Esther McCarthy: Jury duty wasn't the courtroom drama I'd hoped for
Esther McCarthy. Picture: Emily Quinn
“This is an absolute DISGRACE! Have you no respect for our time? I’m not coming back tomorrow.”
It’s day four of jury duty, and the mob is getting restless. They’ve just been told they’re not excused, even though a jury has just been selected. It’s my first time getting called, and I’m excited and a bit nervous, like the couple of seconds after I’ve asked the hairdresser for a fringe. There are about 200 of us, mostly over 30, a decent gender mix.
“It’s my civic duty,” I tell the children, self-importantly, when they’re complaining there’s no one to give them lifts that day.
I wear makeup and all, and deliberate on what to wear. I want to look like a fair, normal, reasonable run-of-the-mill Josephine Soap. Fuck. I don’t think I have an outfit for that.
They do a roll call and tell us to raise our hand and say ‘here’. Some mavericks just say ‘yeah’. Others don’t show at all, I count 18 boldies on the lang. Not me. I have a notebook. For noting. I fancy myself a Mason, or Matlock or McBeal. They have a quiz channel on. I settle in. I am crushing the Answer Smash part of Richard Osman’s House of Games when they put on a video to explain what was going on.
“In Ireland,” an animated voice tells us, “jury service is one of the most important duties you can perform as an ordinary citizen”.
I sit up straighter. I am on crucial business here.
“... Court cases do not always run on schedule, so you may have to wait in a jury assembly area.”
Well, we can’t say we weren’t warned. Nothing happens on day one, and there’s only so much quizzing one can do in the middle of the day.
I am not a first-year law student, sir; I have shit to do. Eventually, we are told to go home as the jury wouldn’t be selected today.
I had expected to be pacing a small room by now, passionately arguing with the foreperson, who I suspect to be on the payroll of the mob, about a tiny detail in the defence argument that no one else noticed.
Day three, I have a smear of tinted moisturiser and a swipe of mascara. I don’t bother putting on my eyebrows or cheekbones. Hmm, Osman can be a bit grating, can’t he? I’d love to ruffle his quiff and make him wear normal-sized glasses.
Still, at roll call, I maintain my eager beaver energy with the hand up and the loud ‘here’. I can feel the ‘yeah’ fellas down the back thinking, ‘What a lick’.
There’s no last-minute evidence delivered by a feisty private eye. No perky blondy pocket rocket who everyone underestimates until her very niche understanding of hair treatments helps to blow the case wide open.
No District Attorney’s ex-wife striding in to right a wrong on her own terms. Just a lot of us hanging around. I am beginning to get the horrible feeling TV has lied to me.
They told us on day one we were allowed to bring snacks, but I paid no heed. Idiot! I start to panic because I’m not supposed to go too long without something to eat.
It’s not a medical thing or anything, I just really like my nomnoms. I wonder what the punishment is for sneaking out of jury duty for a chicken roll? We are sent home before I start reassessing potential jurors based on which one I’d eat first.
The next day in the Big Brother courthouse and I have a bit of SPF on the cheeks, and I leave my bicycle helmet on because I didn’t blow-dry my hair.
The moron on Who Wants to be a Millionaire opts for the classic mistake of going 50/50 and goes home with a paltry hundred quid.
Roll call now sees everyone grunting their presence. The notebook stays in my bag.
Then there’s a flurry of activity, and we get a live link to the courtroom, where they start pulling name cards out of a hat. It’s me! Jesus, I never win anything.
But then I go upstairs and hear the case. And it’s not like TV. It’s a real person standing there being accused of doing terrible things. The charges are scary, awful, and explicit. We’re told we need to be available for quite a long period of time.
“You cannot serve on the jury if you know anyone taking part in the trial; you must let the judge know before you have been sworn in or affirmed.”
Turns out I do know someone, and I am excused and sent back down to the others in time to hear the fella’s rant about wasting our time.
I go home with no clever summation in my notebook, no moment of moral clarity. Real life doesn’t wrap up in under 30 minutes. Traumas are relived in buildings like this every day, to try to see justice done. It’s no game, it’s real and it’s brutal.
I believe in jury duty — I really do. But after that week, I think I’ll leave the courtroom dramas to the actors, and stick to comedies for a while.
