1 of 12 by Paul S. Nielsen

Jury duty. Blood runs cold. Apprehension kicks in. The question "why me" becomes even more personal and pertinent. None of this is untrue as I found out.

I received my letter from The Ministry of the Attorney General about March 4, 2002. "Be ready" it warned. "A missive (my word, but one that just seems so right in this context) will arrive with more specific instructions". None of this will self-destruct. If you ignore us, you'll be the accused. Oh.

I dutifully complied with the instructions. I momentarily rued having been an avid voter, sure that my commitment to the electoral process was the reason that my name floated to the top of the pile. I was popular, but not with a club I wanted to be a member of! Form completed, I affixed sufficient postage (a foreign feeling, being totally electronic in all my communications) and dropped it in this odd looking red metal box - a post box I've heard it described as. And forgot all about it.

The missive arrived.
I could have done like Casper Friendly-Bear and carried it about for many weeks. Let the paper develop a patina commensurate with its importance. But I didn't. I opened it right away and plunged into that cold shower of specific dates, times, responsibilities and penalties. A Sheriff had signed the letter. A Sheriff! The only Sheriff I'd ever known was the Sheriff of Nottingham and frankly this didn't alleviate the apprehension.

On the appointed day, at the appointed hour I reported to 361 University. A building that I intellectually knew was there but had never paid attention to. Well, I now paid attention to it.

4 panels
Such an interesting organizational model. Take about 200 people. Give them a piece of paper (the summons) with a "code" that assigns them to one of 4 panels. Shroud it in pomp and mystery. As the morning progressed, the feeling became more like we were members of a tribe. I was now a member of tribe 70. After we'd carved out our little territories of miscellaneous tables and nondescript chairs, we were greeted by a fellow named Abe, dressed in a mis-matched suit. He spoke to us over a meager P.A. system, attempting to prepare us for the day and the week. He interjected a bit of humour. It seemed wrong to chuckle in a courthouse. Humour is affected to a large part by circumstance (the bar, the bedroom, the farmhouse). Humour in this holding pen was weird.

Then too quickly came the announcement; "panel 70 assemble for court". Wow. I thought that this was to be an interminable wait. For us, no. For all the others, yes. We ended up being the only 12 people selected for a trial that week.

The process took on a decidedly anachronistic tone. Rooted in history, accented with thee's and thou's, following a sequence that quite frankly would self-destruct without the self-importance and history that imbues it.

The judge explained to the 50 or so potential jurors why they were here, what this trial was all about, who the participants were and approximately how long the trial was estimated to last. Frankly, if the austere structure of the judicial system hadn't paralyzed everybody, they'd have run - fast. 2 weeks. Egad.

The judge proceeded through categorized excuses. Financial hardships? Scheduling difficulties? Personal relationships with any of the other participants? Then medical reasons. This last one caused me some vicarious angst. The judge required each person who felt that they had a medical reason for being excused to approach the bench and tell the judge and everybody else in the room about their medical condition. Waitaminit! First, it is no business of mine to know that this person has an appointment for an intimate medical procedure on Thursday. Wrong wrong wrong. Please have some sensitivity. Second, a person who has self-confidence difficulties may prevent themselves from offering a valid medical reason by dint of not wanting to tell 50 people about it. Canadian Judicial system, if you want to improve just one thing, here is a chance to improve respect for the individual right here.

And so it proceeded and after what seemed an eternity of oft-repeated steps we looked up and realized that we had a dozen. 12 people of sound mind, willing to fairly judge facts and credibility. The apprehension seemed to subside but then we realized that the group of people filing out of the back of the courtroom didn't include us. The judge looked at us and if he'd been a movie director would have uttered "lights, camera, action". Holy cow, this is it. Crank up the apprehension again.

The trial was an emotionally draining experience where we alternated between total attention under forced silence and forced humanity when retired to the jury room. The peak of emotion came when we had to finalize the vote on the last charge - for 11 of us. As foreperson, I hit my peak when issuing the verdicts in response to the charge by charge queries. In front of the judge, the court attendants, the public, the Crown, the defense counsel and the eyes of the accused. In a curiously sharp end to the proceedings, the judge thanked us and indicated that we should exit by the back door for the last time. Now!

Returning to our jury room, we were re-armed with our mobile phones and relieved of any paper used during deliberation. These would be shredded and under the law we would be proscribed from ever speaking of our deliberations while sequestered. Not even the judge is allowed to ask how we arrived at our verdicts. What I can say is that this is potentially the most character building and emotion testing experience that a citizen of our country can ever dread or hope for. Keep me on that voters list. When I'm next eligible in 3 years, I'll receive that letter from the Attorney General with a start - and then the anticipation of making possibly the most important contribution to the health and future of our society.
 

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