pretty good strategy and hearing a few of these stories reminded me of my own.

Back in 2004 my childhood best friend, and his father, were killed in a car accident on their way to New York for Christmas. The accident was due to weather conditions, not alcohol, but I recounted the event to the judge. At first I felt bad using the story as a tactic to try to avoid serving on the jury. As I began to tell the story, something changed. I realized that I wasn’t actually trying to get out of serving anymore. Instead, I realized that this event really did leave me with a lasting bias as it relates to automobile safety, and I felt an obligation to inform the court.

After carefully listening to me recount the event the judge apologized for my loss, and asked the all important question, “Do you think you will be able to put aside those biases and judge this trial solely based on the evidence presented?” At this point, I gave up on the idea of actively trying to avoid serving. I am a reasonable person, I can put aside my biases, I should perform my civic duty. “Yes, your honor. I can.”

The next round of questions pertained to legal notions such as reasonable doubt. As it was defined by the judge:

“Proof beyond a reasonable doubt is proof that leaves you with an abiding conviction that the charge is true. The evidence need not eliminate all possible doubt because everything in life is open to some possible or imaginary doubt.”

Hearing it defined for the first time, the notion seemed to be pretty self-explanatory; I couldn’t think of an objection to it. Now that I’ve had more time to think about it, however, I am convinced that reasonable doubt is far less clearcut than I initially thought it to be. Maybe I’ll write something about it in the future.

The last segment of questioning afforded the prosecutor and the defense attorney with the opportunity to ask questions to the potential jurors. Most of these questions were follow-ups to stories that people had shared during the course of the judge’s questioning. Both counsels took special care to phrase their questions so as to highlight the particular areas of concern that they had. The prosecutor for example, decided to more carefully question an elderly woman who was a religious sister living at a convent in the city. The attorney asked her questions like, “Sister, I understand that forgiveness is central to your belief system. Would you be able to put that tenet aside and judge this case solely on the basis of the facts presented and the laws explained?” The prosecutor was concerned that her proclivity for forgiveness would lessen their chances if she were to serve on a jury.

After both the prosecutor and the defense attorney completed their questioning, voir dire was completed and it was time for selection. To begin, the judge would excuse individuals who required exclusion for legal reasons (more here). Out of those remaining, the 12 people sitting in the lowest numbered seats would form the candidate jury. Next, the prosecutor and defense attorney would be afforded the opportunity to excuse members of the candidate jury as they desired (peremptory challenges). When a juror from the 12 was excused, the person sitting in the chair with the next lowest number would fill in their spot. This process would continue until both the prosecution and the defense were satisfied with the jury.

The judge excused four people in the first step, one of whom was Mr. Psycho Psychiatrist. The guy had so explicitly stated his bias that it was surely impossible to allow him to serve on the jury, even if he was intentionally being deceptive. A woman who had a close family member die in a recent drunk driving accident was also excused. As for the other two people, I can’t make a good guess as to the reason. They both had opted to respond to the judge’s questions in private, so who knows what they could have said. With 20 people remaining, the prosecutor and the defense attorney went back and forth eliminating a total of 4 more people. With 16 members of the initial venire remaining, both the prosecutor and the defense attorney were satisfied with the jury. The jury was then sworn in. I was safe!… From the jury.

At this point you might be wondering about the alternates. How did they get selected? I was wondering the same thing. Out of the 4 remaining people, I was sitting in the seat with the largest number. If alternate selection followed the same process that had been used for selecting jurors, I had the best chance of being safe. Not only that, but the other three people didn’t raise any major objections during the questioning; one of them didn’t say anything at all! My hopes began to rise, I would get out of this! While being honest! You can imagine my disappointment when after the judge huddled with the prosecutor and defense attorney, the judge called my number as one of the two selected alternates. They excused the guy who didn’t object to anything the entire time! Note to self: next time, don’t say a word!