Citizen Durning

I’ve always thought I was a good citizen. You know, the kind of person who doesn’t put the garbage out too early, pays her taxes (as close to the deadline as possible), keeps the sidewalk clear in the winter, doesn’t burn without a permit, and votes. Last year the test of my goodness came in the form of a white envelope with the logo of the Superior Court of Ontario on the upper left-hand side. It was addressed to the “married me,” it had to be important, like when your Mom or Dad used all of your given names. You knew there was trouble a-brewin’ when you heard the litany of given names in a raised voice. So, there on the front hall table sat the white, number 10 envelope with my “assumed” name typed boldly on it, shouting at me. Officers of the law, government officials and my doctors are just about the only people who use my “married” name.

A questionnaire was enclosed. Official people wanted to know if I would be a suitable candidate for jury duty. It was just the questionnaire, nothing more. Where’s the worry in filling out a questionnaire? And, so I did—filled it out and returned it to the senders. Then I promptly forgot about it. I celebrated family events with LOML and went on trips. I photographed. I wrote columns. I cooked and cleaned, read newspapers, drank coffee and went to the gym. The questionnaire didn’t show up on my calendar or my radar. Out of sight, out of mind.

And then. Well, and then I got a summons to attend the Superior Court of Ontario for the purpose of jury selection. I had a jury panel number and “they” were calling it in. I had a date and time and I had a piece of paper (upon which all of this information had been printed) and I was supposed to bring said piece of paper with me on November 13 at 9:30 a.m. Don’t be late; don’t forget your official-looking piece of paper; bring a recent, acceptable form of photo ID. The “behave yourself when you get there” was implied. I may have implied the “behave yourself” part all by myself and therefore took it very personally. Does the Superior Court of Ontario know how claustrophobic I can get about being in a room, closed off from the rest of the world? I didn’t think so and I didn’t think my family physician would write a note to excuse me because I can’t stand being cut off from the rest of the world in for hours on end.

But, I arrived on time, dressed appropriately (that is to say, I didn’t wear the painty jeans and ripped T-shirt) and stood with a growing crowd of friends, neighbours and other familiar faces wondering which case was to be heard. There was lots of speculation in the waiting crowd as to which case. Murder and mayhem. Assault. Some of us knew the selection was for an “immediate” hearing. Some of us were surprised to learn the case wasn’t being heard in the distant future. Surprise, surprise.
And there we sat. Perhaps 200 of us, sipping coffee out of paper cups or wishing we’d stopped to get a coffee and wondering how long this was going to take. I guess most of us were hoping we wouldn’t be selected and maybe thinking it might be an adventure if we were. Oh yeah. Oh yeah. All rise.

As far as ancient rituals and procedures go, the Superior Court of Justice for Ontario has held onto a few. The powdered wigs were missing but, for those of you in attendance as potential jurors, tell me there wasn’t a better method to track those selected than the two cardboard carton flaps, recipe cards and paper clips and the “bingo” drum? Seriously, you had to be there. From my vantage point, a “courtly process” was taking place and all of us (sitting and waiting and waiting and waiting) weren’t privy to what was going on up front until our name was called. Most of us have respect for the law and the process, but don’t ask citizens to stand for anyone’s entrance or retreat if you haven’t, with conviction, acknowledged the effort it took for them to put their day on hold to do their civic duty.

Oh yeah. Oh yeah.

theresa@wellingtontimes.ca