THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, December 3, 1995 TAG: 9512020120
SECTION: SUFFOLK SUN PAGE: 02 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: Susie Stoughton
LENGTH: Medium: 89 lines
My palms were a bit clammy as I trudged up the familiar stairway that suddenly had become strange territory.
I'd been there many times before, but today's mission was different. I felt like an alien as I opened the door at the top of the steps.
Immediately, a deputy sheriff headed toward me.
``This way,'' he said, directing me around the corner to another deputy, this one holding a clipboard.
My appearance must have changed overnight, I thought.
I was no longer Susie Stoughton, reporter. According to the official roster, I was Charlotte Stoughton, prospective juror.
Whenever someone uses my real name, I know it either means business or a call from an acquaintance of long ago, before I reverted to the nickname my father gave me to distinguish me from my mother.
I was at once nervous and excited as the second deputy checked off my name and told me to find a seat, with other prospective jurors, in the auxiliary court room.
Most people, I know, try to find a way out of this ``civic duty.'' But I hoped to see the justice system from the inside, though I wasn't optimistic about not being eliminated.
After all, the lawyers already knew who we were from the questionnaires we had filled out about a year ago.
I had hoped for a civil trial, thinking I'd have a better chance at that than a criminal case since I report on police matters and sometimes cover trials.
But as my two-month term was nearing an end, this could be my last chance. This was the first time I had even made it to the courthouse. Before, I'd learned that the jury for the following day had ``gone off.''
I was surprised that this time the parties had not settled out of court or asked for a continuance.
I sat with a neighbor and two other women and quickly found I was the only first-timer. We dubbed one ``the perfect juror'' because she had already served on three panels. With her luck, she was sure she'd serve again today, she said.
The others had been sent home every time they had come.
``I'm a school teacher,'' said the woman sitting beside me. ``And I've been told lawyers don't want teachers on their juries. We're too opinionated and too analytical.''
And teachers usually are, she said. ``We know we're right. We have to, when we go in a classroom.''
She and my neighbor tried to figure out why the other woman always got picked and they didn't.
``My name's on the top of the list,'' the ``perfect juror'' said.
Silently, I wondered whether I could persuade the attorneys that I didn't have strong opinions.
After all, I was doing mental gymnastics about my prospects, flip-flopping constantly - one minute hoping to be picked, the next second afraid I might be.
Would I be fair and impartial? Could I make the right decision? Could I - one who relies on my notebook to help me remember everything from my shopping list to what someone said in an interview - recall in the afternoon what someone had said that morning?
Finally, one of the deputies announced that we should line up in the order that our names were called. The ``perfect juror'' led the way to courtroom No. 1, where most criminal trials are held.
The bailiff read the charge, ``Grand larceny,'' and I crossed my fingers as I looked around.
No, I didn't know either the plaintiff or the defendant. No, I didn't know any of the witnesses or the lawyers.
The judge went through all the usual questions, instructing us to raise our hands if we answered yes.
``Have you or any member of your family ever been the victim of a theft or larceny?'' the judge asked.
My heart sank as I raised my hand along with a number of others. Each of us, in turn, told what I had happened. My car had been stolen, I explained, realizing I was probably batting out. There was nothing I could do, however, but tell the truth.
More questions, then the lawyers took their strikes, passing the list back and forth until there were only 13 names.
The bailiff read out the names that had been marked out and told us we were excused. I walked out with my neighbor and the school teacher, as the ``perfect juror'' sat in the first seat.
And as I walked down the stairs to the front door, I felt myself becoming a reporter once again.
I wondered if this was all there was to doing my duty, as I pulled out my notebook and headed to work. by CNB