Serving on Jury Duty When You Are Disabled
Some people might think this weird, but I enjoy serving on jury duty. I feel it’s an honor to serve, and I see it as part of my duty as a community citizen to participate in the justice system when called. “To be judged among a jury of our peers” is a central tenant of our justice system. Advocating that disabled people be included in the jury pool is essential to our societal integration. So when my name is called, the last thing I will do is deny that opportunity, even though the process itself is filled with inconveniences.
And when it comes to the inconveniences, there are many. Because the timing is random, you can be called at an inopportune time of your life. Then there are the potential obstacles of getting off work, covering childcare, or caregiving responsibilities. As for the process of serving, the waiting time is boring, the sequestration rooms are crowded, and there is no guarantee that you will be impaneled to serve on a case.
With all that said, for us disabled folks, even more obstacles must be overcome. Most of them are structural, some of them are institutional, and even some -- dare I say it, even in the court house where Lady Justice is blindfolded, discriminatory.
And that is where my story with my most recent jury service begins. One of the first things I noticed when I pulled into the county courthouse was how many disabled parking spaces there were and how few of them were being used. I was the only vehicle using one in a lot with at least a dozen spaces. I should have taken this as a foreshadowing of what was to come.
Before I go any further, I should note that my observations and experiences are unique to my county courthouse, and my intention isn’t to assume every courthouse is as inaccessible as mine. However, given that I live in a progressive and inclusive county that serves almost 2 million residents, and these barriers exist, it is not a stretch to assume smaller and less inclusive communities have them as well.
When navigating the world while using a scooter or wheelchair, certain levels of inaccessibility are unfortunately expected:
Counters that are too high.
Doorways that are too hard to open.
Pathways that are too narrow.
The only explicitly accessible thing I remember about my time in the county courthouse building was that the bathrooms were accessible. But just barely. You could get in them, but the stalls were challenging to navigate, the sinks were too high, and don’t plan on drying your hands. You know, your standard “accessible” bathroom.
On one of the days I was scheduled to appear, I was assigned to a courtroom on the second floor of a courthouse annex building. As I made my way to the adjacent building, I came upon the elevator, only to discover it was out of order. As anyone in a mobility device will tell you, malfunctioning elevators are where our path of freedom and independence ends. It is both frustrating and humiliating at the same time.
I got the attention of a county bailiff to whom I explained my situation. He asked me about the specifics of the case I appeared for and where I was instructed to go. Once he confirmed that I knew what I was talking about, he got on the phone to call the court clerk upstairs, awaiting all the jury candidates.
It became quickly apparent to me that the bailiff became more interested in finding out if my name was on the list for questioning (not all jurors may be questioned) rather than figuring out a way for me to be able to participate fully in the jury selection process. From his perspective, he was cutting to the chase-- if my name wasn’t on the list anyway, there was no reason to try to get upstairs. From my perspective, I was being excluded and discriminated against by a physical barrier that has absolutely nothing to do with me as a person yet defines my ability to be fully included in daily life. It’s a song as old as time in disabled peoples’ fight for our civil rights.
As it turns out, my name wasn’t on the list that day. “Good news,” he said. “Your name isn’t on the list anyway. You are free to go for today.”
I still wonder if my name was really on the list or not.
When I returned the next day, I was assigned to a case in the main building where all the elevators were fully operational. I meandered through the crowded waiting room, seeking an open spot among the chairs that wouldn’t block a walking path. I finally found one and then didn’t plan on moving. Not that there was anywhere to go.
Within an hour or so, my group number was called. About half of the people and I in the room made our slow but anxious progression to the assigned courtroom. I merged my way into the moving crowd, and together we arrived at the courtroom doors, where a bailiff was awaiting our arrival.
Sadly, the courtroom itself was even less accessible than the waiting room. The typical procedure has potential jurors sitting in the spectator gallery while 12 at a time are called into the jury box to be questioned by lawyers. The legal term is called “voir dire.” There is no designated wheelchair seating area in the gallery, so the only place for me to sit in my scooter was in the center aisle-way. I felt like I stuck out like a sore thumb.
Then the moment came when the judge called my name to take my seat in the jury box to be questioned by the lawyers. All eyes turned toward me, and I knew everyone was immediately wondering how I would navigate my way up the two steps and actually into the jury box seats. But would anyone have the audacity to ask? As for how I always do in life, I didn’t wait to be questioned. I slowly made my way forward and pulled my scooter up as close as possible to the jury box.
“Can you get up there okay?” the inquisitive judge asked in a somewhat caring tone.
“Yes, your honor, I’m fine,” I replied as I got up from my scooter and walked toward the jury seat I was directed to sit in.
While everyone else may have wondered how I would sit in that jury box, I actually wondered the same thing myself. You see, I’m not a sitter. I’m more of a kneeler. I prefer to kneel on my knees versus sit on my butt. You will only reliably find me sitting on my butt while driving my car or at the dentist’s getting my teeth cleaned.
I didn’t want to “sit” in one of those jury seats. But it wasn’t immediately clear to me how I would get around not having to do so. I had to think quickly. Creating our own accommodation on the fly is somewhat of a ninja skill that we disabled folk learn early on in our disabled lives. As I approached the overstuffed, leather-upholstered armchairs, I noticed they had a unique feature: they swiveled. Thankfully for me, they swiveled a full 360 degrees. Without skipping a beat, I turned the chair so its back was now to the front, and I promptly, confidently, and comfortably took my kneeled seated position.
The juror to my right leaned in closer to me and said half under his breath, “Yeah, look atchu? You got this.” I nodded in agreement with an expression of, “Damn straight I do.”
The judge continued by seating more potential jurors after me, and the lawyers got busy asking questions. After about two rounds of questioning, I was dismissed along with several others. To this day, I wonder if I was dismissed because of my appearance. Would sitting in that jury box, kneeling, with my chair turned to be too much of a distraction? Was I being pre-judged on my ability to serve in a setting where no prejudice should exist?
Part of me thinks that I was. The other part of me hopes I was not. Depending on the day, one part outweighs the other.
Thinking back on the experience of it all, I am surprised how little effort there was to make the whole process more accessible. Subtle gestures of inclusivity would significantly impact a disabled person’s ability to participate in jury service. For example, how hard would it have been to put up a sign designating a wheelchair seating area in the jury waiting room?
I’d be remiss to note that the barriers I’ve written about in this post are all physical. For those with a visual, hearing or cognitive impairment, barriers to accessible participation are just as prevalent, if not more. Yet, I believe a person with one of those disabilities is just as capable of serving. Clearly, that is what the laws of the Americans with Disabilities Act mandate. And yet, here we are more than three decades after its passage, often finding ourselves in situations as if the ADA didn’t exist at all.
When I think about the accessibility challenges to jury service, I see it as somewhat of a negative feedback loop. Why isn’t there more access? Because there aren’t more disabled people on juries. And why aren’t there more disabled people on juries? Because there isn’t access.
Moreover, I believe there is an assumption we don’t want to serve. Well, I’m here to say that assumption is wrong. Representation matters. Access matters. I AM a member of my peers. I have a right to be included, always.