The Republican

In the Jury Box.

How Good Men and True Greet the "Dread Summons"—The Distinctly Marked Peculiarities of Jurors.

Perhaps there is no time in the life of an active business man when he is more tempted to rave at his clerks, stamp with rage, and utter curses loud and deep, than at the moment he runs up against a little piece of paper properly signed and countersigned and endorsed "Jury summons." The unfortunate recipient of this unwelcome insignia of citizenship grasps his hat, rushes wildly from his office, makes his way rapidly over to the Court House and stalks dejectedly into the court room where the summons in peremptory terms announces his presence as being "required."

He is somewhat consoled when he espies his friend, and his business competitor C., both of whom, as he rightly concludes, are for the once his brothers in misfortune. Scattered about the court room are perhaps fifty men of various nationalities and ages. They are all jurors in embryo, and are waiting for the Judge to open the court. When His Honor appears and takes his seat on the bench thirty-five out of the fifty men get in a row, filing Indian fashion up to and from the judicial bench, whisper all sorts of excuses and touching stories of domestic affliction and financial peril into the sympathizing judicial right ear.

It is plain to be seen that each one of the thirty-five is carefully considering how he can best attain the object which they all seek—viz., immunity from the jury box. Many of the excuses are frivolous, some are legitimate and not a few are palpably "trumped up." Sometimes a juror is excused upon his mere statement of fact, but as a rule they are sworn to answer such questions as shall be put to them by the judge touching their right to be excused. The judicial examiner probes the anxious applicant sternly.

Once bound down to the jury box the juror becomes the type of a class. He is no longer a broker, a merchant, a bank president or a saloon keeper. His natural identity is lost, and he is part and parcel of the machinery of justice. To be sure, he eats and sleeps like other men, but then he thinks and acts only like a juror. His status is not firmly established, however, until he begins to develop a peculiarity. This done, he becomes an object of interest, especially to the lawyers.

The characteristics of jurors are distinctly marked. The foreman is recognized as a model juror for a good case, but too sound for a poor one. The second juror is the proverbially obstinate specimen who invariably insists that he is right and the other eleven are pig-headed fools. He is a first rate man to have in the box if a disagreement is wanted. The third is marked down as always having a leaning toward the plaintiff's side of the case, while the fourth is known as an easy-going, "happy go lucky" sort of an individual, ready to go with whichever one the "other fellows" favor. Number five is the inquisitive juror. He is always asking questions of the witness about matters which the lawyers have kept carefully in the background. His brethren in the box respect him, but the lawyers regard him as an irritating thorn. Number six is much given to argument and contention. He is always ready for a fight in the jury room, and, being somewhat "glib," is generally able to hold his own.

Seven is an unknown quantity. He is possessed of a great veneration for judicial learning and discernment and goes with the judge, if the judge inadvertently exhibits a bias. Eight is remarkable for nothing except it be a fondness for the newspapers. He will peruse his favorite paper regardless alike of the most startling testimony and the flowery eloquence of counsel. Number nine is attentive, conscientious and analytical. He weighs the evidence on both sides, scrawls all day in his note-book and votes according to his convictions. He is looked upon with suspicion, and is frequently challenged.

Ten is the silent juror. He watches the proceedings with expressionless countenance, is unfathomable, and therefore dangerous. Eleven, on the contrary, is as open as the sky. He sides with his favorite lawyer, and is always ready to laugh when that legal luminary makes a good hit. He can be counted upon as prejudicial for one side or the other long before the trial is finished.

Number twelve is the last man in the box, and he is likewise the last man to make up his mind what he ought to do. He is pleased with the appearance and bearing of the plaintiff, but, on the other hand, he is thoroughly impressed with the justice of the defendant's case. In this dilemma he awaits the first vote and then chimes in with the majority.

After the jurors have listened to a great mass of conflicting testimony, been talked to and pleaded with by the lawyers and gravely instructed by the Court, they are led away by the court officer, who carries a portentous looking key in his hand, and are marched into a little ten-by-ten jury room. The key grates in the lock, the officer retreats down the stairway and the twelve men "good and true" are left to the joint contemplation of bare walls and the case under consideration. The bare walls look so cold and gloomy that the unhappy jurymen at once devote themselves exclusively to the case. Granted that all the elements constituting a well ordered jury exist, quick justice is meted out, and it oftentimes happens that a loud pounding on the door announces to the officer who has just left that the jury are ready with their verdict. At other times boisterous language and voices raised high in angry contention show too plainly that the obstinate juror has got himself hopelessly entangled with the conscientious juror.

Then the judge goes away, instructing them to hand in a sealed verdict in the morning. When the morning arrives the judge finds the jury in their seats, looking haggard and worn. The obstinate juror is sullen and defiant, while the foreman tells the judge that they have not been able to agree. The lawyers look disappointed, the litigants despairing. The jurors, if they are discharged, file sheepishly out of court, collect in squads in the corridors and vow vengeance against the obstinate one, who trips jauntily away, happy in the knowledge of a duty well performed.—N. Y. Herald.