do you swear to tell the truth?

This morning, I learned that the state of Texas is the only state left in the U.S. that will allow traffic offenses to have a juried trial. Sitting in the Jury Assembly Room on Lubbock St., a judge who looked exactly like Kathy Bates told us this, and cautioned that, far from being a waste of time, such trials are an essential part of democracy here in Texas.

I have a really full history of being called for Jury Duty. I get called at least twice a year (last year I was called to serve on my birthday!), and I have yet to actually be selected. Today I found out that one of the reasons this might be is that I have one name on my driver's license and another on my voter registration (the first one does not include the III part of my name, and the second one does). No one really likes jury duty, and I always feel especially put upon when I am called since, for me, to miss work means I have to cancel class, and if I actually got picked to serve, who knows how much class would be missed? The whole semester could be de-railed. I have written countless letters asking judges to be excused from jury duty service, always careful to close by declaring that, surely, I am more of a service to the state of Texas by teaching poverty-level and working class students how to write and think than as a juror. So far, this has only gotten my dates postponed.

About two years ago, I was at the voir dire for a capital murder case. The defendent was seventeen years old. The lawyers kept making informative statements followed by questions like, "In the state of Texas, at the age of seventeen, you can be tried as an adult -- does anyone here find that problematic?" and "In the state of Texas, you do not have to have DNA evidence in order to establish guilt beyond a reasonable doubt -- does anyone here find that problematic?" Since I found both problematic, I raised my hand high and spoke at length about the cultural relativity of age, the ethics of human storage, the crowding of death row, innocent men being killed by the state, etc. The woman sitting next to me heaved a big, irritated sigh through her nose and, finally, the judge interrupted me, told me to stop talking, and explained to the jury pool that if life was like television, and forensic evidence needed to be supplied, the whole system would get clogged and nothing would ever get accomplished. After the next question, which had to do with opposing the death penalty for religious or political reasons, I raised my hand again and the judge told me not to raise my hand or speak again since it was already clear that I would not be selected for service.

Today was much less exciting. I sat in the jury room for about two hours before being called to voir dire, and it was explained to all of us that, if we did not make it to the jury, we had to report back to the assembly room and we'd get cycled through again until 5pm. So, unlike the times I have been let go for being a loud mouth, this time I would have to stay, regardless. At 11.30am, we were called into a trial for a man who ran a red light and wanted a jury to deem him innocent or guilty. He was up against a police officer, the ticket-writer. The woman representing the state asked if any of us had ever run a red light and been given a ticket and, this time, I raised my hand but had very little to say about it. In fact, I agreed that it did not affect my ability to fairly decide innocence or guilt. (Although I did have a minor anxiety attack over the fact that I could not remember, after I claimed that it happened, if it was indeed a red light or a stop sign that I ran several years ago. I had, after all, pledged to tell the truth.) The man who was contesting his ticket was being represented by a very young-looking lawyer who made this joke: "Now, I assume we all know what a traffic light looks like, right?" But, for some reason, I am the only one who laughed. The rest of the crew were solemnly nodding their heads, as if to show the austerity of intersections and red light-green light. He explained to us that the man was innocent until proven guilty, and asked if we all understand that it was the burden of the state to prove it to us. More solemn head-nodding. After this, the jury was picked, and I did not make the cut.

We were given an hour to have lunch and get back to the assembly room, and so I walked to a place called the Avenue Grill, which was kind of like Treebeard's, only greasier (and dirtier). The other option was to go to the police station and eat in their cafeteria. (Um, no thanks . . .) On the way to the grill, five women in their fifties befriended me, and we all sat together and ate our okra and tomatoes, mashed potatoes, and rolls. They all had iced tea and diet coke. I drank water. We gossiped about the other people in the assembly room. We guessed the age of the young lawyer. We wondered how the selection of jurors for each trial was determined. Randomness was dismissed. Someone suggested it was done by zip code. The women and I agreed that this must be the case, since we were all from different zip codes. This was also the moment when I learned that if my driver's license and my voter registration had different names on them, I would be more likely to be called. The women were very interested to know that I lived in Montrose and that I was not, as they suspected, a student, but a professor. One woman argued that teachers of any kind should not have to serve on jury duty because of missed class time. I agreed whole-heartedly.

About an hour later, we were back in the assembly room, reading, stretching, waiting, going to the bathroom, talking on cell phones, chit-chatting. There was one very talkative woman who was fully prepared with a book of crossword puzzles, little baggies of chex-mix, apple slices, water bottle, and dum-dums lollipops ("for blood sugar!"). She explained to anyone who would listen that she got called for jury duty every August, like clock-work, and had written all the dates as far back as 1992 on the envelope in which her summons arrived as proof. Slowly, the next jury pool was called for voir dire and, once more, I did not make the cut. More reading and sitting around. Finally, one of the women from lunch, Tama, struck up a conversation with me. She wanted to know what kind of literature I taught. When I told her it was African American literature, she looked very surprised, and was then full of questions. What did I teach? I showed her the book I was reading, Native Son (Richard Wright, 1940), and explained that I was teaching his work along with James Baldwin this semester to a group of seniors. She had never heard of the book or the author. For the next hour, I held this woman captive by describing the entire plot of Native Son. She was a great audience. She even took a bathroom break and then returned, full of questions: How did Bigger get caught? Why did he kill his girlfriend? How does it end? Tama told me she was an English major many years ago at University of St. Thomas, and that she was a life-long reader. The book she had with her was by Deepak Chopra and I cannot recall exactly the title, but it had something to do with peace. She had me read the first paragraph, and then gave me this knowing look, like, "Right on!"

Finally, around 3:45, it was revealed to us that no more trials were to be held today, and everyone applauded and jumped for joy and went up to collect their six dollars cash. As each person turned to leave, each shared a huge smile of sheer satisfaction. Afterwards, I said goodbye to my new friend, Tama, and she told me she'd be seeing me around.

Not such a bad thing, afterall. I came home and took a much-needed nap.