Juror Number Seventeen

I sit in the quiet room, filling out my questionnaire. It is a quiet room of despair, filled with rows and rows of comfy leather chairs, arranged like a movie theater, facing two flat-screen TVs.

There are a lot of us in the room, and we are all sitting the required one seat apart from each other to maintain a somewhat social comfort level. As comfortable as you can be while awaiting your doom.

The tension in the silent air is palpable. There is a faint ray of hope every once in a while, as the thought comes over you, “Maybe I'll be excused and get to leave soon and not have to come back.” Then the cold reality of the situation squashes that dream. No, you will be here all day, and you will have to come back forever. Someone will replace you at your job and you will never see your children again.

The jury notice said to arrive by 8:30 A.M. People are still showing up at 8:40. New rule: People showing up late should have to be on the jury. Anyone who was early should be dismissed. I will talk to the judge about the idea. He or she should probably go for it, since it makes good sense.

We have done nothing other than fill out our jury questionnaires in the foreboding silence. At 8:50, the woman who checked us in at the front desk comes in and tells us we have a ten-minute recess. Recess from what? We haven't done anything yet. So, you tell us to be here at 8:30 and then we don't start until 9:00? I have a bad feeling you do that to make sure all the late people get here. Further good evidence why my "late people are the jury" rule should immediately be put into effect.

A guy’s phone rings. He silences it without answering. No one will break the silence of despair.

There are signs up at the front of the room warning us to beware of jury duty scams. What the hell could a jury duty scam be? I must read the sign, but I will not get up from my seat of despair and break the utter stillness in the room.

Suddenly, a motivational video springs to life on the flat-screen TVs. A former juror tells us it will be great and we'll learn a lot. We learn that California is the greatest state in the union, but sometimes we have issues. Many times, we don't trust only one person to impart justice. That's where I come in.

There is some mention of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. Former jurors tell us that we, as Americans, don't want professional jurors, and that regular people like us serve on juries every day. Another former juror tells us that common sense, an open mind, and impartiality is all it takes. She also tells us that when she was on a jury, she brought a book, so it wasn't bad when she had to wait around a lot. Also, the people in the courtroom will tell us what to do, so we don't already have to know anything about how the courts work. That’s a relief.

We learn that the attorneys may ask us about our personal thoughts, and it's nothing personal if a lawyer doesn't pick you, so we shouldn’t be sad. OK, I’ll try to remember that. We learn the shocking reality that if we’re picked for the jury we’re not allowed to investigate the crime ourselves, so we can't go to the scene and check it out on our own. Bummer.

In a moving reenactment of a real-life court scene, the witness on the stand reported seeing a blue flash at the moment of impact. We are left wondering what in the hell that was all about. A former juror then tells us that they thought the deliberation with twelve perfect strangers was the best part. They probably didn’t get out of the house much before the trial.

There is a crescendo moment in the video where “The decision of the jury has been made. Justice has been served!” Duh da duh daaaa.

We then learn that jury service is often a deep and moving experience, and many jurors stay in touch after the trial! One man felt good about himself afterward. He had brought common sense to the table, and he felt great about that.

The parting shot of the video is a fade away on the blindfolded, scale-holding “Lady Justice” statue. She is showing some boob. That seems unnecessary.

Surprisingly, no one applauds. The video ends, and we all just stay put, easily slipping back to our original quiet despair. No one seems more pumped to be on a jury now. I don't think the video worked like they wanted it to.

An older lady on the other side of the room begins wheezing to break the silence. A nice lady asks if she needs help. She seems to have asthma of some kind and she has forgotten to bring her inhaler. One lady goes out to tell the clerk, and another lady offers her an albuterol inhaler from her purse. She refuses it politely, claiming she uses "the round one" instead of that kind.

Now Asthma Lady gets to leave the room. I smell a rat. Dammit. Why didn't I think of that? Maybe I'll fake a heart attack. No. They’ll probably hook me up to a portable defibrillator. If I don’t die from that, they'll probably just make me come back next week. Never mind.

Some lady with a badge comes in and collects Asthma Lady's stuff for her. She's not coming back. I wish I had asthma.

I do a rough headcount while trying not to look like a stalker. I would say there are about 65 of us in this room. So, my rough odds of getting on a jury are 12/65ths. That's not that bad. I'd even go so far as to say those odds are good. A glimmer of hope cracks through the cloud of despair.

A lady comes in and makes us swear that we would do everything fairly, or something. I’m not really listening, but I say I do. I'm sure I do.

Then the lady reads a clipboard and calls me by name. So much for those good odds. I am the second to last of the first eighteen prospective jurors. Lucky me. I am now being referred to as “Juror Number Seventeen.” Cloud of despair: 1. Glimmer of hope: 0.

We exit the room and there is Asthma Lady sitting comfortably in a chair, not wheezing anymore. I hate her.

We enter the courtroom and I am now sitting in a row of chairs out in front of the regular jury box. I want to try to trip the defense attorney if I get a chance. I probably swore not to do stuff like that earlier, though, so I won't.

The judge explains to us that it is a privilege and an honor to serve on a jury, and if we try to get out of jury duty we are un-American and we're disrespecting all the veterans who have served and died for us. He may be right, but I still need to pick my kids up from school.

The judge really enjoys hearing himself talk. We have done five minutes of actual business in the last hour. My butt is falling asleep.

We meet the defendant. He smoked pot and drove his car, and he's pleading not guilty to DUI for some reason. Apparently his parents have more money than common sense. This little idiot is going down.

The judge goes through our questionnaires one by one. He chats with each of us as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. He loves being here. He is the only one.

The judge likes the fact that I'm an author. I don't think I can leverage that in any way to help me here. Oh, well. Maybe he'll buy some of my books.

We break for lunch. We need to be back in an hour and a half. That seems efficient.

After our relaxed lunch, the defense attorney asks us ridiculous questions about how we feel about marijuana. He wants to know if we think we can put aside our opinions and judge whether someone can have it in their system and not be "under the influence." He doesn’t like my answer to his idiotic question. He also has annoying shoes. I might try to trip him if he gets close enough.

Now he wants to know if the testimony of a police officer would carry more weight with us than the testimony of a civilian. He doesn’t like my answer again.

Potential Juror Number Four, Mr. Anderson behind me, won’t stop interrupting everyone to ask inane questions that pertain to absolutely nothing. He is also an idiot.

The defense attorney with the ridiculous shoes wants to know how I feel about “medical marijuana.” I tell him it’s one elephant shy of being a full-blown circus. He doesn’t like that answer either.

The prosecutor seems to like all my answers. Mr. Anderson interrupts him with stupid questions also.

Questions are over. The lawyers confer with the talkative judge. We have been here for six and a half hours. I hate Asthma Lady even more now.

The defense would like to ask the court to thank and excuse Potential Juror Number Eight. The former mayor of a small town near here leaves the courtroom with a smile on her face.

The prosecution would like to ask the court to thank and excuse Potential Juror Number Four. Goodbye, Mr. Anderson. I take it all back. You are obviously a genius.

The defense would like to ask the court to thank and excuse Potential Juror Number Seventeen. That’s a good call, Silly Shoes. I would’ve canned his little stoner ass.

In terms of sheer euphoric joy washing over you, being excused from jury duty and walking out of the courtroom is probably rivaled only by heroin. Or maybe really good weed... Hang on, I'll go back in and ask the defendant.

See you soon,

-Smidge

Copyright © 2015 Marc Schmatjen

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The Summons

Today, I received the most dreaded piece of mail known to mankind. More hideous that an IRS audit notice. More dastardly than an eviction letter. It was The Summons for Jury Service. We’ll get back to that in a minute. Right now I want to talk about the DMV.

I had a very offensive accusation hurled at me once at the DMV. I had moved back to California from Oregon, and I was at a Los Angeles DMV office re-taking the written portion of the driver’s test to get my California driver’s license back. I tried just honking three times and flipping them the bird, but I guess an actual California driving skills test was not required.

Anyway, there were 20 of us packed into the testing room, and at 6’-1”, I was far and away the tallest person in the room. In the middle of the test I stood up straight to stretch my back from the crouching position I was maintaining at my assigned wall shelf testing location, when the permanently grumpy horn-rimmed-glasses-wearing DMV proctor lady looked me right in the eye and shouted, “You deah! Keep you eye on you own paper!”

That was the point at which I ignored her surly, broken English request and actually took a good look at the other people taking the driver’s test with me. You have got to be kidding me, lady!?! You think I’m cheating off these people? I will guarantee that you and I are the only two people in this room who actually speak enough English to have understood that sentence that you, yourself barely formed! The lady next to me has her test upside down, and this guy looks like he couldn’t spell “DMV” if we spotted him all three letters and gave him six tries!

I take offense to the jury selection process in the same way. People have a right to a trial by a jury of their peers. If I am selected to the jury, you’re telling me that I’m a peer to the neck-tattooed idiot over there who “allegedly” held up the convenience store at three in the afternoon in front of the off-duty cop? Honestly, why do we need to keep saying “allegedly?” Look at this mouth-breather. He obviously did it, which totally offends me. What about him make us peers? Warm-bloodedness, I guess.

But that begs the question, do you want a jury of his actual peers judging him? Unemployed meth addicts are unreliable at best. They would never show up on time for the already ridiculously relaxed court hours, plus they might invoke the classic stoner “duuuude, he was totally framed” defense.

I guess the term “jury of your peers” might be misleading these days. Maybe we should change it to “jury of normal people.” No matter what we call them, though, we still have to find twelve people with enough free time to spend all day at the courthouse without getting paid to be there. Now, full-time writers are a good fit for jury service from a logistics standpoint, but a horrible choice from a practical view. They have lots of free time, but we writers are a weird group with wild imaginations. Trust me, you do not want your fate decided by twelve writers! They will convict you just because it makes a better plot for the book they’re going to write about all this.

Unfortunately, I am not a full-time writer yet. Since I can’t support my family on the $13 a year I make as a writer, I still have a day job. The day job tends to take up a lot of my free time. That makes me a bad fit for jury duty, from my point of view. The only people who actually have enough free time to serve on a jury are the unemployed. In my experience, people are unemployed for many reasons, but the vast majority of them are unemployed for reasons that make it impossible for them to be considered a peer of yours or mine, or of anyone who holds down even a part-time job.

Retirement from a lifetime career of steady work should be the only acceptable reason for unemployment when it comes to jurist qualifications.

Now, on the one hand, since I have no time to miss work and serve on a jury, I will do whatever I can to get out of it (short of actual lying, of course, Your Honor). I have to assume that almost all people in my position, meaning my peers, would do the same. So if all my peers are trying to get out of jury duty, and we’re as smart a group of folks as I think we are, there aren’t going to be very many of my peers in the jury box.

On the other hand, if I am ever accused of a crime that requires a jury to help get me freed, it will no doubt be a case of false imprisonment, and I will really want a jury of my actual peers to help me. Kind of a Catch-22, there.

Although… come to think of it, I’m no brain surgeon. I’m not really even that bright. I mean, I can hold down a job and raise kids, but let’s face it; that’s not exactly rocket science. I don’t really want a jury of my peers. I want a jury of rocket scientists and brain surgeons. Those guys are wicked smart! They’ll see through the evil DA’s lies and deceptions. They won’t believe that crooked cop’s story. They’ll get me off.

The problem is, the brain surgeons are the ones who really can’t miss work. I can actually miss work, I just don’t want to.

Although… It says here on my summons that “state law prohibits discrimination or retaliation against an employee for taking time off to serve as a juror.” Hmm… I mean, truth be told, I’m not really that important at the office. I could miss work. Might be kind of fun…

Anyway, the more I think about this, the more I think that DMV visit might actually have been the root cause of this whole problem. Not the ridiculous and insulting accusation, but the fact that I probably re-registered to vote in California while I was there, which is probably how I got on the jury pool list. A lot of good that did me!

See you soon,

-Smidge

Copyright © 2012 Marc Schmatjen

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