The envelope arrived yesterday. Official. Imposing. The kind that makes your stomach drop before you even open it.
JURY SUMMONS. YOU ARE REQUIRED TO APPEAR.
I’m holding a user experience so catastrophically broken that if it were a product, it would have been shut down decades ago. But because it’s wrapped in the authority of the justice system and the noble language of “civic duty,” we accept inefficiencies that would be unforgivable in literally any other context.
Let me walk you through what just became my problem—and why the jury selection process is a masterclass in how not to design for humans.
Step 1: The Notification That Tells You Nothing
The summons arrives with all the warmth of a parking ticket. Here’s what it tells me:
- I must appear on March 18th at 8:00 AM
- Failure to appear may result in fines up to $1,000 or jail time
- I should check the website for more information
- There’s a questionnaire I must complete within 10 days
Here’s what it doesn’t tell me:
- How long I’ll actually be there (could be 2 hours, could be 2 weeks)
- What the likelihood is that I’ll even be selected (spoiler: less than 5%)
- Whether I’ll be compensated enough to cover the income I’m losing
- What happens to my job, my childcare, my life while I do this
In UX terms, this is called information asymmetry—the system knows way more than it’s telling you, creating anxiety through uncertainty. A well-designed notification would frontload the most likely scenarios and set realistic expectations.
Instead, the summons is designed to maximize compliance through fear, not clarity.
Step 2: The Questionnaire Nobody Designed for Humans
I navigate to the court website. It looks like it was built in 2003 and last updated in 2007. I find the “eJuror” portal after clicking through three layers of navigation.
The questionnaire asks:
- Are you a U.S. citizen? (Yes/No)
- Can you read and understand English? (answering this in English seems redundant)
- Have you been convicted of a felony? (Yes/No)
- Do you have a physical or mental disability that would prevent service? (Explain)
Then it gets weird:
- Are you the primary caretaker of someone who cannot care for themselves?
- Would jury service cause “undue hardship or extreme inconvenience”?
- Do you have a “compelling reason” to be excused?
Define “undue hardship.” Define “extreme inconvenience.” Define “compelling.”
The system provides no guidance. No examples. No clarity on what qualifies. So you’re left guessing what the court will consider legitimate—a design pattern guaranteed to produce anxiety and inconsistent responses.
A contractor who can’t bill for the three days they’re in court? Is that “undue hardship” or just “inconvenience”? A single parent with no backup childcare? “Extreme” enough? A freelancer who loses client work that won’t come back?
The questionnaire is performing security theater disguised as accommodation. It looks like the system cares about your circumstances. In reality, research shows courts excuse only about 21% of hardship requests, while 26% of people simply don’t respond at all—preferring to risk legal consequences over the guaranteed disruption.
Step 3: The Response Rate Problem Nobody Talks About
Here’s a statistic that should terrify anyone who cares about system design: In some jurisdictions, fewer than 50% of people summoned actually show up.
Let that sink in. The system is so unpleasant, so disruptive, so poorly designed that half the people legally required to participate just… don’t. They risk fines, contempt charges, even jail time rather than engage with the process.
When your product has a 50% abandonment rate despite legal penalties for non-compliance, you don’t have a compliance problem. You have a design catastrophe.
Courts respond by summoning more people. In Oregon, half of all summoned citizens either request excusal or simply ignore the notice. Florida courts summon 500 people hoping 80 show up. One judge reported needing to call 325-350 people to get 90-100 to appear.
This isn’t solving the problem. It’s scaling the dysfunction.
Step 4: The Waiting Game Begins (Before You Even Arrive)
My summons says March 18th. I’m supposed to check the website “after 5:00 PM the day before” to see if I still need to appear.
Wait—what?
I’m required to clear my schedule, arrange coverage at work, find childcare, and prepare to potentially be gone for days… and I won’t know until 15 hours beforehand whether I’m actually needed?
This is the equivalent of an app sending you a notification at 11 PM saying “Your appointment tomorrow at 8 AM might be cancelled. Check back in the morning to see if you should still come.”
No modern service would dare operate this way. Yet courts do it routinely because they’ve optimized for their convenience, not yours.
Research shows this stems from something called “juror utilization rates”—the percentage of summoned jurors who actually get used. Courts are terrible at predicting how many jurors they’ll need because cases settle at the last minute, plea deals get struck, and trials get postponed.
Rather than improve their forecasting or build buffer systems, courts just over-summon and tell people to waste an evening checking a website to see if their life disruption is still happening.
Step 5: The Morning of Reckoning
March 18th arrives. I check the website at 11 PM the night before. Status: “REPORT AS SCHEDULED.”
I wake at 6:30 AM. Drive to the courthouse (parking: $15, not reimbursed). Security line at 7:45 AM stretches around the building. I clear security at 8:20 AM.
I’m late. Through no fault of my own. The summons said 8:00 AM but didn’t account for the security theater that’s been added to courthouses since 2001.
I arrive at the “Central Jury Room”—a waiting area designed for maximum discomfort. Rows of plastic chairs bolted to the floor. Fluorescent lighting. No WiFi. A sign says “SILENCE YOUR PHONES.”
There are 150 people here. We’re all thinking the same thing: How long is this going to take?
Nobody knows. There’s no information board. No estimated timeline. No progress indicator. Nothing.
Step 6: The Orientation Video from 1987
At 8:45 AM, a bailiff wheels in a TV on a cart. This is happening in 2025.
The orientation video is clearly from the 1980s. The fashion. The hairstyles. The film grain. We’re watching people in shoulder pads explain the jury process on VHS-quality footage.
The information could be delivered as a 3-minute website explainer. Instead, it’s a 22-minute video whose production values suggest the court system stopped investing in juror experience during the Reagan administration.
The video explains voir dire (jury selection questioning) and tells us “trials typically last 1-3 days.” It does not explain:
- What percentage of us will actually be selected (about 5%)
- How long we’ll wait before knowing if we’re selected (hours)
- What happens if we’re not selected (we sit here more)
- Whether we can leave the building (no)
- When we might get lunch (unclear)
Step 7: The Hurry Up and Wait
9:15 AM: Video ends. Bailiff says “We’ll call you when we need you.”
9:45 AM: Still waiting.
10:30 AM: Still waiting.
11:15 AM: They call 30 names. Mine isn’t one of them. Those people file out. The rest of us continue waiting.
This is the part that breaks people. Research from the Conference of State Court Administrators identifies this as the top complaint: “Long waits at the courthouse with no explanation.”
Here’s what’s happening behind the scenes (that we’re not told): Judges are going through their dockets. Cases are settling. Defendants are taking plea deals. Lawyers are negotiating. The system is churning, trying to figure out which cases actually need juries.
But we don’t see any of this. We just sit. In silence. Watching time evaporate.
A Princeton economist who went through this experience calculated the societal cost: If 100 people wait for an average of 3 hours and their time is worth even minimum wage, that’s $2,175 in wasted productivity. Per session. And most jurisdictions run jury selection daily.
The courts know this is inefficient. They even have a metric for it called “juror utilization rate.” In early 2000s New York, 82% of summoned jurors were never selected. They’ve “improved” to about 60-70% waste in many jurisdictions.
Imagine if Uber told you “We’ve requested a driver. Wait at this street corner for 3 hours and maybe someone will pick you up.” You’d delete the app instantly.
But we can’t delete jury duty. So we sit.
Step 8: The Selection Process (For The Lucky Few)
12:30 PM: They call 18 more names. Including mine.
We’re escorted to a courtroom. It’s a civil case—something about a car accident and insurance claims. The judge gives a brief overview, introduces the lawyers, and explains we’ll now undergo voir dire.
The lawyers start asking questions:
“Has anyone here ever been in a car accident?” (12 hands go up)
“Has anyone had a negative experience with an insurance company?” (Nearly everyone)
“Would anyone have difficulty awarding monetary damages if you found in favor of the plaintiff?” (Confused looks. Several people ask for clarification.)
This continues for an hour. Some questions are answered as a group. Others require individual responses. Several people are asked to approach the bench for private conversations with the judge.
Here’s the UX problem: This entire process is optimized for lawyers, not jurors.
The lawyers are mining for bias, trying to build a jury favorable to their side. That’s their job. But from a juror perspective, it feels like being interviewed for a job you didn’t apply for, where the “right” answers are unclear, and being rejected might actually be the win.
One woman explains she’s a single mother and missing work costs her $200/day she can’t afford to lose. The judge asks if she can be impartial despite that stress. She says she’ll try. She’s not excused.
A man says he has a business trip tomorrow and this case might run three days. Can he be excused? The judge says no, the trial is more important. The man looks devastated.
The system is asking people to make financial and professional sacrifices while providing compensation that averages $10-25 per day. In Oregon, it’s $10/day for the first two days, then $25. Hardly enough to cover parking.
Step 9: The Challenges (Or: Why You’re Rejected for No Reason)
After questioning, the lawyers start excusing people.
“Challenge for cause” happens when there’s a clear reason you can’t be impartial—you know the defendant, you’re biased about the subject matter, etc. This makes sense.
Then come “peremptory challenges”—lawyers can dismiss you for no stated reason at all. They get a limited number of these strikes and use them tactically.
You might be perfect in every way, answer honestly, show up on time, and still get dismissed because… the lawyer had a hunch. Or you reminded them of someone. Or they’re playing some strategy you can’t see.
From a user perspective, this is maddening. You’ve given hours of your day, answered personal questions, and then you’re rejected arbitrarily.
The legal system considers this a feature. UX designers would call it a bug.
Three people are excused for cause. Seven more are struck via peremptory challenge. I’m one of them.
I’ll never know why. That’s by design.
Step 10: The Dismissal (Success Feels Like Failure)
2:15 PM: I’m told I’m dismissed. My service is complete. I can leave.
I’ve been here for 6.5 hours. I missed a full day of work. I paid for parking. I earned $0 (my state doesn’t pay for the first day unless you’re selected).
But I’m relieved. Because I got lucky—I’m not the 12 people who were selected and now have to come back for three days of trial.
Here’s the perverse UX: The system makes “not being selected” feel like winning.
A good user experience would make participation feel valued, meaningful, and minimally disruptive. Instead, the best outcome is escape.
As I walk out, I pass the 120 people still sitting in the Central Jury Room. They’ve been there all day. They’ll likely be dismissed at 5:00 PM without ever being called to a courtroom. Their day was wasted entirely.
One man says to his neighbor: “I could’ve worked from home and just checked the website. Instead I’m here for no reason.”
He’s right. With modern technology, courts could implement an on-call system—notify people the day before or morning-of whether they’re actually needed. Some jurisdictions are piloting this. Most aren’t.
Why? Because changing the system requires investment, and jurors don’t have purchasing power. We’re a captive audience. There’s no competitive pressure to improve our experience.
Step 11: The Aftermath (The Invisible Costs)
The official cost of my jury duty:
- Lost wages: $280 (7 hours at my rate)
- Parking: $15
- Compensation: $0
- Net loss: $295
The unofficial costs:
- Stress of uncertainty for two weeks before appearance
- Time spent researching excusal options
- Rearranged work meetings
- Backup childcare arrangements
- Mental energy worrying about what-ifs
Research from the National Center for State Courts found that “the cost of service to the individual juror in time, money and peace of mind is substantial.” Studies show 26% of jurors struggle with negative feelings after service, with anxiety being the most common.
And that’s for people who were selected and served on actual trials. I wasn’t even picked, and I’m frustrated.
For those who do serve on difficult cases—violent crimes, child abuse, graphic evidence—the psychological toll can be severe. Until recently, courts provided no mental health support. Some jurisdictions are now offering post-trial counseling, but it’s far from universal.
The system extracts labor and emotional energy from citizens, then abandons them when they need support.
Step 12: The Follow-Up (There Isn’t One)
No feedback survey. No “how was your experience?” No opportunity to suggest improvements.
In the corporate world, every interaction ends with “How did we do?” Courts? Silence.
This is the ultimate sign of a system that doesn’t care about user experience: They don’t even ask.
They got what they needed from me (my time and potential service). Whether I found the process efficient, respectful, or tolerable is irrelevant. I’m legally required to participate, so my satisfaction doesn’t matter.
Except it does matter. Because research shows declining participation rates nationwide. Half of Oregonians don’t respond to summonses. Judges report response rates below 50% in multiple jurisdictions. The system is slowly collapsing under the weight of its own dysfunction.
What a Well-Designed Jury System Would Look Like
This isn’t theoretical. Some jurisdictions are implementing improvements. Here’s what’s possible:
Better Communication
- Pre-service expectations: “85% of summoned jurors are not selected. Average wait time: 3 hours. Likelihood you’ll serve on a trial: 12%”
- Real-time updates: “Current status: 40 people ahead of you. Estimated wait: 90 minutes”
- Clear timelines: “If selected, this trial is expected to last 2 days”
Respect for Time
- Remote questionnaires: Complete forms at home; get notified before arriving if you’re struck
- On-call systems: Check in by phone/app instead of sitting in courthouse all day
- Better forecasting: Courts using data analytics to summon fewer people more accurately (Maricopa County, AZ is piloting this)
Fair Compensation
- Living wage: Several states now pay $50-100/day instead of $10-25
- Employer requirements: Require paid leave for jury duty (some states already do)
- Lengthy trial funds: Special compensation for trials over 10 days (Arizona, Louisiana, Mississippi have this)
Improved Environment
- WiFi and power: Let people work while waiting
- Better spaces: Comfortable seating, natural light, decent coffee
- Clear signage: Where to go, what to expect, timeline estimates
Post-Service Support
- Mental health resources: Free counseling for jurors who served on traumatic cases (Philadelphia now offers this)
- Feedback mechanisms: Survey jurors to identify pain points
- Recognition: Thank-you from the judge, certificate of service, acknowledgment of sacrifice
Technology Integration
- Mobile check-in: Scan QR code instead of waiting in line
- Digital notices: Text/email updates instead of website checking
- Virtual orientation: Watch the video at home, not on a 1980s TV cart
The Uncomfortable Truth
We treat jury duty like a chore because the system treats jurors like resources to be consumed, not citizens to be respected.
Every design choice prioritizes institutional convenience over human experience:
- Summons more people than needed → easier than accurate forecasting
- Make everyone show up in person → easier than managing on-call systems
- Provide minimal information → easier than transparency
- Offer poverty-level compensation → easier than fighting for budget increases
- Ignore feedback → easier than continuous improvement
If jury duty were a consumer product, it would have 1-star reviews everywhere:
“Wasted entire day sitting in uncomfortable room with no information. Lost $300 in wages, paid $15 for parking, got $0 in return. Would not recommend. 1/5 stars.”
But it’s not a consumer product. It’s a civic obligation wrapped in constitutional importance. And that’s precisely why it’s allowed to remain so broken.
We’ve convinced ourselves that suffering through bad design is part of the sacrifice of citizenship. It’s not. It’s just lazy systems thinking hiding behind tradition.
Why This Matters Beyond Jury Duty
The jury selection process is a microcosm of how governments interact with citizens when there’s no competitive pressure to improve.
- No incentive to optimize (captive audience)
- No feedback loops (satisfaction irrelevant)
- No accountability (can’t “switch” to a competitor)
- No investment in UX (budgets prioritize other things)
The result: Systems that work for administrators but fail the humans they’re supposed to serve.
This same pattern appears everywhere:
- DMV services
- Permit applications
- Tax filing
- Public benefit enrollment
- Voting experiences
When citizens are legally required to use a system, that system has zero motivation to be good. It just has to be functional enough that it doesn’t completely collapse.
Jury duty shows what happens when UX is treated as optional luxury instead of core design principle.
The Verdict
I received my jury duty notice two weeks ago. I spent those weeks anxious about the disruption. I spent yesterday sitting in a courthouse for 6.5 hours. I lost nearly $300 in wages and gained nothing but the technical compliance with my civic duty.
And I’m one of the lucky ones. I wasn’t selected. I don’t have to go back.
The 12 people who were selected? They’ll repeat this process for three more days. They’ll lose more wages, more time, more peace of mind. They’ll sit through a trial, deliberate on life-altering decisions, and then be sent home with minimal support and poverty-level compensation.
The system will extract their labor, their attention, their judgment, and then forget they exist.
Because the jury selection process wasn’t designed for jurors. It was designed for courts. For judges. For lawyers. For institutions that get to optimize for their own efficiency while externalizing all costs onto the citizens they summon.
A well-designed system would:
- Minimize wasted time
- Provide clear communication
- Offer fair compensation
- Respect participants’ circumstances
- Support people through difficult experiences
- Continuously improve based on feedback
The current system does none of these things.
Not because we lack the technology. Not because we don’t know how. But because nobody with the power to change it is forced to use it.
Judges, lawyers, court administrators—they’re never summoned for jury duty. They never sit in the plastic chairs. They never lose a day’s wages for $10 compensation. They never check a website at 11 PM hoping to be excused.
They design a system they’ll never use. And it shows.
Until the people who run the courts have to experience the courts as jurors do, nothing will change.
The notice is required.
The bad design is optional.
We’ve just chosen to keep it anyway.