Hardly. But, already I'm digressing...
I was summoned last week to be a good citizen. One more time as a prospective juror for the City of Los Angeles. Doing what the Constitution and our forefathers asked me to do over 200 years ago. Be fair, impartial, and hopefully put some scumbag behind bars.
Los Angeles does jury duty right. They have a process called "One or One." You either serve one day or one trial. If you sit in the jury assembly room for one day and are never impaneled, you are done. If you are impaneled and either make it onto a jury trial or are considered a trial risk (my favorite occupation), you are done. If you are lucky, jury duty could be nothing more than one or two days. Pretty sweet. Except the price you pay is that Los Angeles will call you regularly. Usually once every two years. Like a regular colonoscopy if you're prone to polyp production. And, in my twelve years of SoCal habitation, I have been called exactly six times.
I've gone to civil court in Santa Monica. A block away from a beach and a bowling alley which is an ideal lunchtime diversion when the judges and attorneys take their mandatory three hour midday breaks. Once, I got called to Beverly Hills and this was around the time of the Winona Ryder shoplifting case. That jury I would have gladly served on. But, most of the time, I'm summoned to one of the courthouses in boring downtown LA. A few blocks from the Staples Center and, on my way to court, I drove past to see if there were any Michael mourners still hanging about.
I was on call last week and the telephone message didn't beckon my presence until Thursday. In I went, amid the dregs of society. If you want to take a microcosmic snapshot of what is wrong with America in 2009, hang around a courthouse lobby as a workday begins. It's the worst of the worst winding their way through airport-like security. Empty your pockets, take off jewelry, and remove your belts. Jurors, either real or prospective, get to cut the long line as if my American Airlines Platinum status works there. On the other side of the glass, I see some of the items that didn't make the cut past security. Two knives, a clip of bullets, several screwdrivers, and a box cutter. And perhaps this is what came out of the attache cases of some attorneys.
Once I sat through the standard orientation in the jury assembly room, I surveyed the group to see what I was stuck with for the day. One fat slob kept doing her yoga stretches against the wall. Every time she bent over, we could all see to China and beyond. Hit the cymbals, lady!
One other jerk called one of the attendants over. He didn't think he could make it through the day. You see, he had fractured his skull two weeks ago and this was his first day out of the house. Huh? He was excused, but first insisted that a member of the sheriff's department escort him downstairs, since he "had been falling down a lot."
Then there was some old fart named David Frankel. I have no problem writing his name here because he virtually introduced himself to everybody in the room. He had a grating voice like actor Wallace Shawn and had people groping for one of the screwdrivers that had unfortunately been left downstairs with security. He engaged everybody in the exact same conversation about the car he sold last month but couldn't get top dollar because the economy is so bad. Over and over and over and over. After a while, it was fun to watch people trying to duck him as he made his way in their direction.
Not surprisingly, there was a contingent of about six gay guys who became fast friends within an hour. For about forty-five minutes, they did nothing but discuss Chita Rivera. I was buried in my book, but noticed some other cliques forming. It takes a while for me to start sharing my life story with complete strangers. Apparently, I am in the minority. Some folks start opening their information coffers within thirty seconds. In the course of the day, I overheard so much stuff that is none of my business. By noon, I was privy to the menstrual cycles of at least five female jurors.
The jury assembly room has several computers available for people to use while checking in with their jobs. We are told to limit our on-line time to about 15 or 20 minutes. That, however, meant nothing to some skanky Black chick who logged onto her Yahoo account and played video games for about three hours. People waited behind her in the hope that her carpal tunnel would kick in. No such luck. Miss Thing just kept going, intentionally oblivious to those around her. I saw an amazing dynamic at work. I could see the minds of people processing what to say to her. Should I ask politely or should I not? Ultimately, nobody bothered. They all walked away, knowing full well that a tussle with this pig was going to turn into an argument that nobody wanted as she probably wields a dog-eared racist card.
No jury panels were called until 230PM. Thirty-five folks had their numbers read off like Saturday Night Bingo at Sacred Heart Church and were hustled off to a courtroom. I had bitten the bullet and now kept one eye on the clock. If I made it to 430PM, I would have beaten the jury odds one more time.
4:10PM.
"I have a panel to call."
Shit.
#9***.
That's me.
Shit.
I look around to see who else is being schlepped to a courtroom with me. Four of the six gay guys. Called together. How does that happen? David Frankel, who is now re-introducing himself to his fellow jurors.
Shit.
We enter a courtroom to be swore in. We meet the female DA. The Iranian defense attorney. And the defendent. Some Black guy named inexplicably "Cleo." He and his lawyer watch as we enter. I feel like I'm being profiled by them. Be my guest, I think. I will be of no help to you. I have no idea what crime we are talking about here, but I already am 90% percent sure you're guilty of it.
But, given the late hour, the judge invites us back the next morning for jury selection. Groans abound. David Frankel expresses his disgust by re-introducing himself to anybody who will listen.
Without knowing the crime, I can't spend the evening trying to come up with a rational excuse for getting bounced from this jury. In the past, I had always done so. Adapted my life to the case at hand. Medical malpractice? I've had a similar law suit. You're dismissed. DUI? I had friends in the past who had run-ins with drunk drivers. You're dismissed. But, this time, I had nothing to use except maybe certain Wednesday editions of this blog might be offensive to "Cleo." I sensed something was amiss. At 1120AM, we are finally escorted into the courtroom. I notice that, as we enter, the defendent is leaving and talking to himself at the same time. From my Perry Mason fandom, I know that the defendent needs to be present for all aspects of this trial process. Unless, of course, there isn't going to be a trial process. The attorneys' trips down the hall had resulted in a plea bargain. I now figure it all. "Cleo" was checking us all out the day before. And, as he surveyed the 40 prospective jurors, he needed only one hand to do the fateful math. There were only four Black people. I can hear "Cleo" now. "Er, where's my brothers? Where the sisters? Where the OJ jurors at?" And as he continued his thought processing... "Er, what was that deal you all were talking about? Can I still negotiate? Where Howie Mandel at?" "Cleo" knew he was sunk. We all applauded wildly at the news of our dismissal. Only David Frankel sulked. He'd be heading home where there was nobody to introduce himself to. Dinner last night: Smoked ham sandwich.
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