Each of the last four mornings, I’ve woken up (much later than normal) and relished the walking commute to the courthouse. There I’ve joined 13 other members of a jury. A real live intercity jury.
I think that’s all I can tell you. I think I’ve been sworn to secrecy. I say “I think” because I’m not actually sure that I swore to absolute secrecy. I’m not even sure that I know what absolute secrecy entails.
I’m pretty sure that the code of silence doesn’t include my knitting disclosures: I’ve knit nearly an entire baby sweater over the last three days and I’m not even allowed to knit during the proceedings (I did indeed learn that the hard way). So all this is just pure waiting-time-knitting. That should tell you how much time is we spend waiting each day. Waiting for the players to gather. Waiting to be taken from the second floor to the eighth floor. Waiting for everyone to use the bathroom. Waiting for rulings and orders, commands and changes. I’m just the lady for knits in the corner. That lady.
I probably should be reading for the coming semester. I tried this the first day, but we were explicitly told not to bring books and magazines into one of the courtroom areas and so I desisted. It’s also never quiet. All of the other jurors seem to have established some kind of strange, jury-induced rapport. They seem to be the kind of people who can make friends on a city bus. They crack jokes and they laugh. They eat lunch together and report back on the broken soda machine at Burger King and the turkey sub at Quiznos. I knit and listen, eavesdrop, really. I’ve learn a lot about Philadelphia in the last few days, a city that exists for miles and miles beyond the twenty-block radius that I rarely venture beyond.
Maybe once this is all over, I can tell you about it.
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