Jury Doody
As mentioned in a prior post, I’ve been summoned for jury duty; it’s been seven years since my last summons (I’m legitimately dazzled they tracked me down in Kings County, but that’s what I get for voting), so I was game. And — as you might recall — I did predict that I’d be selected. Because I’m totally in tune with the cosmos.
Lucky for me, the court (or municipal building, more like it) is located a mere ten minutes from home, so I casually strolled over after breakfast. In my possession, I carried (a) today’s copy of the New York Times, (b) the two most recent New Yorkers — which I’d postponed reading, for this very reason — and (c) David Simon’s Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets, a must-have for any fan of HBO’s The Wire. Left entirely to my own devices, I figure that would constitute 3-4 days of straight reading. So what if I spent my Mexico vacation staring at a wall?
(Subsequently, my absolute favorite quotation from today’s Times, regarding an internal White House memo on Iraqi Prime Minister Nuri Kamal al-Maliki? “Among the concerns voiced … was that Mr. Maliki was surrounded by a narrow circle [of advisers] that American officials worry may skew the information he receives.” Um … isn’t that the rap on our President? How very odd.)
After passing through security — thorough, but speedy — I took my place in a room not half-full of potential jurors. (One of the security guards recognized me from the gym, and said hello. Of all the people I’ve encountered in the neighborhood, she looked most appropriate in everyday clothing — even if that was a cop’s uniform. It’s a strange paradox: that someone sweating and laboring will look better under those conditions than fully dressed; usually, when I pass someone familiar on the street, I think, That’s what you chose to wear today? Really?) It was 8:35 — I settled in till lunch.
At 8:55, a court officer played an informational video entitled Your Turn!, which spoke of the medieval practice of trial by ordeal (i.e., float and you’re guilty, sink and you’re innocent), before lauding our present system of trial by jury. I sat there in the third row, musing, I know that voice from somewhere — before Ed Bradley introduced himself as our narrator. Creepy. They should really recast that thing — or loop in some other dead celebrities. Ethel Rosenberg, perhaps.
Now, I know you’re expecting me to bitch and moan it was a dim, miserable shithole, but it wasn’t all that bad. The chairs were comfortable, contrary to expectation. Also, while not many other folk brought reading material, and were thus forced to gaze vacantly out the window (there was a small library of books and magazines in one corner — sadly, I didn’t have time to browse their selection), none were evident loonies. The guy sitting next to me was Yemeni, and asked for some help filling-out his paperwork; 29, too, he was father — amazingly — of five kids. Very nice, very polite. Oh, and when the court officer asked anyone previously convicted of a felony to step forward? It was some anonymous, little yenta who made the walk of shame, rather than any of the hardcases in our midst. Classic.
Here’s what we were waiting for: in some other room — ostensibly, in that very same building — a judge was considering his or her schedule; if there was time to squeeze in a jury trial before 2007, that judge would instruct counsel to go draft jurors, and they’d choose from amongst our ranks. It’s practically December, I reasoned — no way anything scheduled on November 29th goes to trial in the next four weeks. I’d be discharged before noon.
Except, I was wrong. First one group of eight was called, then a second — and my name (mispronounced, of course) was fourth among those. In another, now windowless room, two lawyers ambiguously stated the particulars of their case, asked us some genial questions, dismissed four jurors (back to the bullpen with them), and — with a wry smile on each of their faces — “congratulated” the remaining four. Of which I was one. My turn!
See? In tune with the cosmos. We go to trial on Monday.
I could be happier about the timing (I’d planned a rigorous writing schedule in the weeks before Christmas), but it could be worse. I mean, it is a civil trial, rather than a criminal case. Maybe you’ve heard of the three occupants of a Nissan Altima in Queens, peppered with fifty bullets by plainclothes officers? Adios, Mexico vacation. So, that this will probably last 7-10 business days is just fine by me.
It’s a pretty boring affair (though, undoubtedly, not to either the defendant, nor the plaintiff, which I should bear in mind), but I’ll get a sense of the judicial system, I can sleep in my own bed at night, and I’ll inevitably work the experience into a novel. Beyond that, I can’t say much else: I’ve got a huge yap (ahem), and I’m court-mandated to zip it.
Only, now I’m a week behind on the New Yorker. So I ask you, Kings County, who’s the real victim here? That’s right: Jamie Q. Public, that’s who.
