Last fall I received a summons, literally a “Come
here!” from the Sheriff’s Office, of the Ministry of the Attorney General of
Ontario. I was to present myself at a particular date and time for jury duty.
As the date given coincided with my up-coming departure for Puerto Vallarta, I
was able to demure. Nothing further was said. Two or three weeks ago I received
a second summons. In capital letters presumably to emphasize the serious nature
of this demand, I was told the following: YOU ARE REQUIRED to attend the
Superior Court of Justice at 361 UNIVERSITY AVE .... on the 11th
June, 2014 at 9:00 AM and may be selected to serve on a jury. On the upper
right hand corner was noted the following admonition (also in capitals): AS A
JUROR, IF YOU DO NOT ATTEND ON THE REQUIRED DATE, YOU WILL BE LIABLE TO THE
PENALTIES PROVIDED BY THE JURIES ACT. I had every intention of attending though
I did not expect to be chosen. In fact, I carefully filled out the accompanying
questionnaire, indicating that I would be out of the country with family
members for two of the next five weeks (all true). I offered to be available
for jury duty in the late summer or early fall, however. Aside from the fact
that this is an ancient and worthy requirement of citizens in democratic/British-system
countries which I would be willing to perform, I believe that it would be an
interesting experience.
So this morning about 8:25 I set off in the lightly
falling rain and legged it down to 361 University, carrying my summons papers,
some snacks to ward off low blood sugar, a bottle of water, gum, some Samurai
Sudoku games, other assorted necessities, and my transistor radio in case I was
still there this afternoon when the Blue Jays are to play Minnesota for what
the announcers call “the rubber match.” Others were streaming into the hallowed
halls of the Supreme Court of Justice for Ontario when I arrived. First stop: a
screening of one’s person and belongings identical to airport procedures. Next,
up on the elevator to the sixth floor into a line-up of other summonees (such a
word?).
Our papers checked and our presence noted, we were ushered into a court
room nearby. This large, fairly square hall required but a few artefacts for it
to morph into a church. The front section, a quarter to a third of the space,
held a raised dias whereupon the “celebrants” or the essential actors played
their particular roles. Below, behind “the bar,” was a seating arrangement of
what could only be called “pews,” long wooden benches segmented by arm rests
into individual places. The hushed atmosphere of the hundred or so prospective
jurors awaiting instructions completed this sense that we were attending a place
of worship.
The room was already quite full when I entered but I
found a place in the front row: the better to see you, my dear, I thought. It
was 9:00; then it was 9:05, then 9:10. People continued to stream in. The
clerks in charge helped them to find the few remaining spaces, even placing a
few late-comers on the serious side of the bar in big, comfy chairs
available there. The lady to my immediate right asked a passing clerk in a
decidedly Teutonic accent if we would be compelled to wait for all of these
people who were coming in late. “The paper said 9 o’clock,” she said. “Nine o’clock
means nine o’clock; we shouldn’t have to wait for them.” The clerk explained
that we were waiting for a representative from the jury office to address us.
My neighbour seemed not to understand that this was the cause of delay and continued to
complain about late comers. She looked to right and to left to find allies
for her position. I studiously kept my face neutral and my eyes facing the dias, the place from which all
instructions would come.
And they did. From behind the dias emerged a jolly
fellow who greeted us warmly, asking after our health and comfort. He explained
to us that we had not been called for general jury duty but rather for a
particular criminal case that was expected to take about three weeks. However,
he said, it had been decided that the case would be tried by judge only. We
were not needed. A great sound of relief emanated from our assembly. However,
he added, I checked to see if your presence could be of value to other cases.
He paused for effect: bad news; you are not needed. Another, louder and happier
sound erupted; applause even. Moreover, he went on, because you came as required, even
though not needed, you are now exempt from calls to the jury for the next three
years. More happiness and applause. This fellow was enjoying himself. We rose and
began to file out to the escalators.
As I exited the building on a side street, a police
officer crossed the road and came up behind me. He was a tall good looking
fellow of 40 or so dressed in a bullet-proof vest. From a pocket at the front protruded a weapon of some kind. I read recently about a study which concluded
that people who speak randomly to strangers whom they encounter during their
day tend to be happier than those who maintain more distance. Endeavouring
always to be open to new learning, I have incorporated this hint for happiness
into my practices. On this occasion, I turned to the officer and said, “That’s a
serious outfit you are wearing. Are you one of those fellows that we see on TV
taking people down?” (Or something to that effect.) Luckily the man had a sense
of humour. “Oh yes,” he said, “That’s us. Out of sight and out of mind.” “Well,”
I said to encourage him, “it’s good to know that there are people out there
protecting us.” “I wish more people felt that way,” he replied rather ruefully.
“You know how it is,” I said. “It’s like being a kid: you like the boundaries
but you just have to fight against them anyway.” “Exactly right,” he said,
looking pleased. “Have a good day,” he called out as he took a sharp left and
entered the courthouse. So that little encounter made me happier and maybe even
did something for him.
Two brushes with the law in one morning: a day full of
incident. And now for lunch and the ball game.
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