The jury summons couldn’t have come at a worse time.
For the past 18 months, I’d been working on a project that finally began on the very Monday I had to appear as a standby juror in Fulton County.
Surely, I thought, there must be a way to wiggle out of this, as I scanned the deferrals:
Full-time student? No
Primary caregiver with a child 6 or younger? No.
Primary teacher in a home-study program? No
There was no box for “Sorry, I’m too busy.”
And so, at 8 a.m. on a rainy Monday morning, there I was, in Room T-7100 at the courthouse in downtown Atlanta. I was eager to see how many people would show up, particularly in light of our recent stories on the high absenteeism rate among potential jurors in Fulton County.
At times, the county’s failure-to-appear rate is as high as 50 percent – far worse than surrounding counties and well above the national average. The problem, we’ve reported, costs residents a bundle. Because so few respond, Fulton County has to mail far more summonses, and those who serve get called back more often.
If the absenteeism rate were high, you never would have guessed it, at least not on this day: The room was mobbed.
I was surprised by how many people showed up in shorts and flip-flops. And here I was worrying if my cuff links would set off the metal detector.
There was a priest (If I were accused of a crime, I’d want him on my jury) and another guy in gym shorts, a Nike T-shirt that read, GO HARD OR GO HOME, and a Chicago Bulls hat. (I’d just enter a guilty plea and hope for the best).
Most of the folks I talked to knew Fulton County was cracking down on those who ignore their summonses.
Not that it mattered to Abby Fuller, a waitress who lives in Sandy Springs and normally works until 4 in the morning. She arrived on just a few hours’ sleep and illustrated one of the problems we pointed out in our stories: Fulton County has plenty of bad addresses on its list, which might explain why she didn’t get an earlier summons.
Jeffrey Shoap, who owns a consulting firm in Atlanta, had been summoned four or five times, enough to know his way around the process. “If you’re lucky, you’ll be excused at noon. If you’re unlucky, you’ll be out of here at the end of the day. If you’re really unlucky, you’ll get picked.”
For others, such as Hunter Moore, a 19-year-old sophomore at Georgia State, this was a first. Because she wasn’t sure what to expect, she asked her parents about it the night before. Even so, she was a little stunned by the turnout. “I didn’t expect to see so many people here.”
The picture taped to the wall of the cat sitting in front of a jury of 12 dogs – BE A PEER, SAY YES TO JURY DUTY – served as a silly reminder of why we were here. The poster made me smile. Spotting Bruce Springsteen on the cover of AARP in the complimentary magazine rack didn’t.
Yet, it was obvious that for many of us, this was downright inconvenient.
During the morning orientation video, as the narrator asked: “Why jury duty? Why you?” one man blurted out: “Because I’m unlucky.” When we broke for lunch, Shoap turned to the priest and said, “Pray for us, father.” Others groaned as they were summoned to a courtroom, 50 potential jurors at a time.
Fuller didn’t seem to mind: “I have to look at this from the opposite angle,” she told me. “If I had to face a jury, I’d want to be sure there were enough people to choose from.”
As the day wore on, the room emptied: Some, such as Fuller and Shoap, headed to court, though they were dismissed by day’s end. Others were sent home long before that. Most seemed to agree it really wasn’t that awful, and that doing the right thing far outweighed the annoyance.
For the record, I was dismissed at 1:30 that afternoon without ever stepping foot in a courtroom. But, if my editors ask, I was there until at least 6 that night.
After all, I had to perform my civic duty.
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