This is a First Person column by Phil DeMont, who is a business commentator for CBC News and lives in Halifax. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

I knew I was a goner as soon as the sheriff walked into the room. He looked like everyone’s genial Uncle Bob except for the police vest and the walkie-talkie that hung from his belt.

“Juror 322, gather your things. We have to go see the judge,” he said. 

A young blond woman picked up her bag and followed Bob out the door. 

I knew that exchange meant she wouldn’t be back. And, as the alternate juror for a 12-member jury, I would take her place.

I have never met anyone who wanted to be on a jury. I certainly didn’t. 

However, over the course of a three-week trial, we evolved from a gaggle of annoyed people crabbing about how this was going to take time away from watching The Pitt or on the pickleball court to a group that worked hard to figure out whether the accused committed the crime.

In true Canadian fashion, there wasn’t one moment when the piano started playing O Canada or we recited Jeff Douglas’s “I Am Canadian” speech. Instead, it was a collective shoulder shrug that basically said, “We’re stuck here. We might as well figure out the correct answer.”

From watching American legal dramas on TV, I expected when I got my notice to appear for jury duty that I would be grilled by the attorneys for the accused and the prosecution.  

But the judge only asked whether I had an issue with a Black defendant. The next thing I knew, Uncle Bob escorted me into what looked like a room where 15 other unhappy people were already sitting at desks. 

Worse still, it was a murder trial. Years before, I asked my friend Joe, a defence lawyer in Toronto, whether he ever defended murderers. “God no,” he said. “Those trials go on forever.”

At a major trial, the security is very real. 

I counted four sheriffs including Uncle Bob. They were there to stop a spectator from trying to pummel the defendant or the accused from making a rush for the judge or the jury.

But a trial — at least this one — was dull. No Law & Order-like soliloquies or defence lawyers asking dramatic questions that elicit an unexpected confession from the defendant or gasps from the gallery. No “dun-dun” sound. Instead, the questioning was repetitive and boring. 

And that gave me a particular problem. One of my few real talents is that I can fall asleep anywhere. So it was a real possibility that I would doze off listening to a witness.

Luckily I discovered a small speaker in the panel by my feet. So I could lean forward, elbows on knees, close to the speaker. That helped me hear better and, more importantly, stay awake.

I never knew anyone else’s name. We all had a number. I was juror 104. In any case, there wasn’t much to talk about, at least in the beginning. We just listened.

I spent my break time reading a book, sometimes talking sports with Young Athletic Guy. (I gave everyone nicknames so I could tell people apart.)

As the testimony piled up, the jurors became more engaged. It wasn’t so much about whether the accused was guilty but more “what did the last witness say about X,Y and Z?”

Slowly, we jurors morphed from griping about missing a beer league hockey game into backs-straight-in-the-chair and debating different legal points. After three weeks, the testimony was finished and we started deliberations in earnest. 

The first day, we talked for a few hours. Then it was time to break for the day. But we didn’t head home. Instead, we were bundled into a van and taken to a nearby hotel for the night. We would be together — or sequestered — until we reached a verdict. 

We had our own row of rooms in the hotel, but no phones or news channels on the TV so that we wouldn’t be influenced in our decision by the court of public opinion.

There were two sheriffs in a suite closest to the elevator. One always was awake throughout the night and their door was always open.

The officers were there to make sure a juror didn’t wander off to the hotel bar and to prevent an outsider from cruising our rooms. After all, this was a trial that involved drug dealers and other nasty people. 

The next day, we went back to the jury room for the detailed discussion. Luckily, ours had two people keeping things under control. There was the foreman — Young Ken (because he looked like a Ken I worked with one summer) — and the Big Guy. 

BG had the demeanour of a first responder. He was tall and a bit bossy. But that was useful. Without someone directing traffic, the discussions could break down into an endless debating club.

When we returned to court that afternoon, it was anti-climactic. Young Ken read the verdict into a microphone. We were hustled out of court and got just 20 minutes in the jury room to collect our things. Then I was out the door and gave a wave to Young Athletic Guy. Turns out we had parked in the same back lot. And I was on the highway, finally heading home.

I still don’t want to be on another jury. But I know if I do get picked, there’s a good chance that these 12 strangers will try their best to do the right thing. 

And, in the current dysfunctional world, that’s a small victory.

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