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I avoided it for as long as I could, but they changed the rules of the game, and the jig was up. The long arm of the law reached out and snatched me from my home and threw me in the hoosegow. Well close. Actually, they threw me into the jury pool at the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center in Downtown LA.
Since I was 18, I dodged this bullet. Being self-employed or the sole money earner in the household was a legitimate excuse, but not anymore. As I mentioned, they changed the rules of the game. In our State’s effort to keep the jury pools full, they switched from the old system, where you were “requested” to serve for 10 days, to what they now call a “one-day” service system.
Apparently this system has worked out pretty well for most everyone I know. The way it is set up is that instead of having to go down to the court right off the bat you call in the night before to find out if you need to report for the following day. You repeat this process every day of your scheduled week, and in most cases, you never have to go. It is like winning the jury lottery because they can’t bug you for another year.
If you are unfortunate enough to have to report, all is not completely lost, because if after the first day you are not sent to a court as a potential juror you are excused and again free for at least a year. This scenario is the one that everyone I talked to was saying would be the worst that would happen because that is what happened to them.
Considering how my year has been going so far, even though they say in the court’s brochure the chances are you won’t get seated on a jury that will go for more than 7 days, with my luck, I would get seated on the next OJ Simpson trial.
My first potential day of service was Monday, March 13th, my birthday. Luckily, I was not needed that day and I hoped this was a sign for the week to come. But on the night of my birthday when I called in I got a present from the court in the form of my marching orders. Did I mention how my year is going so far?
There are many aspects of performing this civic duty that maybe when I was younger I wouldn’t have found so irritating. Now that I am older, crankier, and set in my ways, I find them amplified in their level of annoyance. First off, I am not what you would call a morning person, so getting up at 6:00 a.m. was the first hurdle.
Second was driving into Downtown LA, which on the best day is a pain in the ass. Once there, the free parking that the court provides is free for a reason. It’s the furthest parking structure away from the court. Third is one that I had completely forgotten about until I got there, probably because I have been successful at staying away from Downtown for a long time. That would be the fact that where the courthouses are located, you have to be part mountain goat to get around by foot.
Once you have reached the courthouse you are subjected to a search similar to the one you go through at the airport. This of course is repeated every time you re-enter the building, which just adds to the overall hassle of being there. After you have been searched you are then treated to an extended wait for what are perhaps the slowest and fullest elevators on the face of the planet.
Then you arrive at the floor that houses your jury assembly room, hopefully your only home for the day. As you walk down the hallway towards the room you can definitely tell the jurors from every one else just in their body language as they walk. I think it probably had the same look as the Native Americans had walking on what was called “The Trail of Tears”.
I checked in and entered the juror assembly room where I was greeted by 150 of the most sad and depressed faces I have ever seen outside of a funeral. The blank and numb expressions on their faces reflected, I’m sure, what was on my mug. As I joined this stoic group we shared a common bond, that of all being forced to be in a place that we didn’t want to be, and like being in prison, finding a means of escape.
At this point there wasn’t a viable way of getting out until the clock struck five, we were at the mercy of our keepers. So in a silence that was deafening we sat watching a clock that didn’t seem to move. Then they started calling names, 50 of them, the first of our battalion called to the front. At least only 14 would be casualties, the rest, lucky devils, would be set free.
My imagination was jumping into overdrive now trying to imagine what I would do if my name was called. I pictured myself jumping up and yelling like Al Pacino in “…And Justice For All”, “I’m out of order? You’re out of order! The whole system is out of order!” They might just think I was too crazy to have on a jury.
Or maybe when being questioned by the lawyers deciding whether they wanted me as a juror or not I could slip into my Jack Nicholson impersonation from “A Few Good Men”. When asked for a truthful answer, answer by saying “You want the truth? You can’t handle the truth” then not answer the question. I mean I wouldn’t want someone like me on the jury if I were trying a case. Would you?
My little fantasies were interrupted just before we were to break for lunch by a voice over the loudspeaker that started calling out more names. I held my breath as another 50 were called and told to report to another court after lunch. Another 50 good soldiers gone.
I was in the last group of 50 and a half a day to go, could I make it out safely? I called my wife who has worked in law firms for over 25 years to find out what she thought my chances were for a clean escape. She told me that they rarely start trials late in the day so I should be good to go.
So after lunch I was feeling pretty good about my chances. As the last of our motley crew straggled in after lunch they started calling our names. I figured they were just doing a roll call to make sure we were all there. That was until he concluded with “would you all report to division 44 on the 3rd floor”. I’m doomed!
The death march to the third floor began and soon we were ushered in to the courtroom of the Honorable William J. Sterling by a bailiff who was from the same gene pool as Barney Fife. I was now in the belly of the beast. From this point forward we would only be referred to by numbers. The Judge gave us the initial long and laborious jury instructions as we did our best to remain awake.
Then they called up the first eighteen of our group to be questioned to see if they fit with what they were looking for as far as jurors were concerned. But before they could begin, the clock that hadn’t moved all day, hit 4:30, the witching hour, and we were dismissed with instructions to return the next day. So much for the one-day system. Did I mention how my year has been going?
The next day when we returned they began their questioning. For those of you who have never had the pleasure of experiencing this procedure it is not unlike watching paint dry or grass grow. After the initial questioning by the judge it was the attorneys’ turn. Once that was finished, the judge and the attorneys had what is called a side bar after which they returned and began dismissing those they didn’t like. Then they called up more to take their places and they began again. My god will this torture ever end?
This continued on all day and it was getting close. There were only 14 of us left when the clouds parted and the sun shone down. They had found their 14 and the second that the word excused left the judge’s lips those of us left leapt to our feet and made a bee line for the door. We were free and going to get out of there before he changed his mind. As I hit the door I glanced back at our fallen comrades and every one of them had a sad look of longing for what we had, but there was nothing we could do.
As I headed for home I left with one valuable piece of information and the only sure way I saw to get out of being sat on a criminal jury. Whether you believe it or not, just say these words “I have a problem with cops”.
It worked like a charm for number 16.
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