Head Lice and Hearing Aids
I was recently summoned for jury duty. I’m allowed to request an exemption because of my age, but I’m of sound mind, and have no family or work obstacles to interfere with my civic duty. It would be unpatriotic to wimp out. And would add to the mountain of misinformation implying the elderly are incompetent.
Seated in the jury room, I notice at least one person in each row ahead of me is reading an actual book. I take this as a good sign. We’re told to help ourselves to the coffee pot and a mini fridge of bottled water. We listen to the court clerk describe the terms of jury service, watch a brief film, and are given a bathroom break.
Then the mood turns solemn. We’re advised to turn off cell phones, and silently file into the courtroom, filling each bench, beginning with the front row. In other words—nobody’s allowed to slink to the back of the room.
The courtroom is cold, although the outdoor temperature hovers around 70°. I wonder why we can’t change the dress code for lawyers and judges in effort to save energy. I’m thankful I brought a bulky sweater.
The judge seems friendly. She reminds me of Frances McDormand in the movie Fargo. She explains how things work, instructing us to listen carefully, because if we are called to the jury box—and she assures us many potential jurors will be dismissed and new ones will be called— we’ll be asked to reference all the questions that have previously been posed. We are commanded to please let the court know if we can’t hear.
That’s when I realize why I should have considered claiming the exemption: I’m having difficulty hearing. I almost raise my hand to say so—then chicken out. I’m intimidated by the solemnity of the room.
I can’t turn on my phone to access the app that controls my hearing aids, so I fumble to find the tiny volume buttons on the aids themselves. Discreetly. I’d rather look like I have head lice than be regarded as an incompetent old lady. I hardly recognize myself. I’m never shy about telling people I’m hearing impaired.
I get both hearing aids to a comfortable volume and can understand most of what’s being said. Now I’m actively hoping the court clerk doesn’t call my name— not because I don’t want to be on the jury, but because I don’t want to be seen as that geriatric woman who can’t admit to hearing loss.
The defense attorney questions folks in the jury box regarding their tolerance for bad language. They will be hearing the “F-word” and the “N-word,” he explains. Is there anybody who can’t tolerate that? I’m reading David Sedaris essays, full of nasty words. The woman next to me is reading Christian verses. Jury selection is clearly tricky business.
Focused intently on the proceedings, I suddenly recognize that I view prosecutors in the same vein as billionaires. Suits and money. As if they don’t care what happens to regular people. I know that’s not fair—prosecutors represent victims of crime. But to me, President Trump is a prosecutor. Bernie Sanders is the defense. This is just the first time I actually see myself think it.
So, I apparently favor the defense even before the trial begins. But I figure that’s appropriate because a defendant is legally presumed not guilty—until proven otherwise. Maybe I am fit for jury duty.
I served four hours and did not get called. If I’m ever summoned again, I’ll consider requesting the exemption for age. Or maybe I’ll ‘fess up about my hearing impairment ahead of time. The court can provide accommodations. I looked it up.