It was the fourth time in 15 years that I had been summoned for jury duty in the Superior Court of DeKalb County, one of the ten counties in metro Atlanta. Like many citizens I wasn’t keen to serve. Adding to my reluctance was that I had been assigned to the jury pool for a case involving a man in his 30s who had been charged with three counts of sexual molestation of a minor. The possibility of listening to sickening graphic testimony for several days even further heightened my wish to dodge jury duty.
However, I did decide ahead of time that I would not adopt a strategy of foolery, obfuscation, or prejudice to dissuade the prosecutor and the defense attorney from choosing me (as I heard a few others mutter to themselves prior to selection). Upon leaving the assembly room, each potential juror was given a numbered sticker to attach to our clothes for identification. I was juror #32. (I later sensed that these numbers along with the generic titles such “defendant,” “defense lawyer,” “the prosecution,” “the judge” are a means of depersonalizing the trial process to protect those involved in the trial from becoming too emotionally vested.)
Approximately 80 potential jurors were assembled in the courtroom and given the equivalent of auction paddles with their respective juror number. While the prosecutor and the defense attorney asked questions we were instructed to raise our paddles when answering in the affirmative. Such questions included: “Have you or anyone close or in your family ever been sexually assaulted?” (no – my answer). “Has anyone in your family ever been convicted of a felony and sent to prison?” (yes). “Have you ever given a statement to the police?” (yes-uh-huh-sorta). “Have you ever had a bad experience with a law enforcement officer?” (no). “Can you be impartial?” (yes, but I am supposed to be, right?) The lawyers from each team jotted down our responses. After lunch, 80 jurors were divided into smaller groups of about 20 to answer follow-up questions.