Scenes from a Day at Jury Duty

In my tiny golf ball of a car, speeding to New Bedford's Superior Courthouse. Mr. Zigkvetch's strange mix cd blasting away: Wagner's Ride of the Valkyires, James Taylor, Eminem, Frank Zappa, Benny Goodman, Schumann played on a tuba, Cool & the Gang, Tower of Power and Elton John. The window is open because the AC barely works. Life is good.

In my tiny golf ball of a car, stuck in traffic, eyes terrified, staring at the minutes ticking away toward 8:30 am. Life is stressful.

In my tiny golf ball of a car, looking desperately for non-existent parking. There's a spot the size of a hot dog cart between two SUV behemoths- perfect! Life is good.

Into the courthouse I go, bemusedly looking at what others consider dressing appropriately for court: cutoffs, hoochie-mama tops and shorts, flip flops, stained, holey jeans. Through the metal detector, down the hall, up the stairs.

A surly woman tosses a form in my direction and mumbles that I need to fill it out. I don't blame her for being surly- like most New England courthouses, this one is old and there is no air-conditioning, not to mention the poor thing doesn't even have a real office- just a desk and some file cabinets at the end of a hallway.

Upon returning the form, I'm told to go wait in any room down the hall. I pass room after room, all filled with bleary-eyed jurors-to-be and take a seat on a bench in front of the last room. I open my Marie Claire and start to thumb through it. This is short-lived because there is one hyperactive moronic woman who decides to verbally throw herself at the poor woman next to her.

"And I had to get up early this morning to drop of the kids at school and my ex-husband once served on a jury and was on it for a week and hated it but it was interesting, but my current husband blah, blah, blah, snort, giggle, blah, blahity, blah blah, blah..."

The chorus of thought in that hallway was nearly deafening:

"Jesus lady, shut the hell up."

Next, we're herded downstairs and into the courtroom for a chat with Her Honor who seems really cool and like someone I'd enjoy working with. This is followed by a lame video explanation of jury duty presented by a judge, a female lawyer and a male lawyer who thinks he's Perry freaking Mason. And, back we're herded upstairs. Moo.

This time I get a seat at the table in the last room. The seat is padded and far more comfortable than the bench. The table has a variety of magazines for our reading pleasure, and I'm actually pretty impressed to see up-to-date editions of USWeekly, Star, People, Sports Illustrated, and that perennial favorite, Field and Stream. People lunge at the mags while I take out my book, "Hypocrite in a White Pouffy Dress." Susan Gilman is a riot, and I have to stifle my laughter several times so as not to scare the other jurors, as the only sound in this room full of people is the breeze rattling the blinds on the windows. Actually, that's not true. There was also the occasional sound of the attached bathroom door slamming (it was inevitable the way it was built), and the constant sound of people within and outside the room powering their cell phones up and then off again. Doodle-oodle-oo! Doodle-oodle-daaah. Over and over again.

Oh, and there was also some occasional snoring, which grew in number as people dropped off to slumber in the silence of the hours we were waiting. Finally, even Susie Gilman couldn't save me, and I plopped my head down on my purse and snoozed along with the crowd. When I awoke, people were chatting a little. I sat up and smiled at the people around me and told them that I hoped I hadn't snored, and if I had, that I was sorry. They laughed. Christ, I hope I didn't snore. Oh man, what if I accidentally pooted a little poot while I was sleeping? GAH! Oh well, nothing I could do about it now. I offered my Marie Claire to a thankful woman who had finished off all the tabloids and was looking fearfully at the ignored Field and Stream on the table. Hey, is it chauvanistic of me to be surprised that so many men went grabbing at the tabloids?

JURORS, FOLLOW ME. We were being bellowed at again. Back down the stairs again. Moo, I say!

This time, there was a young assistant DA, a fishy-looking (ok, I'll even say he looked like a shyster) lawyer in a typically ill-fitting suit, a maybe 20 year old kid in a suit, tattoo peaking out over his collar, looking nervous as hell, and an impeccably dressed stenographer, along with security. The judge introduced the players and the lawyers introduced themselves- DA-guy short, to-the-point, professional, and the other lawyer slimy and weaselly. A slimeweasel (there's a new word for you Paul!), if you will. The kid had allegedly been caught with a controlled substance (Oxy-codeine? I've heard of oxy-contin and I know what codeine is, but I'm clueless as to what oxy-codeine is all about.) with intent to sell. He was pleading not-guilty.

And then began the excrutiating process to pick the jury.

First came the group questions. If your answer was yes to any of the questions, you had to raise your little card and one of the security people (bailffs?) would read your number off. Do you know this defendant or his family? Did you work at the convenience store where this took place? Do you know either of these lawyers? Would you take anything a police officer says as the truth, no matter what? A few hands would go up here and there until, have you, an immediate family member or a close friend ever been addicted to a controlled substance that was either legal or illegal? It seemed as though half the room raised their hands.

Then came the calling of people's numbers, in order, from 1-1 on up. Some people were given a seat in the jury box, and some were conferred with by the judge and lawyers and then either sent to the jury box or dismissed. It went on and on. People of every color, size, shape and dress code marched by me. I would've liked to have been on a jury, except that this one wasn't going to finish in a day-- they would be doing this through at least next Monday. No thanks. Hyperactive-moron-woman from earlier was selected, and no lie, acted as if Bob Barker had just yelled for her to come on down on The Price is Right. Her hands clasped over her mouth, giggling and giddy. Did I say no thanks before? Really, REALLY no thanks now. After selecting, dismissing, selecting, dismissing, they finally had their jury and the judge asked the remaining 14 (12 + 2 alternates) if there was anything else they could think of that would prohibit their service. And one jerk raised his hand.

Everyone had to convene back on the other side of the desk to listen to him whine about hotel reservations and family coming in to town. The judge was annoyed and kept saying, hey, you'll be out of here by 4:30 each day and this really isn't relevant. Prior to the selection process, the judge had given us a spiel about the history of jury duty and how this was one of the only ways to affect democracy directly. And then she laid the guilt on extra thick and chunky, talking about 9/11 and our soldiers fighting in Iraq. Basically telling us they were asking for a few days in a courthouse from us while others had given or were risking their lives. I rolled my eyes at this. Surely people understood that this was their basic civic duty, and although a pain, nothing too impacting! Surely we didn't need to be guilted into participation! The one jerk changed my mind- obviously the judge knew what she was doing with that spiel.

In the end, he was set free, with a disgusted look and a dissmissive wave of the judge's hand. The process had to reconvene, and they finally had a jury when the guy 8-1 was called to the juror box. I was 10-1 and relieved.

Back in my tiny golf ball of a car, speeding down the highway with the window open, on my way home again. Life is good.