Duty Calls

Twelve not-so-Angry men: Court Officer Robert Busillo hopes to make the jury assembly room a friendlier place.

Photo By: Michael T. Regan

Think jury duty is nothing but torture? Robert Busillo might make you think again.

by Meredith Broussard

Jury duty. It’s a phrase that inspires dread -- much like “tax audit” or “gynecological exam.” Jury duty evokes images of Dickensian municipal tortures, or daylong incarceration in a dingy, ill-lighted room.

But in the Philadelphia court system, one man is crusading to change all that.

His name is Robert Busillo. Court Officer Robert Busillo. He's the man in charge of the jury assembly room, the holding tank for the 300-odd jurors called to duty each day courts are in session. As far as the jury system is concerned, he is a superhero.

Busillo carries an unconventional set of weapons. He bombards reluctant jurors with kindness, and plies them with doughnuts. Or bagels, or muffins, depending on their tastes. Each morning, prospective jurors are treated to a smile, a genuine "How are you?" and a 10-foot-long continental breakfast spread. Busillo's methods are hardly radical -- charm and free food can melt the hardest of hearts -- but never before have these tactics been applied to apprehensive, often hostile jurors.

"People are in a baaaaad mood when they walk in," says Busillo. From afar, he looks like any other average 52-year-old municipal employee. But up close, the twinkle of the small diamond stud in his earlobe matches the sparkle in his eyes. This is one man who exudes charm. "People are afraid when they come in. My first priority is to make people feel less apprehensive about jury duty."

By 9:30 a.m., Busillo has checked in all of the day's jurors ("we have a little breakfast for you in the other room," he tells each one). That's when he really swings into action. "Good morning!" He greets the crowd enthusiastically. A few prospective jurors' heads pop up. "My name is Robert Busillo, and it is my pleasure to welcome you to the jury assembly room. How many people would rather be at work?" Ninety-nine percent of the prospective jurors raise their hands. "Well, it's going to be another long day," Busillo sighs, and a ripple of laughter runs through the room. The crowd is warming up. "Jury duty calls up a lot of emotions for people. Fear. Frustration. Anticipation. We hope that after today, satisfaction."

Busillo asks each juror to introduce himself to a neighbor. After a few quizzical looks, the jurors start chatting among themselves. Smiles appear. Suddenly, it's not a room full of hostile strangers -- but a group of city residents, taking care of their civic duty together.

"After that, you can feel the tension evaporate from the room," Busillo explains, perched on a padded chair after his speech. It's quiet in the auditorium; Busillo's partner, Thomas Novelli, has led the jurors off to their appointed courtrooms. A cop wanders through the jury assembly room, on her way to the rest room or headed for the leftover doughnuts. "Hi, sweetie!" she chirps at Robert. He flashes her a megawatt smile in response.

Busillo has plenty of fans in the courthouse -- in the year and a half that he has been on the job, Philadelphia's jury system has changed radically. Jurors are ... happy. Lawyers are happy. Judges, even, are happy. "Since Robert came to work down here, we've heard nothing but positive comments," says jury commissioner Joel Johnson, Busillo's boss. "He didn't have to come work down here. He volunteered." Before Johnson took over jury management duties in 2000, the department heard almost constant complaints. Jurors claimed that they were treated like cattle, not people. Lawyers complained about hostile jurors. Even the physical surroundings were unpleasant: Before the jury assembly room moved to the courthouse at 13th and Filbert in 1995, jurors could spend an entire day trapped in a municipal wasteland, deprived of sunlight and fresh air.

Now, under Johnson's regime, jurors are treated with kindness and respect. At the reception desk, supervisor Dona P. Rhuberg has a button pinned on her bulletin board that reads, "I (heart) Our Jurors." There has also been a substantial increase in the number of people who actually report when summoned for jury duty. "Why are you trying to hide from us, when we are going to treat you with respect?" is Johnson's position.

Why, indeed -- when a day of jury duty means free doughnuts and a morning spent in the company of a wisecracking court officer? But in case the carrot doesn't work, Johnson carries a big stick: Scofflaw Court, a recent innovation that deals with the folks who repeatedly fail to respond when summoned to jury duty. Shirking jury duty carries a hefty penalty, with fines that correspond to the severity of the offense. Ironically, these scofflaw fines are what makes the jury assembly room a nice place to be -- Scofflaw Court monies, not tax dollars, pay for the jurors' breakfast goodies.

Working with jurors, Busillo and Johnson have heard every excuse in the book. "People always come in claiming to be biased, or racist, or sexist. It's always something," says Busillo. "I'm a pretty good judge of character. If something is really wrong, I try to take them aside, talk to them individually to find out what's going on." Very few excuses get by the jury commission. Johnson recalls the case of a city worker who reported for jury duty, then tried to get out of it by claiming that he lived in a different county. Noticing the "City of Philadelphia Employee" stamp on the man's summons form, Johnson calmly told the man that if he did live outside the city, he could be excused from jury duty. He also offered to call the man's department to let them know about the address change -- knowing that the man was required to live within city limits for his job. "Once he realized he could lose his job because he didn't want to serve jury duty, he started telling the truth," recalls Johnson.

Dropping his belligerent attitude, the man confessed that he was having a bad day, and was worried that he wouldn't be able to smoke if he was stuck in the courtroom for hours. After being reassured that he'd be able to get the occasional nicotine fix, the reluctant city employee settled into his continental breakfast. After a heavy dose of Busillo's charm, he made a perfectly fine juror.

"I really don't mind doing jury duty," comments attorney Henry Schober. As a lawyer who handles criminal and civil cases, he's unlikely to be selected for any jury. Nevertheless, he is waiting in the jury assembly room with the other jurors, reading the newspaper and occasionally glancing at the television that Busillo has tuned to one juror's favorite afternoon soap opera. "Nobody is hostile any more. I've noticed that the jury proceedings in the courtroom go even quicker now." Busillo, sitting nearby, looks away modestly as Schober continues. "Things are fantastically improved around here."

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