Facing jury duty?
What's your excuse?

Editor's note: Mike Royko is recovering in a Florida hospital from a minor stroke he suffered while on vacation. Royko went into the hospital Sunday night and is out of intensive care. He is expected to recover fully, according to his family. Royko said he will resume writing his column upon his recovery.

Originally published: Wednesday, November 24, 1993
Web-posted: Wednesday, April 2, 1997

he deputy marched 36 of us to a courtroom, and I was already figuring the odds.

The trial would require 12 jurors and two alternates. So the chances were about 2 1/2 to 1 that I'd be chosen.

The odds improved when I wasn't among the first 12 called to the jury box to be grilled by the judge and lawyers.

I looked for other hopeful signs. Did I ever write anything nasty or nice about the judge, which would give him a solid reason to reject me? No such luck.

Maybe the lawyers. I know hundreds of them. Some are friends, others don't think I'm a charmer. Either way, I'd be out. But both lawyers were strangers.

My hope for rejection grew when the questioning of jurors outlined what the trial would be about.

A plump, sad-faced woman in her 40s, with a history of mental illness, sued a female dentist. She accused the dentist of giving her a set of false choppers that kept falling out. The case also involved root canal work, inflamed gums, extractions and other fun stuff.

But my apprehension subsided after four jurors were picked and sworn in. Four more prospects were called, and I wasn't one of them. The odds improved.

I relaxed, figuring I'd soon be out of there.

That was until I began hearing the creative excuses of some of the prospective jurors as to why they couldn't serve.

There was a young lawyer. His legal background would have made him an excellent juror.

But he declared that he wasn't sure he could be fair to the dentist. When he was a kid, he said, a horse kicked him, knocking out six teeth, and the dental work was unpleasant.

When he was excused, I almost yelled: "Hey, no fair, the defendant ain't a horse."

A hotel cook said he would favor the plaintiff because of her past mental problems. He said his sister had mental problems, his mother had mental problems, "and I have them too." He was excused.

A red-faced suburban fireman, who looked like he needed a drink, must have been paying attention to the cook because he said that he, too, couldn't be fair because he had a mother who was a bit dippy. He was out the door.

I quickly reviewed my family tree. I had a distant cousin who sometimes believed he was a duck. And an aunt who believed him. If I quacked, would the judge buy it?

Then there was a female psychiatrist, obviously intelligent, with excellent credentials. If the plaintiff's mental problems became significant, the shrink could enlighten her fellow jurors.

But she said she could not be objective because she had sympathy for any medical professional in a malpractice suit.

Maybe some day a dentist will make a mistake and pull out part of the shrink's tongue instead of a tooth. Will the shrink just shake hands and say, "Hey, no hard feelings, fellow pro"?

A long-haired young man in an Army fatigue jacket was next. Earlier, he and I had chatted, and he seemed like a normal guy.

He began scratching when the questioning began. First, his arm. Then his belly and his ribs. Before it was over, he was wildly clawing his lower back as if under attack by fire ants.

But none of his answers should have disqualified him. He said he could be fair and had no history of mental illness. As to whether he ever had a bad dental experience, he said no.

Then, as if realizing, scratching and all, that he might be picked, he shouted: "But all dentists are fraudulent."

The judge glared, said something stern about the seriousness of jury duty, then sighed and dismissed the scratcher. As he strutted out, no longer scratching, he said: "Have a nice day."

Then there was the sweet little grandma. We, too, had talked, and she seemed bright and alert.

But she told me she worried if the trial lasted more than a few days, she would not be able to fly South to spend Thanksgiving with her children. I told her the trial would surely be over well before turkey time.

She wasn't convinced. And when she was questioned, she underwent a remarkable decline in IQ. She hardly understood the simplest questions. If the judge had asked her what city she was in, she might have said Cleveland, Arizona.

That did the trick, and she was out the door.

So I learned something about jury selection. Just say you're a bit daft, even act like it, admit to prejudice or sympathy, and maybe claim a horse kicked you in the face. Just about anything off the wall, and you'll get a pass.

As for me? I told them I thought I could be fair, although readers might have doubts. I didn't claim to be addled, another arguable point. And I haven't had bad experiences with dentists. But are any dental experiences fun?

The next thing I knew, I held up my right hand, took an oath, and spent all of last week immersed in the science of root canals, dentures, inflamed gums, before joining in a verdict I hope was fair.

You want to hear details? I didn't think so. And it will be a long time before I can look at a tooth without flinching.

© 1997 Chicago Tribune