You Come Under An Exclusion

I had marked it down on my desk calendar and set my alarm. I was to be at the Lowell District Juvenile Court today at eight am. I had been summoned for jury duty for the third time in my life. The first two times, my “pool” was excused the evening before I was to report.

The vibes were good. I called the evening before and was told, “ All jurors are to report.”

“ I think I’ll make it this time.”

I filled my coffee pot the night before. I awoke before the alarm went off. I chose my cloths carefully, formal enough but also casual. I wanted to look like I took it seriously but not look scary to whatever juvenile I might be facing. I was on the road by 6:45 and in the “jury” parking lot by 7:15 am.

There was one other person there in his car. After a short wait we got out at the same time and started walking toward the courthouse. I’ve always enjoyed being in Lowell. The old buildings, narrow streets, canals give the small city the charm of a time past.

My juror-walking companion and I located the front entrance to the gray stone court building and went in. We had to pass through metal detectors and were instructed to sit on the wooden benches until the jury pool was called to come down stairs. We filed down the stairs, through various assorted rooms. One was some sort of probation office. I was pleased to see the areas in good repair, new paint on the stairs and walls. It looks like Massachusetts is trying to keep up with things.

We entered the jury room and were interviewed by a court officer at the entry. I handed in my questionnaire. It looked to me like I would qualify, never having been a defendant, a victim, having no family members in law enforcement.

“You meet the criteria for an exclusion.”

“How? What exclusion.”

He pointed to my age, seventy-four, plainly written in my hand in the upper right corner.

“What’s the cut-off?”

“Seventy. You don’t have to stay but you can if you want.”

“Will I be called? I don’t want to sit here if I’m not going to be used.”

He said something ambiguous about staying for the introduction, explanation of the process. I sat down in one of the chairs, confused, slightly upset and read through the explanatory material looking for a statement about age limits. My mind was a jumble.
I’ll be 75 in four days. My walking friend to whom I turned for commiseration said.

“Happy Birthday.” “You certainly don’t look seventy-five.”

I decided the best approach was to sit still and see what happens.

A film with our Supreme Court Justice, Margaret Marshall, was played explaining the constitutional basis for the court system, the importance and civic duty of the Juror. I noticed her hair was white and wondered how old she was.

The justice, in who’s Court we might serve, came downstairs to greet us and thank us for our service. Her hair was brown. I wondered if she dyed it. The thought flitted through my mind that if I had known about the “exclusion”, I might have lied about my age.

Justice Flynn said that just our being there made the system work more smoothly, that if there were no juries all the plaintiffs would be demanding a jury trial. The system would get backed up and be overwhelmed.

After the end of the film we were sent for a coffee break and told to report back at 10:20 am. We filed back through the rooms and up the stairs to the street. All the benches in the public areas were now filled with adults accompanying adolescents. The adults looked angry, perturbed, frustrated. The youngsters, whom I took to be the potential plaintives looked bored and as though their thoughts were elsewhere.

I remembered the disrupted home life of our own little family when Ian, our second son, was acting out and enjoying the drama of the courtroom. My husband, Ken, spent one day a week in the Woburn District Court and on alternative weeks in the Concord District Court. This went on for months. Ian had always enjoyed the attention of others and when he discovered he could hold the attention of a whole courtroom, he managed to get repeatedly arrested in both towns. This ended for us when he went into foster care. It ended for him when he turned eighteen and I gave him the ownership of a policy on his life. He almost immediately borrowed the cash value and hired a lawyer for his first arrest as an adult.

My husband and I decided to attend the trial. I can’t remember exactly why. Perhaps because Ian was on his own. We had had some respite while he was in Foster Care and probably thought he had no one else to be there for him. His accuser was his Employer. The accusation was the theft of silver that was found under his bed. He became quite grandiose when he took the stand, denying everything. The Prosecutor was relentless, finally becoming sarcastic. The sarcasm was lost on Ian. Ian’s lawyer had no questions, pocketed the $1,800. Dollars. Ian lost the case and his money.

Back in Lowell we were told that many cases had been resolved and there remained only one that might go to trial. We would know by 11:00 am.

At 11:00 am the court officer said he had “good news and bad”. Someone asked for the bad news first. It was that Friday’s Red Sox game would probably be rained out. The good news was that the remaining case had been resolved and our services wouldn’t be needed. I briefly felt like part of the group again, the discharged, the un-needed.

I guess everyone has that sentinel moment when you confront the number that is your age. Mine happened today. How do you deal with being put on the shelf before you feel ready?