Last week I wrote about the City Pages cover story about a trial involving allegations of sexual abuse of a child, a trial for which I coincidentally sat as an alternate juror. City Pages picked up on my response and posted a link to it on their blog, The Blotter, which as of now, is also on the front page of their website. The mother of the man who was the defendant in that trial found her way here via the City Pages link and posted a comment earlier tonight. Read what she had to say here.

Perhaps I'll never get around to finishing my entire tale of my experience with jury duty back in January. I continue to work on the third installment from time to time, but the truth of the matter is that while I could find plenty of humor in the process of jury selection and hours leading up to the trial, there wasn't anything funny about a child sex abuse case being argued in court. That makes it extremely difficult for me to maintain interest in writing about it. It's heavy, gloomy subject matter.

I hadn't thought about the trial for quite some time and didn't recall thinking of it as particularly groundbreaking at the time (though it was riveting), so imagine my surprise when I picked up a copy of City Pages last night and discovered that the trial was the subject of this week's cover story. Since this gives me that much less reason to continue writing about it, I'll just sum up my assessment of the case based on sitting through days of testimony.

As mentioned in the article, the defendant was found not guilty across the board. I was surprised that it took them three days to come to a verdict (as an alternate juror, I didn't participate in deliberation), but I did agree with the outcome. I think it is entirely possible he could have abused the boy, but I found the lack of concrete evidence from the prosecution to be astonishing. In fact, I thought to myself several times throughout the proceedings, "How did this case even come to trial?" The prosecution also made extremely compelling arguments, but in the final analysis, if the jury was to adhere to the instructions dictated by the court, they simply could not find this man guilty. Period.

I didn't buy into the defense attorney's argument that there was bias created by the fact that that the same government agency that employs the prosecutor provides a portion of the funding for the child advocacy center that examined and interviewed the accuser. I found this line of reason to be intriguing but disingenuous. What convinced me was that there was simply no physical evidence and that the young boy's testimony was shaky. Obviously almost any 13 year old boy is going to be nervous and shy while testifying about such humiliating subject matter in front of a room full of strangers. But there were too many inconsistencies in his testimony, too many simple facts that he couldn't seem to keep hold of. That was unfortunate since, aside from the defendant, he was the one and only person in the room who knew exactly what did or did not happen.

If this boy was truly abused -- and again, I don't deny that the entire scenario is plausible -- it is a horrific breach of the trust he placed in his uncle, an ugly chapter in both of their lives that will follow them to their graves. However, a jury can't say, "What you say sounds like it could be true. I think it's quite possible that might have happened, and child abuse really pisses me off, so I'll go ahead and find this dude guilty." What if you were sitting in the defendant's chair, secure in the knowledge that you didn't commit the repugnant crimes of which you were accused? Wouldn't you want the jury to consider only the actual evidence and weight the witness testimony accordingly?

ADDENDUM -- 7/17/2007: In rereading this post, I realized that this almost makes it sound like my opinion hinged entirely on the young accuser's testimony. That would be a gross oversimplification of the trial. There were many interconnected versions of the events from many family members and detailed testimony from apparently highly qualified experts for both the defense and prosecution, as the City Pages article details. Again, this boiled down to there being enough inconsistencies in the overall story pieced together in front of the jury, leaving reasonable doubt. I also want to reiterate that my opinion of the case does not speak directly for the jurors who delivered the verdict. This post is purely my personal opinion, and I can only speculate about how they arrived at their final decision.

"This has never happened before!"

When you are constantly told that "this has never happened before" and "this is really unusual" over the span of a couple of days, you begin to wonder if you're being patronized, or if you're truly just one of a few dozen unlucky humps who have been pulled into a seriously odd set of circumstances. This was the line we had already heard time and time again from various court personnel. On Wednesday, we had been told the number of people called in for jury selection was higher than the norm, but that the sensitive and potentially emotionally personal nature of the case, allegations of sexual contact with a child, made it likely that many would be dismissed. As the afternoon dragged on, we were also delivered a tray of soda and water while the judge was out of the courtroom. We were allowed to consume our beverages in the courtroom with the request that we keep it under our hat, as normally it was a big no no. This was followed by begging us to please, for the love of God, not to spill on the carpet, or we would all be beaten to death by a swarm of aging bailiffs. Finally at the end of the day, the judge informed us that we would have to return Thursday morning, explaining that jury selection normally didn't take this long. The sensitive nature of the trial required extra care in every step of the process and extra patience from everyone involved.

On Thursday morning, the exceptions continued. The jury assembly area on the 2nd floor was occupied with a fresh batch of potential jurors for another trial, and the courtroom from Wednesday was in use until 9, so we had been instructed to report to the others courtroom on the 13th floor by 8:45 am. There we found fresh coffee, water, soda, and a basket brimming with prepackaged Rice Krispie bars. Now we were EATING in the courtroom, too? Next thing we knew, they'd be bringing in chamber pots and wet wipes so we could shit and take a sponge bath. I had forgotten to eat my usual morning banana before driving to catch the train, so I eagerly tore into a chocolate drizzled Rice Krispie bar and wisely held my shit for later.

As always, the appointed start time passed without anything happening, and we were left to the waiting game. I struck up a conversation with an older man in his 60's in the row behind me. He was on the panel of 32 selected the day before. I had remembered his biographical spiel mentioning that he was a retired electrical engineer. As it turned out, he had a hand in designing one of the world's first permanent disk drives for mainframe computers. He recounted tales of boxes the size of refrigerators that could hold several megabytes. We both marvelled aloud at how we can now carry literally thousands of times that amount storage on a keychain drive with no moving parts. After our conversation, I wondered if he's had as much trouble getting laid as I do.

At long last, sometime after 10, we were instructed to go to the other courtroom to continue the selection process. In addition to the "speed dating" phase where a panel of 32 randomly selected people offered scripted autobiographical details, they had already interviewed several members of the panel in a private back room during the previous afternoon. After briefly greeting everyone in the courtroom, the judge continued the private interviews. One by one, people emerged from the room, and the next panel member entered. Occasionally, someone would emerge with a broad grin on their face, gather their coat and belongings, and saunter out the door, looking back as if to say, "Have fun, chumps! My curvy cottage cheese ass is outta here!" Obviously the lucky bastard had been dismissed.

But how lucky was he? I began to realize that getting dismissed might not be all that fortunate after all. We had been informed on Wednesday that the court schedule was unusually (there's that word again) busy in January and February, the months for which our group was on call. If we were not selected for this trial, it was highly likely we would be called back in for selection 2 or 3 more times before February was out. That meant that I could end up spending a total of 5 or more days sitting through selections for juries, only to be selected on the last one and get sucked into another 5 or more days of being a juror. Considering I only get 5 days of paid jury leave from my company to use in a two year period, that would lick dong. Sure, I could dip into my vacation days, but who wants to blow vacation time on jury duty? Unless that jury duty involved sitting on my lazy ass at home or cavorting on a beach with a scantily clad aspiring model/actress/stripper/porn star/sex therapist, I preferred doing this once and getting it out of the way immediately. Like pulling a bandaid off of your pubic mound.

After several more rounds of private interviews, dismissals, replenishment of the panel from the remaining jury pool, and more open court here's-why-you-should-love-me speeches, the pickings were getting slimmer and the odds of being called into the pool had increased dramatically. It was pushing noon when the judge returned to the room and requested yet again that random names be selected to replace excused members of the panel. Sure enough, I soon heard my name and city of residence. I quietly sighed, squeezed my way past the others in my pew, and crossed through the swinging brass gate separating the gallery from the rest of the courtroom. The judge instructed me to take a seat just in front of the gallery. Let the final round of speed dating begin.

To my surprise, as the microphone made its way through the new panel members and approached me, I found myself growing a bit nervous. I say surprised because I've spoken in public or in larger business meetings on several occasions without giving it much thought. But I suppose the circumstances were quite different this time. Even when giving a presentation to a room full of bored executives and employees, I could crack at least a very mildly off color quip or smart aleck remark to get things back on track. Now I was about to address a judge in an open courtroom where reverence and respect were key. This put a bit of knot in my gut because I've been known to have the finer details of reverence and respect slip from my grasp when put on the spot. God, please don't let me nervously crack a fart joke in front of the judge! Oh double God--please don't let me nervously fart in front of the judge, either!

It was a few minutes before 12 when the wireless microphone was pressed into my hand. I'd heard the autobiographical spiel dozens of times already and managed roll through most of it without looking at the outline on the sheet. I caught myself "um-ing" and "uh-ing" far too often, but it wasn't like this was open mic night at a comedy club. I wasn't getting graded on timing or diction. I did blurt out that I like to write and have a "humor blog" during the hobby portion of the speech, but thankfully the judge didn't ask about it. I'm not sure how I would have summarized it for him. "Uh...it's about stuff that happens to me. I swear a lot. I talk about yeast infections, but not in a clinically useful way. Oh, and one time I wrote about poop. Just one time though."

The judge did seem keenly interested in my job, and he asked me several additional questions about what I do day to day at work. His focus came as no surprise since a portion of my job involves writing and maintaining software used to request and retrieve criminal records used in background checks. I had long wondered if the fact that I regularly see very detailed personal information about individuals and their criminal records would give me an automatic out, but he stopped his line of questioning before that particular nugget was revealed. Since I didn't personally feel it was a conflict of interest, I didn't volunteer anything further for fear of appearing far too eager to be excused.

The interrogation room

After we all had finished on the mic and the rapping granny did her solo, I had my turn at the private interview. I was directed through three separate doors to a secluded, brightly sunlit room with a long conference table. The sign on the door read "Jury Room." This was where the jury gathers during court recesses and deliberates to reach their verdict. There I was greeted by the judge, who gestured to an empty chair. He sat directly across from me. The court reporter clacked away to my left, the prosecutor and FBI agent sat to my right, and the defense attorney and defendant sat across the table from me to the judge's left.

The judge briefly reintroduced everyone, and began his line of questioning, immediately zeroing in on the written question regarding knowing anyone who'd been sexually abused or raped, to which I unfortunately had to answer yes. The judge asked me a series of questions about each person, my relationship with them, what happened to them, whether law enforcement was called, and so forth. The prosecutor had few questions, but the questions the defense attorney asked made it crystal clear he wanted to understand if I could mentally and emotionally separate what happened to those people I had talked about from the claims made by the young accuser in this case. Once again, I could have had a chance at an out, but I wasn't going to start throwing bullshit under oath. I truthfully answered him that this case was very different, a lot of time had passed since the incidents I talked about, and that I typically take a very logical approach to weighing important decisions. He nodded his head in satisfaction and jotted something down on his legal pad. I imagined him writing, "Journey's Greatest Hits... totally awesome or just really awesome? Ask judge later" and struggled not to smile. Sometimes my brain's self preservation mechanisms kick in at the very worst times, or perhaps the very best, depending how you look at it.

The judge then turned his attention to the open court questions to which I'd answered yes. I had already volunteered quite a bit of information about close relatives who have had or currently are having struggles with alcohol abuse, so he focused on why I thought the testimony of a child might be less believable than that of an adult. In short, I explained that I felt that young children are not inherently less believable or more likely to lie, but they can easily be led to recall scenarios that never happened if constantly probed with leading questions. The prosecutor asked, "Well, what about a 12 year old?" That was different in my mind. I thought most 12 year olds would have the cognitive skills to be less susceptible such suggestibility.

The defense attorney's turn came, and he let loose. What is your age cutoff in making that statement? How are you making that determination? Why would a 12 year old be less suggestible than a younger child? Are you making a blanket statement about all 12 year olds? Would you say other factors could be considered in determining whether that child was suggestible? What are those factors? Holy shit! I had just been lawyered but good. For those few moments, I felt what it must be like to be on the witness stand. He took every answer and turned it around on me, seemingly trying to trip me up and force me to contradict myself. Before I could spin my head back around on my neck, his interrogation ended, and the judge dismissed me. I walked out of the room convinced I'd be axed by the defense with a peremptory challenge.

You're hired

I made my way through the doors back out to the courtroom and took my assigned seat. The churning in my head was winding down after being grilled by the defense attorney in the jury room. Several of the other people ahead of me had been excused, so once the lone woman behind me in line had her turn, the judge, attorneys, and everyone else returned to the court room for what would hopefully be the last round of show and tell. The names and cities were called, the speeches were given, several Grammy awards were handed out, and the private interviews resumed.

Those who remained in the courtroom, regardless of whether they were on the panel, were chomping at the bit to wrap things up. As each of the remaining panel members emerged and returned to their seat without gathering their belongings to leave, the room burst into applause. One poor woman initially had no clue why we were clapping and probably thought her panties were showing. In her particular case, I wouldn't have minded seeing that.

A few minutes after the last jury candidate returned, the attorneys also returned to the courtroom. We had our panel of 32. Now the actual selection and elimination process began. The defense attorney whispered with his client at their table as they studied a list of panel members along with pages of copious notes. On the other side of the room, the prosecutor and FBI agent did the same. A separate list of names was passed back and forth between the two. Each time it left one side's table, more and more names were crossed out. This went on for an eternity.

At last, the courtroom deputy was notified a consensus had been reached, and the judge was summoned. The familiar call of "All rise" rang, and in our eagerness to finish, we all practically lept to our feet. The judge permitted us to sit, and at his order, the names and cities of residence of the jurors were called off in quick succession. Despite my logical desire to serve and get it out of the way, I was infinitely relieved with each name called that wasn't mine (blame it on my shirking gene). Now all 12 jurors had been called, and only the alternates remained. Just as I was convinced I was home free, I heard, "...and the alternate jurors are Jeremy..." Blast! Oh well. At least this was it. The cloud of doubt had been lifted. I would get jury duty done and out of the way right off the bat after all.

It was now nearing 1 pm. Judges must keep M&M's in their robe pockets for energy on the go because I could hear stomachs growling all around me, including my own. He excused everyone who had not been selected for the jury, and directed us to our assigned seats in the juror box. As instructed, we rose, raised our right hands, and took an oath to be totally bitching jurors and to jur the living shit out of that trial, so help us Wilford Brimley. After a long series of instructions as to what we were and were not allowed to make our decisions, we broke for an hour for lunch.

Please remember to tip your porter

After a mildly palatable cold roast beef sandwich at the Federal Cafe, I went through the security line and returned to the 13th floor. I had 15 minutes left and craved chocolate, so I decided to go down to the 5th floor where we had been told there were several vending machines. I found the machines, pumped in my coins, and downed a 3 Musketeers bar and a bottle of milk. I checked my watch. More than 5 minutes to spare. Plus they always start late anyway. I returned to the 13th floor to find that all of the other jurors were lined up in a smaller hallway with the courtroom deputy. Crap! We were supposed to have another 5 minutes! It didn't matter because all eyes were on me as I bounded down the hall to join them.

We were shown how to use a magnetic key card to get into the corridor that led to the jury room. I was familiar with the process since most places I’ve worked dating back to college have had similar access cards. Hold the card close to the magnetic card reader and the door unlocks. What’s to show? Then again, not everyone works in secured buildings and rooms where secretive geekery is afoot. After the demonstration, I realized that everyone appeared to have one of these key cards except me. Since I was still a little embarrassed about being “late” I kept quiet. I'd just ask about it later.

Through the secured door, a few dozen feet of hallway led to a foyer of sorts behind the courtroom. From there, one door led straight to the courtroom and jury box, another led to what appeared to be a library, and one led to the reception area for the judge’s chambers. The final door led to a kitchenette adjoined by two restrooms and the jury room. This meant the jury room could be completely cut off from the rest of the area for complete seclusion during deliberations. And that everyone would be able to hear each other pee and dook with the restrooms right there. Lovely.

After a short orientation, we were left to our own devices and the expected awkward and strained conversation amongst strangers thrown into a small room. I now realized that I was the youngest person on the jury. Everyone else was at least 10 years older than me. And with the exception of one gentleman who had been born in Africa and immigrated to the United States, it was quite a lily white room. I know--lots of white middle class folks in one room in Minnesota? I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes! I rubbed them twice. My eyes, not the white folks.

Eventually we were summoned into the foyer and told to line up by our seat assignments. Since I was in the back row and seated farthest from the bench and witness stand, I would be the first out the door each time. I was also told it was my responsibility to close the door behind me whenever we left the courtroom. So let me get this straight. I essentially get picked second to last for the listening team, and I have to close a fucking door behind me? Who do I talk to about a raise?

This was it though. The real deal. I would be the first face that courtroom would see everytime we entered the room. And me without any Vaseline for my teeth! Ok, smooth out the wrinkles in that suit coat. Tamp down that raging erection. Aaaannnnnnd you're on! I swung the door open, and the courtroom deputy bellowed, "All rise for the jury." Everyone stood. No...fucking...way. They have to rise for us, too? This was some crazy power trip, man. "That's right, you puny seekers of justice! Rise before those who shall ultimately judge you, lest we strike you down with our rays of disbelief and searing verdict of guilty! Ha haaa!!!"

We were all permitted to be seated, when the call once again came to "All rise!" There sure is a lot of standing and sitting when people come into and leave the room in our legal system. Court was now in session. Opening arguments were about to begin. The trial was officially underway.

Coming next: opening arguments and day 3

You may have already won!

About a year ago, I received a notice from the U.S. District Court, District of Minnesota that I could potentially be on call for jury duty for a couple of months in the latter part of 2006. This was for a petit jury, which is fancy courtspeak--and trust me, those fuckers have a fancy word for everything--for a jury that isn't a grand jury. A grand jury decides whether or not to hand out an indictment against someone who has been arrested and charged with a crime. This is not a judgment or commentary on someone's guilt or innocence, but is simply a formal accusation. If the defendant chooses to plead not guilty, a trial is scheduled, and a petit jury is selected to review evidence and testimony in order to ultimately decide whether the defendant is guilty or not.

I didn't even have to open the letter to know that this was not something to be dicked around with. The envelope was clearly marked as being from the U.S. District Court with various stamps and messages about jury duty, felonies for tampering, fines, and being sent to federal pound-me-in-the-ass prison for ignoring its contents. The implied message was open this and read it, or bend over and spread 'em. I chose to open and read the letter, sent back the very detailed personal information form, and hoped I wouldn't have to worry about it further.

The months passed, I found a new job, took a few trips, started dating someone new, and eventually completely forgot about the letter until another stern and official looking letter arrived in November. This time it confirmed that I would indeed be on call for jury duty for the months of January and February in 2007. Fanfuckingtastic. The detailed letter and the form asking to outline any vacations, events, and other potential schedule conflicts made it very clear that this was going to be a huge pain in the ass. I dutifully filled out the form, honestly informed them that I had no schedule conflicts (lying on penalty of anal rape is not a wise decision), and hoped to Christ nothing would come of it.

By the time Thanksgiving rolled around, my dating situation dissolved disappointingly but amicably, and I had a wonderful early celebration of Christmas with my family in North Dakota. Again, I soon forgot about the cloud of jury duty hanging over my head until I returned to my home Christmas Day to find another letter from the U.S. District Court, District of Minnesota. This time it was stamped with "Notice to Report" (or something to that effect). Shit on a fucking cracker! The letter made it clear that I had better show up on January 9th, or a large forked branch from an oak tree would be inserted in my rectum, or some other butt-related visual indicating a pattern of disturbing fixation on my part. The letter also said that I must call a jury hotline after 5 pm the day before I was to report, as these trials are often rescheduled at the last minute. So not only must I not schedule any meetings at work that day, I may have to suddenly reschedule anything for the following day. This just kept kept getting better.

On Monday night, I called the hotline, and sure enough, my jury panel had been rescheduled for Wednesday. I emailed my boss to let him know I would be in for work Tuesday after all, and rescheduled a few meetings. On Tuesday, I called the hotline, and this time our panel was confirmed for Wednesday. "Good," I thought. "Let's get this fucking thing done and out of the way."

I will never itch again

That night I couldn't sleep at all. I tossed and turned, despite eventually downing a total of nearly 200 milligrams of benadryl, or about 7 and a half tabs. I wasn't necessarily nervous about the next day, but I can't sleep when my mind kicks into overdrive. I kept thinking about the logistics of getting there. I had decided that I'd drive to the Fort Snelling park and ride and hop the light rail. The Government Center stop was just a block from the U.S. Courthouse in downtown Minneapolis, so it seemed like a less stressful and time-consuming alternative to fighting rush hour traffic, finding a parking space in a ramp, and walking who knows how far to the courthouse. I've ridden the light rail dozens of times, but never during morning rush hour. The questions and scenarios raced through my head. Would I show up and have a hard time finding a parking space at the park and ride? Would the train be so full that I'd have to wait for another one? Are Chocolate Lucky Charms as good as regular Lucky Charms? Auuughhh! Shutup, shutup, shutup, brain!!! Finally I nodded off around 3 or 3:30 am. The sound of my alarm clock at 6:30 nearly brought me to tears.

I wolfed down a banana and stumbled through my morning routine. Knowing how I sometimes tend to dawdle in the morning, I carefully set out my clothes the night before. While the letter from the jury clerk said we could wear jeans if they did not have any "obvious" holes in them (so a hole in the crotch is ok as long as I keep my legs clamped shut like a Mennonite virgin?). But I decided that if I was going to step foot in a federal courtroom, that I would spiff it up. I set out my dress pants, best suit jacket, black dress shoes, and a freshly pressed button down shirt. I thought wearing a tie would be overkill, however.

I drove the 8 miles to the park and ride, found a parking space on the other end of the earth, and hoofed it to the train platform. The downtown train zoomed away just as I stepped foot on the platform. That would be the trend over the coming days no matter how I timed my arrival. I stuffed a couple of dollar bills into the machine, pocketed my ticket, and silently took my place huddled under a heat lamp with a small crowd of sullen and yawning strangers. With relatively warm temperatures forecast, I only wore my suit coat and didn't bother with gloves. The morning air was chilly, but the radiant heat from the lamp and shoving my hands into my pockets were sufficient to stay comfortable during the 7 minute wait for the next train.

The train ride was punctuated with the sort of noise you'd expect during rush hour. Loudmouth businessmen yapped into their cell phones trying to reschedule meetings, check on sales figures, and periodically announce, "No, I'm on the train! Yeah, the train!" like they were a three year old announcing they'd just made poopy in the big boy potty. But no gold stars were to be awarded. Meanwhile, young bookish looking men read textbooks and listened to their iPods loudly enough for the whole car to hear, and the rest of us kept silent, save the occasional cough or bubbling, wet sniffle courtesy of a winter cold.

Twenty minutes after I stepped onto the train, the warm recorded female voice finally announced, "Government Center Station. Exit right." I stepped out onto the platform and squinted in search of street signs to get my bearings. I knew I was on 5th Street and the courthouse was on 4th Street. The building number was 300, so it must be on the corner of 4th Street and 3rd Avenue. I'm a regular savant that way. The nearest sign caught my eye--3rd Avenue. Perfect!

As I rounded the corner onto 4th Street, I realized that neither building on either side of the street had a visible number--at least one that I could readily see. So I headed through the revolving doors into a very stately looking stone building closest to me and hesitantly addressed the hefty woman in the information booth. "Uh...I'm supposed to report for jury duty. Is this the 300 building?" The rotund woman obviously had been asked this question at least twice for every donut she's ever eaten and let out an exasperated sigh. "Across the street," she droned, lethargically nodding her head in the direction of the exit.

I knew her from her goofy oblong mounds

The revolving door spit me out onto the sidewalk, and I turned my attention to the other side of the street. I immediately recognized the extremely unusual landscaping in front of the other building. There was a large paved plaza spotted with high and steep oval-shaped grassy hills. Some of the hills had trees growing out of them, and some had little cartoonish statues that looked like characters from the Mr. Men and Little Miss books. Amidst the hills were rows of large cross sections of logs and a few benches. At the time the landscaping was completed several years ago, it made the news because its oddball design was dismissed by many as too ridiculous and undignified to grace the entrance to a building owned by the federal government. This was indeed the place I needed to be. Thank you for making a very recognizable point of reference, really weird landscaping designer person.

I pushed my way through yet another revolving door into the cavernous lobby of the U.S. Courthouse. The moment I spied the security line to the left, years of post-September 11th travel had me instinctively fishing change and keys out of my pocket in preparation. The line was mercifully short, and when my turn came I greeted the aging guard, dumped my metallic goods into a plastic bin to be x-rayed, and walked through the metal detector. BEEP BEEP! The guard on the other side waved me over, and again on instinct, I raised my arms so he could wand down my nethers with his handheld metal detector. My belt buckle beeped, and so did my shoes. Why on earth do dress shoes need metal? They're dress shoes, not steel-toed work boots. If you're wearing dress shoes, it's doubtful any planned activities involve the risk of dropping anvils or I-beams on your toes!

I grabbed my bin of keys, change, and erector set parts, and made my way to the elevators. The jury assembly room on the 2nd floor was clearly marked with a sign and an arrow. We were supposed to report at 8:15 am. It was about 7:55 by my watch. I waited my turn, checked in with the refreshingly perky and friendly jury clerk, helped myself to coffee and a cookie, and took a seat amongst the other haggard souls.

Around 8:30, the smiling jury clerk (did I mention how fantastically perky this woman was?) stepped into the waiting area behind the front desk and announced that while only 52 of the 60 expected people arrived, we would go ahead and start. I smirked and barely stifled an evil chuckle as I thought of 8 arrest warrants being issued for failure to report for jury duty. Maybe they don't go that far, but the thought of some jackass trying to skip out on the very hassle I was dutifully enduring followed by the thought of them getting their shirking ass thrown into jail gave me great satisfaction.

While daydreamed about the humiliation of others, the clerk turned down the lights and started an orientation video. I snapped out of it and directed my attention to the video projected onto two large screens at the front of the room. The production quality, music, and the hairstyles and clothing of the actors suggested this video had been put together about 10 to 15 years ago. The actors, playing people who had served jury duty in U.S. District Court in the past, addressed the camera describing their personal experiences with jury duty. A fat farmer in bib overalls leaned on a wooden fence in front of mooing cows and talked about how difficult it was to sit and listen all day. A nurse with gigantic bangs holding a clipboard talked about how interesting it was to learn about our justice system. A business man sat at his desk and interrupted his imaginary phone call to talk about how it felt to be part of such an important decision. A parade of other actors furrowed their brows and spoke of their concerns or misconceptions about jury duty then brightened as they explained how wrong they were and how rewarding being a juror was. Yes, yes, I'm sure it's all very magical.

Twenty minutes later the video ended, and the clerk turned the lights back on. We squinted, stretched, and yawned as she explained what would happen next, which was that we were going to sit there doing nothing for a while longer. The judge was conferring with the lawyers and would come to address us when they were finished. Having forgotten my book at home, I checked my email and read the news on my phone. Once I had read all of the news in the entire world, I napped fitfully.

Sometime before 11, the judge arrived and broadly explained the nature of the case. It was a criminal trial that involved allegations of sexual abuse of a child. My stomach sank. Prior to that moment I had focused all of my energy on how disruptive this process was to me, how it took me away from work and potentially could cost me money if I were selected and the trial went on long enough. It was all about me. But now I had my first inkling of how serious this was. There was a lot at stake both for this child and the person accused of the abuse, and my complaints and personal disruptions were petty in comparison.

Before we moved up to the courtroom, the judge wanted us to answer a yes or no question on a sheet of paper. The question was not one he felt it was appropriate to ask us in open court, but it had to be asked due to the type of trial. We would be asked to explain in private if necessary. I'm paraphrasing, but the question was, "Have you, any member of your immediate family, or someone you are otherwise close to, been sexually abused or raped?" Unfortunately I know more than one person whose experiences would make that answer yes. I checked the appropriate box. Memories of what happened to them came flooding back and my cheeks grew hot. My stomach sank deeper. After everyone had folded their sheets in half and passed them to the jury clerk, we were instructed to take the elevator to the 13th floor ("lucky 13," someone joked) and wait in the hall. This is the floor with the courtroom where jury selection would take place and where the trial would begin afterward.

The wide hall in front of the courtrooms ran the entire length of the 13th floor and was bathed in bright sunlight from a row of massive windows. Through them I could see the stone building across the street where I had previously encountered the exasperated information booth woman in my search for the courthouse. I thought to myself that the half-cooked hot pockets she was surely eating at that moment must look like specks of dust. I felt a brief tinge of guilt at the thought, remembering my own former corpulence, but couldn't stop smirking.

After 20 or 30 minutes of waiting, we were instructed to enter the courtroom and fill in the hard wooden pews to the rear of the room. This is where those wishing to be an audience to the proceedings would be seated during the trial. But for now, they were to play unforgiving, posture challenging hosts to our uncomfortable backs and asses. After another wait of indeterminate length, one of many to come, the court reporter and the woman who I believe is called the courtroom deputy stepped into the room. The deputy called out, "All rise," and everyone in the room rose to their feet as she said, "Court is now in session" and banged the gavel while the judge took his seat and gave his permission for us to return our tired asses to our seats.

The judge again explained that the trial was about the alleged sexual abuse of a child and then revealed why this was a federal trial. The defendant was Native American and the alleged incidents took place on a reservation. Since this was a felony, it was a federal crime. The judge introduced the prosecutor for the United States of America, a very attractive dark-haired woman who appeared to be somewhere around 40, and the FBI agent helping her with the case, a quiet looking gentleman in his 50's with stark white hair. The judge then introduced the defense attorney, a tall and slender chap in his 40's with graying hair (something about him screamed, "LAWYER!"). And finally, he introduced the defendant, a very young, understandably nervous looking Native American fellow in a polo shirt. We would later find out he was just 21.

The judge explained what was about to happen. A list of the names of all participants in the trial, including the defendant, attorneys, and witnesses would be read aloud and displayed on the monitors in the room. If we knew or were familiar with any of these people, we were to make note of it, as we would be asked to explain later if we became part of the jury panel. The panel would be comprised of 32 people selected at random from the juror pool, or the 52 people who had bothered to show up. This panel of 32 would be asked questions in open court, and as people were excused for various conflicts and potential biases, they would be replaced with people randomly selected from those who remained in the jury pool. This process would continue until 32 people, or as close as possible to 32 people, remained. From that 32, 14 people would be selected by the defense and prosecution for a jury of 12 with 2 alternates. The remaining members of the panel had to choose between auditioning for American Idol or America's Next Top Model on the 8th floor and would then be excused, providing they didn't make the cut. The last part seemed rather unusual, but who am I to question a district court judge appointed by Bill Clinton?

One by one, 32 names and places of residence were called, and those people were directed to an assigned seat either in the jury box or a bench just in front of the gallery. I was not among the names called and breathed a sign of relief. The judge said he would ask a series of yes or no questions, and panel members whose answers were yes were to raise their hands. He would make note of who answered yes, and further explanation would be requested later as each person on the panel introduced themselves by following a sheet with a script of biographical information. This process of asking potential jurors questions to ascertain their level of impartiality is called voir dire. The process is also known as excrutiatingly boring or nap inducing.

The judge instructed those in the jury pool who were not on the panel to listen carefully and make note of any questions we would have answered yes to with the pen and sheet of paper provided to us so he wouldn't have to ask all of these questions to new panel members as others were excused. Some questions asked if we were related to any members of law enforcement or court officials. Some asked about personal and family histories of alcohol or drug abuse. Some asked about previous experiences with the justice system, and others seemed completely non sequitur. After each question, there would be a long pause as the judge noted who had raised their hands. Finally around 12:30, the judge announced that we would take a lunch recess and return at about 1:15 pm. Thank God, because I was starving. The banana and cookie I'd eaten hours ago were had long since been processed into energy, used, and converted into life affirming poop.

As instructed by the courtroom deputy, we rose to our feet as the judge left the room through the door seemingly disguised as just another wall panel behind the bench, and we were excused to leave. On the first floor of the courthouse is the Federal Cafe. You can order from the deli counter or the grill. Either option will get you a bland, overpriced sandwich with a pickle from the former and fries from the latter. You may also select from the cooler full of soda, water, and tea. I ordered a pathetic grilled chicken sandwich with fries and selected a big bottle of Arizona plum tea from the cooler. The damage was $8. Christ! Do I get a reacharound with that? I stared at the woman behind the register. I took her silence to mean that no reacharound was forthcoming. I moved on.

Defensive ears are listening

After lunch, we all waited in the large sunlit hall again. 1:15 came and went. We were running on court time now. Specific times mean very little. But God help you if you aren't there when they decide to start. Around 1:30 or 1:40, the courtroom doors swung open, and we were instructed to return to our seats. The Spanish Inquisition continued (and nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition). Finally the judge had finished all of the questions, and we moved on to the biographical portion of the selection process. Each person on the panel took their turn reading from the scripted biography. This would be rather innocuous under normal circumstances, however given the fact that the defendant was in the courtroom, the personal information disclosed in open court was more than a little disconcerting. What if this guy was on trial for murder? I like my legs and knees unbroken, thank you very much!

No one else seemed to be terribly troubled by giving out their personal information, and everyone nervously followed the script, stammering into a wireless microphone as if introducing themselves at speed dating event. A fictionalized example of a juror's spoken biography might be, "My name is Jason Seward. I am 49 years old and live in St Paul. I have a bachelors degree in marketing from the University of Minnesota. For the last 11 years, I've worked the crowds at Vikings and Twins games handing out flyers and coupons for Dream Girls, a strip club in downtown Minneapolis. Prior to that I worked mopping up jizz from the peep show booth floors at Sex World. My wife Amy is 45 years old, went to college for 2 years but did not finish her degree, and works for Wells Fargo in Eagan as a teller. We have two children. Anna is 24 and is unemployed, and Jack is 18 and goes to the University of Minnesota and works part time mopping up peep show booths at Sex World, just like his old man did. I have never served on a jury before. My hobbies include hunting, fishing, and throwing rocks at my reflection in the mirror."

After each person's getting-to-know-you speech, the judge selectively probed them for more details if he thought something might be pertinent to the trial or serving on a jury. He also asked them to explain their reasons for raising their hand to certain questions during the first phase of the selection process and asked them where they read or watched their news each day. Of the first 5 people questioned, the judge immediately excused 3 of them. One was married to a Native American woman and had extensive dealings and contacts with many families on the reservation in question. One had a son who had been treated for childhood leukemia by a doctor who was to be a witness. One simply didn't feel he could believe the testimony of a child under any circumstances. It seemed to be a troubling trend, but they would be the last to be excused, at least in open court.

Sitting in the pews of the gallery, my back was aching, and my ass was numb. At first, listening to the life stories of all of these strangers from so many walks of life was interesting, but it eventually grew tedious. I entertained myself by thinking of all of the amusing tactics my friends and coworkers had suggested for getting excused by the judge. My boss kept tell me me to "give 'em the CRAZY EYE!" and lambasted me for shaving my porn star mustache too soon. A coworker insisted that I eyeball the room and declare that "there sure are a lot of honkeys in here!"

Mercifully, Five o'clock rolled around. The judge announced that we would not finish that day, thanked us for our patience, and that we would resume at 9 the next morning. I was happy the day was over, but less than thrilled that I'd have to return. I came in that morning firmly believing I'd be walking out the door and heading back to work around lunchtime. How very naive I was.

On the elevator ride to the lobby from the 13th floor, for whatever unknown reason, I winced at the thought of waiting for the train with the rush hour crowd. I just wasn't in the mood to stand shoulder to shoulder with the rush hour grumps and without thinking much of it, I called Miss Employed from the lobby of the courthouse. I hadn't seen her for a while and thought it would be fun to meet her for dinner downtown and catch up before I headed back to Eagan. She sounded delighted at the prospect, and we made arrangements to meet in the warehouse district, an area just a few blocks down the street near the legendary First Avenue and 7th Street Entry and the Target Center where the Minnesota Timberwolves play. After dinner, she refused to let me ride the train back after dinner and kindly drove me to the park and ride. I drove home, exhausted from the day and the lack of sleep, and soon drifted off with the television still on.

I didn't even think about it until long after my courtroom experience was over, but I wonder how it would have affected my odds in the jury pool if I had professed my platonic friendship with a call girl to the judge. Perhaps that's one to keep in the ol' back pocket should I get called again. "I'm good friends with a call girl...and there sure are a lot of honkeys in here!" Now that's a winning combination.

Coming next: day 2