Rick shrugged. “Might as well get it over with.”
It was May. He was between semesters. He was doing part-time research for a professor over the summer, on the city-planning failures in Brasilia that had produced the ungovernable favelas. He had the time. Plus—not that he’d say this to Gil—wasn’t there a chance that he might actually be able to do some good? The justice system could use jurors who took their service seriously. And whatever his faults, he was definitely a guy who took justice seriously.
Rick straightened the blue blazer on his slim shoulders.
“Come on,” he said. “One day, two max. In and out, done. What’s the worst that could happen?”
RICK ARRIVED AT the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center to find a scrum of press outside. He figured the reporters and camera crews were an everyday thing—there to cover movie stars fighting speeding tickets, or DJs pleading out to community service for possession. He’d feel stupid later, as the days became weeks and weeks became months, for not connecting the press presence to the fact that Bobby Nock was about to go on trial for the murder of Jessica Silver. What better story would those reporters be interested in covering?
A few minutes before 9 A.M., Rick walked into the juror holding room. The uniformed courthouse administrator checked his name off on a clipboard and handed him a slip of paper that provided him with his new identity: Juror 158.
“For your personal safety and privacy,” the administrator said, “you will be addressed by your juror number and only your juror number for the duration of your time here. You understand?”
“Okay.”
“That means no real names. Not with us, not with each other.”
“Each other?”
“Other jurors.” And with that, the administrator turned to the next one in line.
Rick took a seat. He observed the few dozen people waiting with him. He took in their clothes, their magazines, newspapers, puzzle books, and occasional paperback thrillers.
Who the fuck, he thought, can’t get out of jury duty?
He wondered which of these people would offer easy falsehoods to get themselves excused. Small children, sick parents, financial hardships, mental impairments—any one of these could be used as a reason to get sent home. All you’d have to do is testify to it in front of a judge. The court would have little means to check.
All you’d have to do is lie.
Which meant that the people who’d stayed, whatever else they might be, were honest.
A GIRL TOOK the seat next to his. She was white, with short dark hair and soft features that at first made him think she was a lot younger than he was, before the poise in her posture made him realize she was probably about his age. She wore a navy skirt, a bright and formal top. Most of the other jurors were in jeans and untucked shirts, but she had dressed as professionally as he had.
He thought about saying hello, but figured, Then what? He never knew what you were supposed to say after hello.
They sat in silence until the girl took the final swig from a paper coffee cup and set it down on the floor next to his.
He stood. “Are you finished with that?”
It seemed to take her a moment to realize what he was talking about. “Oh … yes.”
He plucked both cups off the floor and carried them to the recycling bin.
“That was nice of you,” she said when he’d returned to his seat.
He pointed to a placard of rules on the wall. Please dispose of trash appropriately was item number two. “Just following the rules.”
She gave him a once-over, taking in his khakis and ironed shirt. “I’m guessing you’re not the rebellious type.”
She lifted up her backpack and plopped it on her lap. Rick noticed a large Obama campaign button pinned to one of the pockets. The button was square, with H-O-P-E in red, white, and blue.
Rick held up his own backpack, revealing the same button pinned to the front.
“He’s been in office for four months,” she said, smiling. “I guess it’s time to take these off.” She had a great smile.
“Save it. You can put it back on in three years.”
“God, can you imagine going through all that again?”
“Yeah. I can.” He felt as if she was already bringing out something embarrassingly earnest in him. “Did you volunteer?”
“I knocked on doors in Pennsylvania for a couple weekends. I was living in New York then.”
“Nevada,” he said. “I mean, the doors I knocked on were in Nevada. I was living here.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the administrator called out. “Thank you for your service to the city of Los Angeles. If you will direct your attention up here, I’m going to play a short video explaining your duties and responsibilities to this court.”
He dragged a black metal cart from the corner of the room, on which sat an old television. He struggled to turn it on, smashing his thumbs against the remote control with ever greater annoyance. Finally, the screen filled with the image of the actor Sam Waterston.
“This is … unexpected,” Rick said.
“Is that … the guy from Law & Order?” the girl said.
“Hello,” said Sam Waterston on the TV. “And welcome to your jury service.”
They both watched the actor explain their solemn responsibilities over the course of a ten-minute introductory video. Sam Waterston informed them that not every country, or even every democracy, guaranteed a criminal defendant a jury of his or her peers. In France and Japan, for example, judges did the finding of fact. In Germany, a three-person team of one judge and two politically appointed laypeople played the role. The use of juries was what made our system so unique, and so precious to the American experiment. Serving on a jury was one of the most profound acts of citizenship one could perform.
Rick didn’t let the girl see that he actually found the whole thing sort of inspiring.
After the video, the administrator began the lengthy process of calling them up one at a time to be assigned to a courtroom. “Juror 110! Please approach the desk.” The juror was an older man, Chinese, who didn’t say a word as he was assigned to courtroom 201.
“Why do you think he’s doing it?” the girl said, nodding toward the newly christened Juror 110 as he shuffled to the door.
“Doing what?” Rick said.
“Jury duty. It’s easy to get out of. Everybody who isn’t making up an excuse must have a good reason for wanting to do this.”
“Maybe they feel, I dunno, a responsibility to serve.”
The girl observed the older Chinese man thoughtfully. “Or … maybe he’s a career bank robber. Never been caught. Loves testing the limits, teasing the police, pulling off ever more risky heists. So when he got the summons for jury duty, he couldn’t resist a trip to the courthouse that could never put him away.”
“Maybe,” Rick added, “he’ll be assigned to the trial of one of his former associates. Maybe it’s all part of his plan.”
“That wouldn’t be a very good plan.”
“How would you know?”
“The statistical likelihood of getting yourself assigned to the exact trial you want …”
“Ah,” Rick said. “Now I know why you’re here.”