I spent the lion’s share of my 76th birthday in Helena’s Justice Court. No, I was not the scofflaw. I was on jury duty—for which I managed to be selected out of something like 30 possible candidates. Of the 15 of us escorted into the court room, six of us—all women over the age of 50–were chosen to hear the case. Presumably based on voir dire—that process in which attorneys can question potential jurors and discard or select a given number to serve.
Voir dire is French for “to speak the truth.” And lawyers and the judge counseled us to do just that. Most of the questions were obvious: did we know the defendant or the attorneys; did we have friends among the other potential jurors; had we ever been arrested, and if so, for what; had we experienced overzealous law officers. And, could we find a defendant guilty if we disagreed with the law he or she had allegedly broken. The questioning attorney gave us an example: say the legislature passed a law outlawing green hats and the defendant had clearly been seen wearing a green hat, could we convict him. The group chorused, “oh yes.” But I was hesitating—and the attorney caught my indecision. And asked for my answer directly.
I’m usually pretty compliant. Only late in life have I developed the ability to give texting drivers or ones who turn into the wrong lane, the benefit of my middle finger. I generally believe the speed limit is there for a reason. I’ve NEVER even considered shoplifting. In most ways, Paul and Esther raised a goody-two-shoes.
But I really did pause. I didn’t focus on green hats. I was thinking instead of the spate of election laws so clearly designed to intimidate and discourage groups of voters. I was thinking instead of the ever increasing number of laws designed to constrain women and dictate their choices. I was thinking of laws passed during the pandemic substituting political beliefs for those of health professionals.
And no—I had to say to the attorney—I’m not sure that I could find a defendant guilty in the face of some laws. Which makes me wonder why I was chosen for the jury.
The longer I think about the question and the truth I tried to summon—albeit hesitantly because it wasn’t the answer for which courtrooms are designed—I’ve had some come-to-Jesus moments.
My advancing age and my retirement shield me from the much harsher, more frightening realities faced by so many of my brothers and sisters. I am long beyond child-bearing years and the dilemmas that I might have experienced. I’ve enjoyed the ease of mail ballots for a long time. I know when I’ll receive them and when to return them. I don’t need to take off time to vote. If I had to go to a polling place, I have a car and I drive. Medicare and a diligent general practitioner insure that I get easy access to good information and preventive health measures. I’ve no reason to believe the balderdash that swirled around during the worst of the Covid pandemic.
In other words, way too many of the knotty moral and legal issues of our day—now captured in too many horrifying laws—haven’t been MINE to experience. They’ve been a flicker too theoretical in my small protected world. In the world where aging and manageable affluence serve as blinders, as buffers.
Voir dire–being asked to consider and speak the truth—before a very funky case took me a small step beyond theory.
But not nearly far enough, I’m thinking now.
The prosecuting attorney asked one other potential juror to explain her reasoning to the same question. To which she said, “I could find the defendant guilty, but then I’d have to take the question of green hat illegality up with the next legislature.” A better legal answer than mine. And one that pointed the way to action not just theory. She was one of our six person panel too.
So the question isn’t just whether I can and will speak the truth, after I’ve raised my right arm and sworn to do so. But whether I will act on the truths I believe. Whether I own the courage of my convictions and translate them into what I CAN do. ©
