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At 9 o'clock, a court officer leads the first group of prospective jurors from the room. Most of them will return in an hour or two to wait for the next selection round. Only 20 per cent of Americans called for jury service actually serve. Those not assigned to a case within two days are sent home and will not receive another summons for at least four years.
Every time the rejected return to the waiting room, they are reassured by the court officer: "Please don't think that you haven't been selected because they reckon you're not smart enough. Just treat it as a mistake."
Finally the time comes for me and a few dozen other candidates. We enter a room where an attempted murder case is being examined. The clerk to the court hands out a questionnaire. If you answer "yes" to any of the questions, you should go and speak one-to-one with the judge. I give three yes's, and am ushered into another room for a discussion. I do not see any one-to-ones going on - in the room are the judge, prosecution and defence. The latter's eyes bore into me like lasers, scanning every pore of my face, gathering information like a machine. I describe how my grandfathers were arrested and convicted under Stalin and how in the 1990s some close friends were shot dead. "I'm sorry to hear that," the judge says. "But do you believe that this will make it harder for you to be objective and impartial in this case? If yes, then I must release you immediately." Suddenly and unexpectedly, I answer "No, I don't!"
After the conversation in the judge's office, the clerk to the court begins to turn the drum. The first 16 names jump out, and these people take their seats on the jury bench. My name is not among them, and I watch the proceedings as I would a play in the theatre. Each prospective juror has to speak about himself, his family, children, job and previous jury service and point out anything that he believes is relevant.
After discussions between the prosecution and defence, of the initial 16 people just four remain. They are Fred, a former prosecutor in Queens and now proprietor of a large law practice. Forrest, 80 years old but still a good-looking man who was a TV star in the 50s playing prosecutors and FBI agents in primetime series (now I understand why police officers were asking for his autograph in the corridor). Stacy, who used to be a well-known litigant but is now married to a Citibank director and is coordinator of a fund to build America's biggest museum for children. And Tom, who owns a recording studio. Three white, one black. Two of the four are experienced lawyers.
Round goes the drum again and a further 16 are called, including me. After a similar procedure, seven of our group remain on the bench. They are an investment banker, a financial analyst (both from Wall Street), a dustman, a schoolteacher, a childminder at a hospital creche, the owner of a studio making aviation films, and me. The final round brings in a middle manager at Hearst Corporation and two reserve jurors - a sales assistant in an alternative pharmacy, and a student at the University of New York law school. We swear the oath and the judges gives us our initial instructions, after which we are released until morning.
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