The dreaded call came informing me that it was my time for jury duty. The judge asked people to tell him why they couldn’t serve. My husband is a lawyer, but I didn’t get a pass for that. The excuses were pitiful. However, one woman stood up and said that it was Purim, a Jewish holiday and that she needed to be at home for it. The judge excused her.
“Does anyone else have the same problem?” the judge asked. I could not believe the number of hands that went up in the juror pool. The hand-raisers didn’t look Jewish, but the judge let them off anyway. I am Jewish, I could have raised my hand, but it would have been hypocrisy.
Groups of twelve people walked up to sit in the jurors’ box and face voir dire from both the prosecution and the defense. I was in the second group.
The defendant, a young black man, was representing himself. He was accused of robbery. The police had caught him with the stolen goods and the utensils he’d used to get into the buildings, yet he persisted in believing that he should represent himself. He’d forgotten the old adage that a person who represents himself in court has a fool for a client.
When it was his turn to question me, I pleaded with him to accept a public defender’s offer or hire a criminal attorney. I told him that my husband’s partner was a criminal defense lawyer and that he would give him the same advice.
“Your honor, I’m prejudiced against the defendant,” I said. The judge couldn’t get me out of the jury box fast enough. He told me to pick up a slip from the bailiff that would excuse me from being called for jury duty for the next two years.
As I was walking across the room to get the slip, I heard the judge ask, “What is your husband’s partner’s name?” I told him. He knew him, of course, because he’d appeared in this courtroom many times.
I couldn’t believe what happened next. “I know your husband,” the judge said and mentioned his name. “He’s a great attorney. Please give him my best.”