Jury Duty: Impressions

It felt like church. 

I was sitting in a wooden pew just waiting, waiting, waiting and gradually being surrounded by strangers. It's that awkward feeling of being seated at someone's wedding before all the important people show up. 

I almost expected a hymn to start playing to woo me into the spirit of democratic legal proceedings.

After a thirty minute meditative moment of silence, roll was called. That felt like school, with the usual cut-ups making smart remarks or showing up late.

And then I really had to pee. 

But not before I made a Jury Duty Scavenger Hunt for you!

• Someone's buttcrack
• Someone wearing a hat even though the jury summons (paper? notice? invitation?) went on and on about the dress code and how they're not allowed
• A guy that just looks like he smells like after shave and hair gel
• A sugary beverage
• A clock that is set to the wrong time
•  Fort Valley actually had multiples of these. I had the rare privilege of serving right after the time change for daylight savings, so everything was already super off and, yeah, I only got like 3 hours of sleep.

It was really cold in courtroom, but the bathroom felt like a warm, cozy shoebox.

Ok, so more ways that it was like church:

There were large, arched windows that might have been stained glass, but they had the blinds all closed so you couldn't see in or out. Sequestration at its finest.

There were also flags of country and state in the front of the room because Romans 13:1 exists and so it's just comforting to be reminded that God has appointed specific authorities and institutions over your butt.

The bailiffs were like ushers: there to answer your logistical questions, opening little doors for you. These are your tithes hard at work.

And then a guy clothed in black robes came out.

Judge, perhaps.

Preacher, maybe.

The black robe also bestows upon its possessor the spiritual gift of administration.

There was a little back and forth while the associate pastors (district attorneys) approach the pulpit (bench) to talk to him. Probably about communion wafers or something.

After welcome and announcements, we all raise our right hand to take an oath so that now we all know about the perjury thing. The unison agreement felt catechismic, like saying the apostles creed.

"We all affirm...this to be true."

I've always felt weird about oaths because of Matthew 5:37.

What if you refuse to oath?

Isn't it just a tad heady to absolutely swear by what you think you know?

Does one also have the right, yes- even the choice, to not oath?

Full story at 11. 

It's just that I'm in such a habit of telling true stories here that taking an oath seems superfluous. 

I can swear by what I know, but what I know is always in a state of learning, expansion, so...

(I feel like no one has ever thought about the ambit of this.)

Then the judge dives into his sermon about what's actually going on here. 

Years ago when I was summoned by the jury gods before in Savannah, they had a spiffy video to say this whole spiel at an adequate volume with catchy music in the background to inform you of your humanly importance and inspire! you! to be a great! juror! 

They also gave you a sweet $15 and validated your parking.

Not so in Fort Valley.

This is the part where I learned that a grand jury decides what actually has the balls to go to trial. 

And by balls I mean "probable cause". 

After this homily and a few sips of that sugary beverage we spied earlier, the preacher then instructs the choir director to randomly call in order the first 25 members from the audience to join the grand jury choir.

Then the rest of us all sit and listen while they sing to another oath: the grand jury oath!

It's a beautiful hymn of promise, where they all vow to deliberate deliberately.

But here is the full, juicy story at 11:

One of the tenors in the choir didn't sing at all.

He was the one that was out of dress code that we saw in our scavenger hunt earlier.

He didn't make the oath!

After a solemn moment, the church discipline committee approached the pulpit.

The black robed one nodded his head, probably convening in prayer.

Then they swiftly dismissed the non-oather from the choir and called in an alto as a replacement who proceeded to perform a beautiful solo oath.

So it turns out that the old addage "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do" rings true.

You can choose to not take an oath.

You just have to know that you can.

Shortly after, the benediction was given and the assembly was dismissed, except for the grand jury that had to stay behind for choir practice.

I don't know if this blog post is even lawful because I'm not supposed to reveal secret information like it's some freemasonic fraternal blood ritual.

But yeah. I went to jury duty. 

And lived to tell about it.

All four couples right and left grand jury,

TWS

Update: I got a $20 check in the mail for my services. Your county tithes hard at work!