My husband says it’s the price we pay for living in a democracy. He’s right, of course, but I still don’t like jury duty. That’s not to say that I’m not as self-righteous and judgmental as the next guy, I just don’t like being put in the position of maybe sending somebody to prison or worse, all the while locked up in a room with a bunch of sweaty strangers, none of whom is any happier to be there than I am. Hey, I vote, I work for candidates I favor, and I give money to the parties and causes I believe in whenever I can. Screw jury duty.
That being said, I’ll pretty much do whatever is necessary to avoid service, and while I’m not exactly proud of the fact, I’m not exactly ashamed of it either, although last time I did come close, when, on the cusp of being chosen to sit in a civil case, I actually implied that I had “cultural issues” with a certain ethnic group, a gambit that, although effective, left me feeling icky and uncomfortable for weeks.
Determined it would not happen again, I believe I have perfected a system whereby my annual foray to the Los Angeles County Halls of Justice will come to a quick and painless conclusion. The trick is to dress so that one appears to be a decidedly undesirable juror while remaining just within the accepted court dress code and not so over-the-top as to appear costumed for the occasion.
Earlier in the week, as the dreaded day approached, I considered my options. Religious Zealot seemed like a winner – One Way t-shirt, What Would Jesus Do book bag, (both gifts from well-meaning relatives who fear for my eternal soul), crammed with copies of The Watchtower and a Bible, a big honking cross around neck – until I realized it would clash with my chosen reading material of the day, Club Dead, Volume 3 of the Sookie Stackhouse Southern Vampire series.
Over-The-Hill Hooker was a definite possibility, ruled out only because the mere thought of walking four blocks (downhill, and needless to say back uphill) from the parking lot to the courthouse in sling-backs with four-inch heels and then having to wear them all day was almost as painful as the reality would've been. There’s always Blissed-Out Old Hippie Chick, but I’ve lived that one, and just can’t go there again. Alcoholic Housewife was a non-starter.
Finally, I settled on Crazy Cat Lady, a classically off-putting ensemble featuring my beloved Chairman Meow t-shirt, a really dreadful I Love Cats tote bag, (What was I thinking?), and an opportunity to pile on all the truly tacky cat motif jewelry people continue to give me although, hint, hint, they never see me wearing it. I take a couple of cell phone photos of the home pride, stuff a few snapshots of former cats, friend’s cats, God only knows whose cats, into my purse for show and tell, and I’m good to go, fully prepared to bring up “the kids” in any conversation anyone cares to engage. (This is Tiger with his first cockroach, and here’s a nice shot of Miss Muffin at her cat mitzvah when she turned 13.) And I’m particularly looking forward to voir dire, when I’m asked to introduce myself. (“I don’t have children, your honor, but I am the proud kitty mom of four – or six, eight, however many seems like too many in the moment – precious fur babies.”)
Upon my arrival yesterday in Juror’s Room 323 (at the ungodly hour of 7:45 AM) I see that I have chosen wisely. There was more than a handful of old hippie chicks and chaps, (this is California after all), mostly schoolteachers and the chronically unemployed. Reeking of patchouli and stale marijuana smoke, earth-shoed and tie-dyed, bless them all, they got called onto panels quickly. Religious zealotry was well represented too. There was a Biker for Christ, or so proclaimed his denim biker jacket. Embroidered with a flaming cross on the back and pulled down over his considerable beer belly, it was fashionably sleeveless to better display the tattoo of Jesus on his upper arm, which, unless I miss my guess, used to be the Zig Zag Man before our biker found the Lord. My personal favorite though was a guy wearing monk’s robes and sandals with an Indian weave bag slung across his body. His name isn't Siddhartha something, as one might have imagined, but, as I learned at roll call, James Smith. He is reading a biography of General George Patton and eating a hard boiled egg so pungent I can smell it across the room. There were no obvious hookers present, but there was a buxom young blonde with blue streaked hair, blue nail polish, and a blue rose tattooed on her shoulder. (Note to self, next year put temporary “Hello Kitty” tattoo on forearm.)
Juror orientation goes on for more than an hour while some poorly paid civil servant reads the entire Trial Juror’s Handbook aloud for our edification and erudition – as if we can’t be trusted to read the handout ourselves, which is a good point. After being informed that there may be emergency evacuation and/or earthquake drills sometime during the day, same poorly paid civil servant demonstrates the duck and cover posture suggested in case of the latter, and refers to the handbook’s recommendation that under ones seat would be a good place to do so, a genuinely crowd pleasing notion seeing as how the rows of connected chairs are approximately one foot off the floor and there’s not a single midget in the room.
There is a deaf person though, a potential juror whom the county has thoughtfully provided with not one, but two, sign language interpreters, at a cost of at least $35 an hour each. (I know because I saw a listing for interpreters on the job opportunities board.) I only mention this because in light of the cost saving measures evident in the California courts today – like courts are dark the third Wednesday of each month and all employees must take an unpaid holiday – maybe this isn’t the wisest use of my taxpayer dollars. Or consider this. We had been instructed to bring our own black ink or lead pen or pencil to fill out our juror forms. Those who forgot to do so were directed to purchase one in the snack bar, writing implements no longer being provided in the juror room. More's the pity, the deaf guy probably doesn’t want to be here either.
During the course of what otherwise might have been a productive day, I did note a few improvements since my last tour of duty. There’s free WiFi in the juror room now, for those who want to bring laptops, (not that anybody bothered to tell us in advance), and a bank of six computers for the rest of us to use, within limits of course. A list of inappropriate and proscribed site content posted by each computer includes, mature themes, nudity, pornography, dating, gambling, and, go figure, “intimate apparel and swimsuits.” I will shortly discover that my favorite celebrity gossip zine, TMZ.com, is blocked as well.
At 10:05 AM we have a drop and cover earthquake drill. (I'm still mulling the possibility that this may have been a misguided joke on the part of one of the less thoughtful juror minders, because it was just too bizarre.) At 11 they call a the first panel. I'm not on it. At 12:30 we break for lunch. I treat myself to Mac and Cheese at Koo Koo Roo and a minor shopping excursion at the Disney Hall Gift Shop down the street where they are having a sale. Back in the juror room two more panels are called, until I remain one of about 25 people left, along with the Biker for Christ, James “Siddhartha” Smith, and the deaf guy. (I lost sight of blue-haired Barbie, but I think she got called the second round or so.) And so it went until they finally dismissed us around 4 PM. On the way to the parking garage I overheard James Smith telling somebody that he was glad he hadn’t shaved his head, as he’d considered, to complement his Buddhist priest drag.
I'm done. Juror number 3486 is free for another year. My Chairman Meow t-shirt totally rocks.
