<< Back 5/15/02 Judge renders verdict on wedding excuse By Lewis Garnett On that July morning the courtroom in Nashville was packed. All heads turned toward me as I stood to address the judge. But I wasn’t testifying. I was a juror. The letter had come a few months earlier: “You have been selected .... Please call to schedule ....” and so forth. I did, then made a three-week note on my wall calendar and promptly forgot about it. Until I tore off June. The problem was that between jury duty scheduling and now, my girlfriend and I had planned a wedding. And our Saturday afternoon nuptials now stared at me from the end of my first week of jury duty. So I called in to reschedule, but the bailiff offered me a deal: “Lewis,” she bargained, “I’ve got a murder trial that first week and will need a ton of jurors for the lawyers to sort through. If you’ll come in anyway and work some small trials, I’ll excuse you from service after the first week.” That sounded fair, so I said OK. But my soon-to-be-wife was less impressed. With her law school background, she argued I should just not show up, that the county sheriff didn’t have enough deputies to serve warrants on every yokel who failed to report for jury duty. She thought it was more important that I report for the wedding. But I couldn’t shake the image of me sitting on the side of the road, having (again) forgotten to put the new year’s license sticker on my plate, and watching in my rear view mirror as the officer learned over his radio about the outstanding warrant for my arrest. So I stuck to my guns and went in the first day. The bailiff had told me to remind her of our agreement, so I chose a seat near the front of the room, next to a silver-haired woman with a bag of knitting. But 9 o’clock came and no bailiff. Then 9:15 and 9:20. Suddenly she burst through the door and with barely a “Hi, I’m so-and-so,” announced: “As I call your name, please go into the hall and line up with Bailiff Rodgers.” Mine was the fifth name called. And rather than try to interrupt her, I simply took my place. Bad decision. As the line behind me grew past the jury room door and then past the bend in the hall, I could see I was part of a rather large pool, and my suspicion turned to certainty that I was headed for the murder trial. Then when Rodgers led us on the short walk to the courtroom, things got worse: The first 12 of us were seated in the jury box. Unless eliminated, we were it. That cop in my mirror paled in comparison not only to the judge in my bifocals, but more dramatically to my soon-to-be-wife with her soon-to-be-delivered “I tried to tell you so” speech. The judge addressed us. And within the first few sentences I heard “death penalty,” “sequestered” and “a court officer will take you home to pack a suitcase.” My betrothed might have to deliver her speech by telephone. However this played out, it was going to be sticky. As the judge prattled about service and duty and citizenship, I looked across the courtroom at the defendant. He sat quietly in a rounded wooden armchair, hands on the table in front of him. His lawyers had done their job. Despite a thorough scrubbing and dressing, he still looked scraggly, underprivileged, semi-pitiful. Close by, between careful glances at us in the box, the pin-striped, slash-hemmed, spit-shined defense attorney talked quietly with an equally well-clad female assistant who was taking notes. The prosecution team reminded me of the tired, overburdened bureaucrats Id known in social work. But their eyes carried a resolve I would not have wanted to face were I accused of something so terrible that my life depended in part on my ability to act pitiful. The judge finally got to the business at hand: “I’m sure there are some among you who believe you have reason to be excused from service at this time. I’ll hear from you now.” I sat quietly, waiting to assess the lay of the land. A self-employed woman in her mid-40s said this was her busy season, that she expected more than half of her annual income in the next two months. Nope. A man with an elderly mother to care for. Not even close. A fellow who claimed he had the flu. Better stick around. When I raised my hand the judge nodded. I rose to address the court. “Your honor, I’m getting married on Saturday.” Laughter splattered off the marble walls. Even the judge broke a smile. I paused for effect, then dropped in “big wedding” and “out-of-town guests.” I recounted my deal with the bailiff and closed with “Quite frankly, I’m surprised to find myself in your courtroom.” Pin-drop silence. The judge looked at me, then eyed the collective, each awaiting his next word, each strategizing their own next move. His face held judicially blank. We had no idea what was coming. Then from the sleeve of his black robe, he pointed a thick finger at me and addressed the house: “Your excuse has got to be that good.” (Lewis Garnett used to live in Maggie Valley and is now attending graduate school at Wake Forest University.)