It would be easy to presume that nothing good comes in the mail with the beginning, "This court summons you …"
Yet I wasn't unhappy to see that for the first time I was remembered by the people who run juries. If I lived in St. Louis, I might have been called a dozen times already. But Madison County ignored me for decades.
Well, maybe not ignored. I covered its courts as a reporter for years, and I supervise this newspaper's police and court reporters. I'm not sure who would want, or tolerate, me as a juror.
It's natural to be curious about life as a participant instead of an observer. I did go before a judge once to make my case that a traffic ticket involving an expired license tag was unfair because the state never sent a renewal notice. I won, and retired from law with a 1-0 record. This would be different.
Last week's jurors assembled at 9 a.m. Monday in a classic third-floor courtroom where I'm sure the older among us imagined a clash between Perry Mason and TV nemesis Hamilton Burger. I was imagining prosecutor Robert E.L. Trone and defense lawyer Irving Wiseman, legal giants of their day, in a real murder case in the same room in 1972 — the first trial I ever covered.
I was soon herded to the jury assembly room, a stuffy waiting area in the basement that was stocked with magazines, books, puzzles, two TV sets and 13 more jurors than chairs. The hardship was short-lived for 40 of us ordered to Courtroom 312, to be considered for a civil suit alleging that a doctor's misreading of symptoms contributed to a woman's death.
My assignment of a low number, 7, ensured me a cushioned chair in the jury box. Most of the others were relegated to wooden pews that appeared to offer no more comfort than when I occupied them for countless cases. The questioning of our group went on for hours, supervised by Judge Bill Mudge.
No, I don't know the plaintiff, defendant or lawyers. Yes, I have had EKG tests. No, the campaign for malpractice claim limits would not affect my fairness. Yes, my mother had a heart ailment. No, she didn't die from it.
Two prospective jurors broke into tears recounting the deaths of loved ones. A different one started to argue for lawsuit reforms. That illustrated the fine line lawyers walk between probing for prejudices and inviting a speech that might poison the whole bunch.
Then we waited outside for almost an hour before the announcement of those chosen. I counted 10, 11, 12 and thought, "Please don't let me be 13 or 14." That would mean serving as an alternate, a lot like playing basketball from the bench.
My name wasn't called. But why not? Wasn't I good enough? Was it my past experiences watching courts? Mom's heart? My EKGs? I'll probably never know. At least I was free by 3 p.m., although ordered to return the next day.
That Tuesday was spent, except for lunch, in the assembly room. We were down to about 10 people from Monday's 200. Some had been dismissed, perhaps, and some were being quizzed for other trials. I was thinking about murder again. Only this time, I'd be the defendant and whoever writes the New York Times crosswords would be the victim. I looked up at the TVs and saw "Days of Our Lives" was on. I returned to the impossible crosswords.
Good news: We were out at 3 again. Bad news: First, we had to fill out questionnaires for possible duty in a two-week, asbestos-related trial. We were to call a recording later to learn if the case was settled out of court. If so, we'd be free.
Anticipating I'd write this column, I suppose, the personable official jury wrangler — an especially bright spot in the process — yelled to me as I left: "Be sure to spell my name right."
I yelled back, "It depends on what I hear on the recording."
The case did settle. So her name is spelled L-i-n-d-a M-u-r-r-a-y.
Jury service was almost a distant memory by Friday, when I heard that my chosen counterparts in Room 312 delivered a verdict in favor of the doctor.
