Seeing Ghosts: My Courtroom War with Mr. English

We were embroiled in our own English Civil War -- me and Mr. English -- except that it wasn’t exactly civil and it played out in criminal court.

A few years back, San Francisco County had issued me a jury summons and, my natural reaction was “How am I going to beat this rap?”

Standing in my way was a surly court bailiff who held me to my civic duty.

Ah, Mr. English.

All 100 of us showed up in court that Monday morning; deep-sea detritus snagged by the county’s public dragnet — disheveled creatures of all shapes and standards of personal hygiene.

Nobody wanted to be there, least of all me, and the unlucky few who got stuck on a jury knew they were in for weeks of stultifying boredom.

Mr. English announced that if any of us had a problem with jury duty to report back in the afternoon; he’d see the rest of us the following morning.

There was no way I was going to be chosen, I thought. After all, I had a game plan. I took the free afternoon and went golfing.

My strategy began to unravel the very next day.

With Mr. English working the controls like some rotund Wizard of Oz behind the curtain, the judge went around the courtroom querying people on their fitness to serve on this routine assault case.

Others had their own exit strategies.

“English no good,” several said.

The judge excused them, with Mr. English smiling sweetly.

Then the judge called on me.

I'd make a lousy juror, I insisted, because I was a journalist. Attorneys considered us to be subversive troublemakers.

The judge wasn’t buying it.

“Well, Mr. Glionna,” he said. “Do you think you could try and be objective?”

People snickered. It was obvious to everyone I was a big, fat entitled fish struggling to cough up the hook of public responsibility and be on my way.

Mr. English threw me a glare.

By late afternoon, the juror pool had been reduced by half. It was looking bad for those of us who were left. The gallows of the jury box loomed. 

Then the judge came back to me. It was time to up the stakes.

I announced that as a former police reporter, I’d witnessed cops lie all the time. I didn’t think I could be objective with any officer testimony.

More laughter from the courtroom. The judge told me to stay put.

Mr. English scowled.

The more I struggled, the deeper the jury hook set.

I called my boss at home that night: I needed a lifeline.

Most employers will pay workers for jury duty, as long as they continue to meet their production quotas. Mine was no different. I was going to have to work double-time.

The editor wrote a letter explaining how the paper simply could not function without me. Blah, blah, blah.

I showed up early the next day, content that this ploy would get me my walking papers.

The courtroom was still closed, so I knocked. Twice.

The door cracked open. 

It was Mr. English. 

Seeing my face, he went to close it.

I stuck out my foot and produced the letter, asking him to please show it to the judge.

He took it, closed the door and reappeared a nanosecond later.

“Request denied,” he said.

But … ”

“Listen here,” he hissed. "You had your chance.”

Slam.

The morning got even worse.

Now people were being placed in the actual jury box. One by one, they took their places. For them, the jig was up.

With maybe one or two seats remaining, my name was called.

People laughed.

I dragged my knuckles up to the box and sat. And then we were twelve — eleven jurors and one angry man.

Me.

I was underwater now, gasping for breath.

There was one last chance at salvation, a process called a “peremptory challenge,” where the prosecution and defense attorneys dismiss jurors they believe might be predisposed to side with their opponent.

That’s when a man sitting nearest the judge raised his hand.

“Could I speak to the judge privately?” he asked.

Mr. English escorted him to the judge’s side. They talked. All the rest of us could hear were whispers.

Finally, they judge banged his gavel: The man was dismissed from duty. He hurried out.

The judge then called for a 15-minute recess.

We all trooped down to the lobby for coffee. By then, I was pitied by my fellow jurors; the poor sucker who had tried too hard, only to seal his doom.

A woman sidled up to me. She sat next to the guy who had been dismissed; close enough to actually hear his reasoning with the judge.

“Do you know what he said? He told the judge he was seeing ghosts at night.”

Seeing ghosts?

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Good one, huh?”

Moments later, back in my front-row jury seat, I raised my hand.

“Could I speak to the judge?”

More laughter.

At least I was providing some comic relief. Mind you, I had no clue what I was going to say, maybe pledge to mow his lawn for a year.

Mr. English approached me in the jury box.

“Listen,” he spit, his finger inches from my face. “One more word out of you — just one more! — and you will be held in contempt of this court!”

He had no such power, of course, but what did I know?

I put my hand down.

The proceedings dragged on. One person was bounced from the jury box, but it was like pulling teeth. The judge was anxious to get started.

Then I heard it: My name.

It has never sounded so beautiful.

I'd been 86ed.

As I rose from my seat, the courtroom erupted in applause.

I headed for the door, afraid to turn around: Mr. English might try and tackle me.

The heavy courtroom door closed behind me.

Justice had been served.