“Some people get out of jury duty by lying. You don’t have to lie. Tell the judge the truth. Tell him you’d make a terrific juror because you can spot guilty people.” –George Carlin

Greetings Dear Ones!

The recent cold has been Bitter. Jack Frost doesn’t just “nip” my nose; he threatens to bite my ears off and swallow them whole. With stabbing pain, my fingers and toes feel the sharp grind of his molars as I try to get through the barn chores. He prowls invisibly, on padded paws as big as the coyotes’ who slip in and out of The Dark Forest on silent snowy tracks. My housemate wants to set up a “critter cam” to see who it is who makes these tracks; he suggests mounting a camera near the garage. First I agree then Pause. We will have to be careful how we position this thing. The last thing I want this nice young man to catch on film is my unorthodox method of scraping the ice off my car each morning—climbing a chair, kneeling precariously on the hood, occasionally sliding off the front fenders as the force of my scraping sends me flying in furry sheep pajamas and welly boots into the nearest snow bank. I simply cannot reach the windshield from the ground. Coyotes or no coyotes, no one needs to see footage of my wooly arse flopping backwards off the hood of a Ford. “God Forbid,” mutters Prudence. (The cold is not all that has been bitter…)

Well, the Longest little month of the year is taking its sweet time. Last Wednesday took a week of my life away and yet February only seems all the longer… As luck would have it, it took the EXACT week I was going to Get Organized. I was going to finish up all my custom sewing work and get all the regular alterations out with so much time to spare that I was going to sort out the fabric stash and start doing some design work I’ve been daydreaming about… I was on the verge of actually finishing a thing or two when I was summoned to report for jury duty. In other states where I have resided, one shows up for a jury pool and either gets selected for a trial happening that day or not. In Vermont, you must show up for three consecutive pools and be assigned to upcoming trials, possibly three of them. There are questionnaires to fill out and procedures to follow. The first day takes a whole day. The pools seem to be held monthly, so I must report in March and April as well. (This means, of course, that I cannot expect to Get Organized before June, at the earliest, thank goodness!)

I get to the courthouse and wait in line to be checked through security. As I get closer, I notice a sign that reads “No guns or knitting needles beyond this point” as if these things are in some way equivalent. I have never read a headline that said an elementary school was terrorized because someone ran in and waved some knitting needles. The fact that these are the only two items listed tells me something about Vermont and what folks are likely to be carrying.

NO Knitting??? What?? Instantly, I am depressed. I leave the knitting needles in the car and ask the guard if pencils are allowed.

“Yes,” he answers accommodatingly, “of course. We will give you pencils and paper if you need them.”

“Yes, please,” I say. “I’ll need two number twos right away, with extremely sharp points on them, please.” He looks at me with the wary curiosity of a calf watching a tarp flapping.

“I’m going to knit with them.”

He is young and just trying to do his job. He rolls his eyes and laughs nervously. “Ma ‘am, we just don’t allow knitting. I’m sorry.” Now I am the one confused. Is the knitting itself considered dangerous? Does it induce unexpected homicidal rage? Well, now that I think about it…if one gets so interested in the testimony that one accidentally forgets to switch colors in a complicated intarsia and doesn’t realize it for four rows.… I guess… But rather than insist on monochromatic knitting, The Court, in its infinite wisdom has decided to ban stitchery altogether (along with metal travel mugs—which one might be tempted to use to bludgeon those who inform you knitting is forbidden.)

Robbed of anything useful to do with my time, I survey my fellow jury candidates, my “peers” in this realm, and imagine that I have been invited to an exclusive fashion show instead. I check out hairdos then shoes. I award extra points if I can perceive dung on either. Most people are dressed more for warmth than style but the ambient quality of knitwear is fantastic. There is abundant evidence to suggest that plenty of Vermonters are rage-knitting at home, or perhaps at their local firing range. I always find Happy people to be the most beautiful and not many here are smiling. Of course not, they have left Important Jobs to sit here and be paid the princely sum of $15 (equal to hemming a pair of pants) to judge their fellow citizens. At best, they appear politely stoic as they gaze blearily at their phones. A few—especially the lads clad in Carhartts and work boots, with thick beards and arms folded across their flannel chests—look genuinely “un-gruntled” to say the least. To make matters worse, they are asked to remove their knitted caps from their heads while in the courtroom, which makes them scowl more.

Gradually, the room fills up. I wait for the lawyers and judge to come out and speak to us. What? They’re out? Those kids at the podium? Those are the lawyers? They look like high school graduates wearing suits for the first time. On closer inspection, the bagginess of their suits betrays them. They are either older than I think or clueless about modern male fashions, which are designed to look like they came from a can. In any case, the truth is that I am getting older than I realize. I put my glasses on in order to see better but then my mask fogs them up so I cannot see at all. Justice is blind, and so am I.

The judge and the two lawyers in the case take turns thanking us for “our sacrifice on behalf of Vermont” and begin to explain what, exactly, that sacrifice—which includes lunch and bathroom breaks—will entail. We get a very informative training about what jury duty is and what is expected of us. Already, hands are going up amongst the potential jurors.

As a professional seamstress, I work so hard NOT to judge my customers and fellow beings that I realize I might be a little out of practice. Prudence decides we need to use our time wisely and get my judging chops up to scratch. I want to be able to do a wonderful job on this jury, should I be lucky enough to get chosen. I want to serve Democracy with all my heart. We start with the gal with garish nail polish who is obviously chewing gum and work our way up to the gentleman who has asked four questions in a row. And by questions, I mean the kind of things a third-grader needs to be reminded are STATEMENTS, not questions. His sentences do NOT begin with Who, What, When, Where, Why, or How. He is telling us all he has a colonoscopy scheduled for the start of the trial before he has even heard the charges. Next he thinks he recognizes the defendant, who vehemently denies this. When he tries to make a lame joke about himself as a retired senior with nothing better to do (than what? Hold up court proceedings?) I am grateful Prudence does not have access to knitting needles and metal coffee cups after all. Good job, Vermont!

Finally, we hear the charges, which are Bad.

VERY Bad.

Some of the potential jurors promptly burst into tears and claim they need to be excused because they are triggered by past trauma in their own lives. Instantly, I stop judging. The air feels gritty and brown-paneled like the walls. I squirm in my seat, stare at my poopy shoes, and wonder if I will be able to hear the testimony myself. This is the kind of story which, if I even read about it in the paper, I will be up all night for days, er…nights… Many nights. I once sent a three-page letter to the mother of such a victim because it was the only way for me to be able to process my grief. Grief for “a stranger” (those with mother-hearts, regardless of gender, whether they have given birth or not, are never strangers) thousands of miles away.

Most of my life, I have been told that I am “over-sensitive.” I think of it as a Good Thing, generally. It enables me to talk with animals and to hear the Oak trees in the meadow say “Psst…I am HERE.” But it also makes me very vulnerable. I find it difficult to do Hard Things for someone else’s own damn good. I have a great fear of looking at What Is Awful and deciding what to do about it. (This includes pin-wale corduroy embroidered with ducks.) I greatly admire doctors, nurses, veterinarians and all those willing to commit pain for the sake of healing another. I couldn’t even remove a splinter from my child’s foot without weeping and needing a consolation popsicle myself.

“It makes you weak and apt to be melodramatic,” insists Prudence, who is inconvenienced by emotion of any sort.

Can I do this trial? Honestly? Can I presume this defendant innocent until proven guilty? Can I hear all that will be so hard to hear and still be fair and impartial? What if my child was the victim? What if my child was the accused? Who would I want on the jury? Would I want a person like me? I close my eyes and shudder.

Yes.

God help me, yes.

One by one we are questioned, first by the prosecuting attorney, then by the defense. We are asked if we know how to tell the truth when we see it. “Does crying mean someone is telling the truth?” “Is a police officer more likely to tell the truth than someone else?” “Can you think of reasons why someone might not report a crime right away?” “If eleven members of the jury think one thing is true but you are convinced the truth is different, do you have the courage to stick to what you know is true?” As we hear each other’s answers, it’s clear that a very tiny minority is (rather obviously) wimping out because it doesn’t want to take a moment away from previously scheduled programming—it doesn’t matter what the crime is or what is at stake. “Selfish bastards,” hissess Prudence, who is still in active Judging mode. “de Tocqueville said jury duty was supposed to rub off that private selfishness that is the rust of society. He should have seen this lot!” She talks like she knows Tocqueville. She doesn’t. He died in 1859.

When questioned, a woman on the other side of the room talks in difficult, unraveling gasps about what Truth means to her and I notice that the level of Courage in the room rises. Collectively, we are starting to breathe again, to find ourselves. The level of bravery in the room continues to grow. I hear the stories and the opinions of my fellow Vermonters and I am very much in awe of the general Goodness of their hearts. They believe in Innocence until proven guilty. They believe in the right to a fair trial. They are willing to suspend their lives for an indeterminate amount of time to ensure that Justice prevails. I have never participated in something like this and I am deeply moved. I feel the renowned “community spirit of Vermont” coalescing in the warmly-dressed bodies around me. We are looking out for each other and the Law.

The law might be made elsewhere, far away, in courtrooms or congresses across the land but WE, we the people, YOUR people, will apply it locally. We, your neighbors—with our flat hat hair, garish nails, poopy shoes, and gorgeous knitwear—We are the face of the Law in this town. We can be trusted to do the Right Thing. When you hurt one of us, you will be held accountable and we will stand together to make sure of that. We don’t hire professionals to decide. We got this. No monarch or bureaucrat gets to determine your fate. We do. You do not even have to testify against yourself. No tortured “confession” will be wrung from your lips against your will. We believe you until all “reasonable” doubts are removed. You are one of US. We are here to protect you. Essential to the very core of our beloved democracy is the notion that we can come together in this courtroom to look each other in the eye and say “Hey! We matter. YOU matter. Your behavior matters. What we hold dear matters. Now, who needs to Shape the hell up??”

When he gets to me, the Defense attorney says “Ms. Bell?” (To Prudence, this always sounds like “Misspell?” which delights her no end.)

“Misspell, after reading your answers on your questionnaire [answers in which I confess to knitting without license to carry, chatting often to sheep, and never watching television…] I imagine that you do not wish to participate in a trial of this nature. The topic would be too hard for you. Would you agree?”

I look at him steadily. The room goes very quiet. Even Miss Gum-chewer and Mr. Colonoscopy stop fidgeting and listen.

“No, sir. I do not agree.”

Our challenge in this courtroom, and in our community, is to share in the brokenness and figure out how to begin the Mending. Some accusations are wretched indeed. No one wants to listen to the lurid details of what happens in the Dark. Sharp-clawed Predators are not just at the edge of the forest. They are among us, even within us. “Compassion asks us to go where it hurts,” says Henri Nouwen, to weep with those weeping (and remove their splinters!), to become weak with the weak, and vulnerable with the vulnerable. When we attempt to live a life of pure, unconditional love and infinite care for each other, we are called to serve the Truth, so help us Oak Tree.

And the Truth is… there is SO much Mending to do! Keep up your Good Work, my Darlings!

With sew much love,

Yours aye,

Nancy

P.S. Yes, I was called to serve on the case.

P.P.S. Yesterday a key witness came down with an illness we were led to presume is Covid. The trial has been indefinitely postponed and the court will now choose a whole new jury for the case. I have two more jury pools to go. Stay tuned!!