A day in court
This is one of those times when intersectionality hits you like a softball.
I have been invited for jury duty. I’m honestly pretty excited about the opportunity to sit on a jury. Listening to arguments, applying my reasoning skills, deliberating with a new group of people who might yet become friends, it sounds real fun. I log onto the system online and let them know that I’m ready to serve.
The first question the system asks me: ‘What is your sex?’
My heart sinks. For most people this question is fairly straightforward, it’s the sex that we were assigned at birth. For me, it’s not quite so straightforward because the sex I was assigned at birth is by no means the one I am today.
The definition of ‘sex’ is pretty complex here. Are we talking about sex assigned at birth? In that case ‘male’ I guess. Or are we talking about physical attributes, the sex hormones flowing through my body, the sexual characteristics I possess? In that case ‘female’, easily. Are we talking about my legal sex? That’s complex, under the equality act (thanks Supreme Court) I’m considered ‘male’, but under the gender recognition act I’d be considered ‘female’. Are we talking about sex on official documentation? On my passport it says ‘female’, my drivers license, my bank accounts, my voter registration, all say ‘female’. If we’re talking about how I identify, then we’re also talking ‘female’.
If we’re talking about the closest approximation to the truth within a binary system of categorisation, then ‘female’ is easily the right option.
So I put ‘female’. I realise as soon as I have done so that I might have just broken the law.
I push the doubts from my mind. I know who and what I am, and I put in the rest of my details. I mention, of course, that I’m a wheelchair user, in passing really. This is a court, surely it’s going to be accessible. Surely the building in which judges hear discrimination cases doesn’t transgress the law it upholds. Surely the court isn’t inaccessible to disabled criminals it judges. I mean disabled people commit crimes, right? I might have just committed one!
Oh my sweet summer child. The jury service email me a few days later (this is paraphrasing, the original email is confidential):
Dear Cora,
Thanks so much for advising us about your wheelchair use and, therefore, about the reasonable adjustments you’d need regarding access to the court.
We are emailing to let you know that the crown court is not wheelchair accessible, and has staircases leading to the courts.
We would of course be happy for you to visit to see for yourself, should you wish.
We look forward to hearing from you.
The Jury Folk (not their real name)
I am a little stunned. This is a court, how can it not be accessible? I wonder what happens when a disabled person commits a crime. I imagine they walk.
It turns out that only 2% of UK courts are fully accessible.
The email reads as though the jury folk are saying ‘terribly sorry’ as a poorly accessible restaurant might. But at a restaurant I’m the one aiming to go out and I’ll just go somewhere else. But this is jury service, I’m legally obliged to serve when summoned. So we have reached something of an impasse.
I respond:
Hi Jury Folk,
Thanks so much for getting in touch. So much of the world is not designed for wheelchair users that I shouldn’t be surprised, but somehow I am.
I can ambulate to some degree, so I could lift the chair up and down the steps into court. I’d not go so far as to say that the effort is entirely safe, or particularly dignified, but it is possible. My chair is tight to my form and I have become both strong and skilled in its use, so I might well be able to competently navigate court once inside.
The ball is entirely in your court, so to speak. If you’d like me to participate on a jury then I’d be more than happy, but I can’t cease to be a wheelchair user simply because the court isn’t accessible.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Cora
The Jury Folk respond:
Hi Cora,
Please come and visit and we can talk you through the day, show you the building.
The Jury Folk
I mount up on the Rocinante (my wheelchair) and roll into town to Court. They’re right, the steps outside the building aren’t accessible, but I can manage to stand and lift the chair up the stairs to get inside. Once inside, however, I notice that there are lifts, and everyone at the entrance treats me with the utmost kindness and respect.
Then, I meet the Jury Folk.
The Jury Folk are truly outstanding, the very personifications of kindness.
I spend a good hour in the Courts, rolling around with them, though all of the spaces I’ll need to access, through the entrance, the waiting room, the courtroom. The people I meet spend so much time with me and treat me with extraordinary kindness and compassion.
I remove my tongue from the cheek I had firmly planted it within when emailing.
What we come to realise is that the Courts are manageable. I can actually access the whole thing without too much of a problem, no indignity, no substantial risk. The people I meet are welcoming, patient, indefatigably kind, and I feel completely comforted.
The Jury Folk told me that it was unusual to meet someone so eager to engage in jury duty and that most people, in most situations, would have tried to withdraw from service.
My response:
‘You asked me to serve.’
And now I’ve seen the court, I remember the kindness of strangers is what makes a disabled life manageable as I meet the incredible Jury Folk to whom I am deeply grateful. Thanks to them, their care and compassion, their drive to make the space as accessible as it can be…