Duty Calls

This is a loosely autobiographical retelling of a portion of my jury duty encounter.

Written in 42:00, no editing

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"Would you like me to do something, your honor?"

"No bailiff. I don't think there's a problem, is there juror 4788?"

I lean back in the rickety wooden chair, creaking with every movement as if its lone goal is to make the world aware of its existence. "You reminded me I was under oath. All I did was tell the truth."

The bailiff returns to his post, continually glaring in my direction as if his intimidating presence meant anything to me beyond the confines of this courtroom. He looked young, 25 maybe, with a freshly placed bandage atop his shaved head. Clearly he's already had an action-packed day. I have no doubt that he's already yearning to go home and tell his girlfriend about the shit he has to put up with at work, and she'll once again feel too guilty to tell him she's been shacking up with a co-worker for what feels like forever. It makes me feel a little better knowing I am helping contribute to his daily misery, thus prolonging his fucked-up relationship. In a way, he should thank me for allowing him to avoid a deeper misery and heartbreak for at least one more night. After all, I'm sure some kind of physical altercation happens more often than we think in shitty little courtrooms all around the country, especially ones like this one here in Van Nuys, the land of the chronically poor, dumb and useless. and I'm also sure they get their fair share of smarmy assholes like me, who have already decided that they're basically too good to be wasting their time deciding the fate of some fucking messed-up broad who decided to key her ex-husband's car and then had the gall to plead not guilty.  And no I'm not kidding. Apparently dragging the edge of a piece of metal against what I would imagine to be nothing more glamorous than the paintjob of a 1993 Honda Civic based on the style and demeanor of the plaintiff in question is enough to waste an obscene amount of taxpayer's money and an even more obscene amount of the time of probably more productive members of society for what could be a week. But, for the bailiff to have to endure both in the same day, well, while most women are heartless, most at least have the common decency to know when adding insult to injury (and insult) is just overkill.

"Mr. Asshole Defense Attorney (NOTE: not his real name, just fitting), do you have any questions?" The perplexed look on the face of the judge was priceless.

The DA gets up from his way-too-comfortable leather executive's chair and beelines it straight to the podium, all while eyeing me as if he either couldn't fathom the shit that was coming out of my mouth, or was amused by the audacity of the shit coming out of my mouth. "Juror number 23 (apparently i'm not just a number, i'm TWO numbers), would you mind if I asked your opinion of me?

I looked him straight in the eye. "I'm not a fan."

He chuckled, half-expecting a smart ass response. Either that or used to it. After all, he was an asshole. "Juror 23, is there any particular reason that you do not like me?

I continued looking him directly in his sleazy little eyes to let him know that I had come this far and wasn't going to be backing down anytime soon. In actuality I did have a reason as to why. I simply did not like the way he talked to a woman downstairs in the lobby. Nothing major, but it stuck. However, I wasn't going to get into it. "I don't need a reason. I told you, I was judgmental."

I felt the bailiff mentally preparing to take another step towards me, but it never happened. "Juror 23," Asshole DA remained persistent and unperturbed by my excruciatingly blunt answers, "do you want to be a juror?"

"Am I still under oath?"

"Yes you are, Juror 23."

"Then no I do not." I felt a silent collective of envy and regret from the other 30 or so potential jurors over such a simple loophole, if you could call it that. After all, I didn't do anything wrong. I was asked if I wanted to waste a few days listening to a bunch of people spew fact after useless fact pertaining to an even more useless case where the amount of money I would have lost missing work would have probably been equivalent if not more than the amount of money the defendant would end up paying out of pocket for being a jealous bitch obviously lacking in common sense, wit and sensibility, not to mention a skill level hovering around -1 when it comes to being inconspicuous. And since I was obliged to be truthful with regards to everything I say, I was gonna jump all over the chance to say, 'There is no fucking way I want to spend another minute in this goddamn courtroom and if you decide I would make a good juror, then you obviously failed the portion of Law School that stresses the importance of having good observational skills.' Naturally, I didn't go the long route simply because Bull Shannon Jr. over there was clearly ready to take his early court session aggressions out on me with or without the judge's consent, and also because even I was aware I may have been taking the asshole route a little too far. At least the DA was being paid to make me hate him. I was doing it pro bono.

Truth be told, this wasn't really my style, but to be honest, I had no choice. I was in a group of 10 "alternate" jurors - jurors only brought in during the selection process if the lawyers couldn't come to a concrete decision of which 12 jurors out of the original 20 they felt would best help represent a fair trial in a simple goddamn vandalism charge. Naturally, both the prosecutor and the DA starting picking off "unqualified jurors" like it was going out of style. It was also becoming painfully clear that both lawyers seemed to want a Caucasian-heavy group of 12, because, really, what better way to decide the fate of a white person fucking up another white person's property then by having 12 more white people involved (15 actually if you include both lawyers and the Judge)? Now, I may be Jewish, but my fair Canadian skin and somewhere deep inside inability to tan beyond an off-white (more like eggshell) made me the whitest motherfucker in the room. To make matters worse, the other alternates, like myself, began to realize that the lawyers had already picked out their favorites and wanted to dropkick as many of the jurors as possible to get to the ones they did want. I felt like I was numero uno on the DA's wishlist because, obviously the guy who looks like a piece of shit is gonna side with the girl that does shitty things (the rules of attraction - it's in the bible). 

Clearly I wasn't the only one to figure out this grand scheme as suddenly the farfetched fables and rogue pleads for excision began to seep out. One guy claimed he was robbed and because the police didn't react in record time, he now holds a permanent grudge against all authorities, which may or may not hinder his ability to be impartial (cough... cough... bullshit). Another claimed to be a Jehovah's Witness thus it was against his religious beliefs to pass judgement (to which I found out later also happened to be complete and total bullshit - the part about him being a JW, not whether or not judging is a sin in Jehovaland). There were tales of child abuse and molestation and I'm pretty sure one potential juror admitted that he was in this country illegally. I also believe one even tried admitting he was gay, as if that would have been a viable excuse to be sent home. Maybe he just felt comfortable being in a room full of anonymous strangers and really did just come out for the first time, who am I to judge? Regardless,  if I were the stenographer that day, i would have made a killing selling ideas for messed-up predicaments to Maury.  A whole season of daytime drama conglomerated into one courtroom. I feel like I'm witnessing history.

Which is why it was so integral for me to go above and beyond if I wanted out. Those who know me know I'm not a bad guy. Sure I may be overly sarcastic and could be downright rude if I wanted to, but that's normally my style. What IS my style is perhaps a tendency to take things a tad too far, even if it's notin my best interest to do so. Basically, I'll go until it becomes awkward for everyone involved, which may have been the case today.

"One more question, Juror 23..."

Of course.

"You say you're judgmental and you stand by your beliefs and opinions."

"Some people like it, some people hate it..."

He removed his glasses and pretended to clean off a non-existent smudge on one of the lenses.  "Say it's late in the day on Friday and you have a hot date that night," he actually did a slight pelvic thrust to hint at something. I feel sorry for any girl that's ever been on a "hot date" with Dickless Attorney over here.  "Now everyone is voting one way, but you, as you said, refuse to waver from your opinion. Would there be a chance you would be persuaded to vote the other way if it sped up the process?"

I leaned back, "Absolutely."

The DA looked slightly shocked. " With regards to everything you said about your strong convictions and stubbornness, you would be willing to just simply change your mind?"

"Sure looks that way, doesn't it?" A slight giggle from the courtroom. Clearly I was providing far more entertainment that I'm sure was originally anticipated.

"I have nothing else, your honor." He glanced back at me, sneered ever so slightly and returned to his seat. 

"Mister Prosecutor, do you have anything to ask?" The judge asked, seemingly as annoyed with the progressions of the jury selection as I and everyone else.

The prosecutor swiveled around in his chair, scanned the remaining 10 alternate jurors and stopped when his eyes reached me. "No I do not, your honor," he responded without taking his eyes off me. Clearly his initial opinion had soured. His slight look of disappointment indicated that my inclusion would have been a beneficiary to him (why was I such a sought-after juror? I never felt so wanted!). It was clear he wanted to say something to me, but I think even he understood that I wasn't going to have anything constructive to contribute. He glanced back over at the bailiff as if hoping he would finally step in and put me in my place, but apparently even he had no interest in prolonging the day.

"Very well, if the Counselors will join me in my quarters, we will reconvene in 10 minutes," the Judge directed. "However, I also think it would be in the court's best interest to excuse Juror number 23. Counselors, do you have any objections?"

"No, your honor."

"None whatsoever, your honor."

"Will juror number 23 please leave his badge with the Bailiff and leave the courtroom, immediately." She didn't even look at me. I felt used.

I got up, leered around at the remaining jurors still in the running for "World's Shittiest Trial" and swaggered on out of there. The looks of envy were rewarding in itself. Even the Bailiff  nodded in some sort of appreciation for the entertainment I provided. Either that or he was trying to tell me that I'll be back sooner rather than later and and not as a potential juror.

I walked outside, grabbed my certificate stating my jury duty obligations had been fulfilled and breathed a gigantic sigh of relief.

The best part about the whole experience? Paper-clipped to my crappy dot-matrix-printed certificate was a crisp 5 dollar bill, which I promptly went out and spent illegally on weed.

God Bless America