Jury Duty

 

     Civic mindedness and sciatica do not co-mingle well. I am rolling down the long dusty trail, 45 miles, toward service to my country as a prospective juror while my right leg feels as though there is a high-voltage buzzer strapped to its instep.  Last night it took five minutes of whiny baby steps to relocate from the television throne to my bed. Luckily the weather sucks today, the roads are matted with frozen fog, and I probably won’t be called upon to step quickly or firmly on the brakes. 

     I am grouchy and sore. Why me? Why should I waste a day of my life in support of the American judicial system when I rarely vote?  (Until the latter/summons arrived last week I wrongly supposed that being called for jury duty was tied to the voter rolls. Nope, it is driver’s licenses.)  I should’ve opted out. I can barely walk. I hope I don’t collapse in a screaming fit in the courtroom. Oh, poor, poor, pitiful me.

     That is when the Great Spirit, not to be confused with the government, moves in briefly to call my bluff.  As I chant today’s mantra, “nolite iudicare ut non iudicemini,” (“Judge not that ye not be judged”, Mathew 7.1) and tune into the Bob and Tom radio show, a snow-white raven soars up from the borrow pit and flies parallel to the pickup truck. 

     This could be the stuff of legends. My brain vacillates between “I must be getting too close to the Hanford Nuclear Reservation” and “This is a clear sign that I should fast for twenty days while flogging myself with willow sticks,” then the medicine bird performs an in-flight shimmy, shimmy cocoa bop, shakes and shudders, the frost on its feathers dissipates into the 7:00 a.m. breeze, and a normal black carrion-gobbling raven emerges. Things must not be all that bad after all.  At least I didn’t sleep under a tumbleweed blanket last night like the bird did. It looks as though the diet will wait until tomorrow. 

    My first thought when I hobble into the courthouse is “Wow, I’m glad that I am not working as the janitor in this joint.”  Everything is too new and shiny and hard-surfaced and waaaay clean. The floors are tiled in pink marble, the curved banisters are oaken, the informational papers on the bulletin boards are level and plumb, and even the glass partitions around the metal detector are spotless. 

     One reason that there is a major disconnect between any modern government and its people is that public architects the world around are still following the Parthenon model of stately columns and opulent use of exotic materials.  If the democratic system wishes to serve the citizenry, then use people-friendly building materials. I and millions of others would prefer linoleum and barn wood, maybe a bullfight poster or two.

     By 8:30, we are twenty disgruntled citizens sitting stiffly on hard metal chairs in a space that is smaller than the restroom. The guy over there is reading “Freakonomics.” The woman on my left is chatting with her friend about her sister’s job in the trailer house factory. The guy on my right keeps checking a wristwatch that is running ten minutes faster than mine. A young fellow along the far wall is wearing a total NASCAR outfit, including flameproof pants with US Army sponsorship patches sewn down both legs.  The woman beside him is power-chewing Juicyfruit and pushing back her cuticles with a paper clip. 

     A woman enters, introduces herself as our jury coordinator, and passes out three sheets of copy paper and one cheap ballpoint to each of us. The forms ask for our juror numbers, our addresses, and whether we wish to donate our mileage payments (twenty seven cents per) and daily stipends ($25) back to the State of Oregon. In a pig’s eye. At three-seventy a gallon and a day’s wages missed, I decline to donate. She picks up the papers, thanks us for our attendance, and remands us to the custody of the court clerk. 

    The clerk leads us through a singlewide door into a brand spanking new courtroom. I can still smell the carpet adhesive. Seated at one end of a conference table is a brown-skinned fellow in a black vinyl jacket wearing earphones and a wireless receiver. On either side of him are a short man in a blue serge suit whispering into a microphone and a man in a brown tweed sports coat who is studying a clipboard.. At another table are two guys in matching suits whose skin tones look as though they spend too much time in hotel barrooms. 

      We, the jury, are initially seated on long ash or hickory benches in the peanut gallery. Everyone stands as the judge, a tall fellow about my age who seems to have taken a little straighter path in life than I, climbs up to his “bench” and sits in a cushy big padded chair with about six inches of headroom between his comb-over and the acoustic tile ceiling. He, too, thanks us for coming, then briefs us about the case in question.

    This is to be a civil case.  The guy in the black coat, the plaintiff, is a Spanish-only speaker who claims that his Toyota Tundra was stolen then set afire in a field not far from the courthouse, a total ruin. His insurance company has refused to pay for his claim and he has brought suit against the company in the amount of $22,000 to pay for the truck. Does any of us know the plaintiff? No, not unless I picked him up hitchhiking and don’t remember him. Does any of us know any of the attorneys involved in the case? 

    When the lawyer for the plaintiff stands and turns to smile at the jury, I know that I won’t be serving on this panel. I recognize him as the business partner of a good friend of mine and we recently spent a Sunday in the friend/partner’s media center watching the Vikings get their butts handed to them. I confess to the judge that I have a friendly basis with the attorney for the plaintiff.  Home free. It is only a matter of minutes before I can limp back to my Tylenol stash.

    First though, we must be questioned by both sides of the question. The plaintiff’s representative asks if any of us have been burned by an insurance company, (two yeses) whether we have any bones to pick with the migrant worker program, (no response) whether we have ever had a car stolen. (the NASCAR guy says twice.)

     The insurance company guy leads with what seems to me to be a rather cheap shot, the disclosure that the plaintiff is an illegal alien. The guy beside me with the runaway Timex grunts under his breath. The lawyer never asks what we think of the illegal alien issue. Instead, he asks if any of us feels like there are too many spurious and frivolous law suits being filed, (two) whether any of us are customers of his insurance company, (one, former) whether any of us is a certified locksmith, (nope) and if any of us know each other. (The Freakonomics guy says he has seen me around the arts scene. Several others point at each other and say things like “I buy my tires from him” or “She and I play cards on Thursdays.)

     After half an hour of this foreplay, the judge calls the lawyers into his chambers, where they will attempt to pick twelve from twenty. The plaintiff sits with his hands folded on the table. His interpreter leaves for a drink of water. The second guy at the insurance table yawns, stands and stretches. The rest of us sit and stare at nothing at all, until the court reconvenes and the twelve chosen, including the anti-Mex Timex guy are identified and assigned, by number, their seats in the jury box. The Great Spirit is with me and I miss the cut. The jury is sworn in, and the judge dismisses the remaining eight. I don’t know how the case ended, but my leg doesn’t hurt nearly as badly on the way out of the building.