You're Gonna Have to Serve Somebody

I’ve been known as a lot things in life: Storyteller, teacher, reporter, mother, daughter, sister, wife, and friend. But somehow being a juror was something that had escaped me.

Essex County Superior Court caught up to me a few months back, when for a few days, I was known simply as Juror No. 12.

I was selected to weigh in on a criminal case against a guy carrying a gun. I have to admit, I had hoped I wouldn’t be picked. And I suspect most in the room felt the same way.

We went through a process called "voir dire" – where lawyers winnowed down a jury – a game of chance as the lawyers tried to decide which of us would most likely see their side.

We were asked about our life experiences, everything from the consequential -- have we ever witnessed a crime? Testified in court? -- to seemingly mundane questions about the bumper stickers on our cars, the television shows we watch, and newspapers we read.

“It feels like speed dating,” observed a woman who I knew only as Juror No. 7.

The judge asked if there was anyone in his courtroom who we knew. Across the bench, a hand shot up.

“I know Lou,” said a would-be juror pointing to the burly guy behind him.

“How do you know him?”

“He’s my bartender.”

In front of me, a woman swung around her head, took a look, and sheepishly raised her hand. You guessed it: Lou’s seems like the kind of place where everybody knows your name.

Many in the jury pool played their best card to get dismissed. Some were just tired of waiting. And others planned on playing their number that night in the state lottery.

Waiting our turn for questioning, we discovered a diverse group of people who live in Essex County. In courtroom 1202 was a member of the Newark clergy, secretaries, teachers, a real estate agent, a doctor’s wife, and – as I would later find out -- employees of the Township of Livingston and Livingston Public Schools.

Our case involved possession of an unlicensed gun, which, if the defendant were found guilty, could have led to a prison term under a tough gun control law signed by former Gov. Jon Corzine.

“There’s too many on the street,” said a crewman for an electric utility. (Note to self: That’s the answer most likely to get you dismissed in a case like this).

I was among the 14 chosen for the jury, which really surprised me: I have family ties to the Essex County courts and probation department. Plus, I’m a reporter and local editor for Patch.com. But I had said I could keep an open mind.

I went back to court the next day hoping the trial would last only a few days. We waited for three hours, then mercifully informed the case was resolved. (Plea bargain? Maybe. We weren’t told). We were free to go, thanked for our integrity and willingness to serve.

“Except Juror No. 12,” the court clerk said.

Had the Hon. Judge Peter Ryan seen through -- in my heart of hearts – that I was worried about the time away from home and work when selected to serve?

I was taken to the judge’s chambers. I wasn’t in trouble and the judge hadn’t peered into the deepest recesses of my soul. It was simply – like everyone else I meet -- that he knows my dad. It turns out Judge Ryan was a childhood friend from the basketball courts at St. Michael’s Church in Newark, someone my dad helped out when the future judge was studying law.

Family ties weren’t enough to get dismissed from the jury. Neither was drinking at Lou’s.

With apologies to Bob Dylan, I’ve come to realize after my stint in Newark: You may be the bartender. You may be the daughter of a (retired) probation chief. You may know a cop but  -- at the Veterans Courthouse -- you’re gonna have to serve somebody.

Yes indeed, you’re gonna have to serve somebody.