Jury Duty: Constitutionally Encouraged Vigilante Justice, AKA The Common Man’s Opportunity To Take Out The Garbage

It’s that time of year again for me to perform my civic duty. Gentle spring rains are feeding thirsty flowers that are beginning to bloom, rainbows topped with dancing unicorns are arcing across the sky and I hold the fate of a man’s life in my hands like a fragile egg, deciding whether to cradle it gently and protect it or to squish it mercilessly between my fingers letting it’s gooey innards plummet to the ground in a splattering pool of disappointment, regret and maladaptive life choices. So maybe my dramatic interpretation of jury duty does not match yours, and statistically speaking, it is much more common to plant yourself in an uncomfortable seat all day in a veritable Perry Mason purgatory and be excused at the end of the day than to actually get the chance to be an active participant in our judicial system. Well, if nothing else, at least you get out of work for the day. Most people dread jury duty and would prefer to have a root canal it seems. As I entered the jury service reception area today, I noticed that the court system understands the disdain jurors often have for being required to spend a day of their lives waiting around and has made some valiant efforts (he said in a sarcastic tone) to show their appreciation for the cogs that make the gears of the grinding justice system turn. Plastered on several walls were elementary school caliber drawings that said things like, “We love (picture of a pink heart) our jurors” and “You are appreciated.” I am not sure if the court employees forced their young children to produce these well-meaning, but ineffective, paper pats on the back or if upper management made the already overworked clerks painstakingly replicate, at a small child's skill level, this overly patronizing handiwork. Forget the banners, and maybe let’s try a free lunch to show your appreciation or even a complimentary soda from the vending machine would be nice. But instead of those little goodies, what we get at jury duty are feeble attempts to help us pass the time. For those jurors who are not wise enough to bring a book, handheld entertainment device or MP3 player, jury services offers up such winning diversions as old magazine, puzzles with missing pieces and incomplete card decks to make for the most frustrating game of solitaire you have ever experienced. I even noticed something new today on the counter to keep my mind busy: The amazing civics match game work sheet. Are you flippin’ kidding me? This thing had several constitutional laws, and then accompanying amendments you were supposed to match. Just staring at the thing, which was printed on ominous green paper, immediately transported me back to eleventh grade government class, third period, with Mr. O. My palms began to get sweaty as I realized I hadn’t studied, and that little punk, K.C. the class nerd, was totally engaged in a move I had dubbed the “bomb shelter” where he tightly tucked his head inside folded arms, making a perfect, impenetrable dome over his paper, preventing any wandering eyes from glimpsing even the tiniest sliver of a bubbled-in answer. A quick shake of the head, and I was back in the jury services waiting room. I cautiously stepped back away from the flashback inducing worksheets and found an empty seat to wait out the day in.

After everyone had checked in, they played this little video about the joys of serving on a jury and even had former jurors, the three existing ones they could find, that recounted how wonderful their jury experience had been. The video was supposed to leave you feeling thankful about being selected for jury duty and that you should be eternally grateful for being the lucky person to find the one puzzle that actually has all 400 pieces (yeah, sure it has all 400 pieces….too bad they are from seven different puzzles). One of the last lines of the video stated that some jurors even continue to stay in touch with each other long after jury duty is completed. Really? For what purpose? To relive the grisly details of a 1997 double homicide where they sentenced a man to death? These ghastly reunions probably involve two jurors meeting for lunch, with one juror wanting to talk about the traumatic feelings that he has battled for the last 14 years over the case with someone who has a shared experience, while all the other guy ends up doing is expressing his feelings of aloofness for the court process, reveling in only the goriest aspects of the case and making overly-detailed admissions of juror misconduct: “Hey Sam, it is great you could meet me here today. I have thought of nothing but this case for so many years now. Just wanted to see how others were doing with it.” “You’ve got it Bill. Wouldn’t have missed our little together. This place has the greatest curly fries. Speaking of curly fries drenched in ketchup, remember those cool pictures of victim #2 with his bloody entrails spread all over the living room floor?” “Uh, yeah, actually I can’t get them out of my head. As much as I tried to focus on the testimony during the case, those pictures kept coming back to the forefront of my mind.  I even still have nightmares about them.” “Well, that’s a big suckeroo for you I guess. As for testimony, I only listened to about 35% of their ramblings. I spent most of the trial staring at juror number 12’s hot legs. You remember her?” “Oh sure. I remember her. She was the last holdout with a not guilty verdict for several days, and then had that weird change of heart and immediately flipped to guilty to give us our unanimous decision.” “You can thank me for that one, big guy. On day number eight of deliberations, I was getting tired of being cooped up in that tiny room, so I took good ol’12 to the janitor’s closet, let her get inside my legal briefs and bang my gavel while I explored her judge’s chamber if you know what I mean. After that, she was willing to go along with whatever I wanted.” “What the hell man, you can’t do that. I can’t believe this. We sentenced a man to death for the love of…..” “Whoa up there cowboy. Don’t you fret about that. He was guilty for sure. Had those beady little eyes just like in the movies.” “I’m outta here!.” “OK man. Good to see you. If you’re not gonna take your fries, can I have them?”

While I was waiting for a panel to be announced over the intercom over the next few hours, I saw three separate people sit down, and then eventually move away, from a woman sitting in the row across from me about ten feet away. The woman’s repulsive quality that drove away her would-be seat neighbors could have been the constant sneezing, followed by a vicious snort and then the wiping of the remaining expelled sticky nasal juices on her long sleeved shirt. Or perhaps it was the 1980’s guitar rock she had blasting from her dollar store headphones that failed miserably at containing the wailing six string, while the large blonde nest of hair befitting the era of her musical selection sitting atop of her hardened 45 year-old face bounced along to the pumping rhythm filling her eardrums that had been damaged by many years of following the bands of her heyday from one concert venue to the next in some sort of groupie gypsy parade.

As I sat staring at this woman trying to decipher exactly which Motley Crue song she was listening to, something in my peripheral vision caught my eye. When I looked straight across from me, I realized that the man who was directly across from me, sitting only approximately three to four feet away, had decided to lean back in his chair and stretch his legs out as far as possible, placing his feet in obvious violation of the socially established, although admittedly invisible, personal space line of demarcation. This guy was close enough that a feeling of anxiety came over me as I feared being violated and becoming a victim of forced footsies. You are probably wondering what I did to deserve this. What was I wearing some of you may be asking. Well, I shall have you know I am no foot tease. I was wearing what I consider to be the cobbler’s chastity belt: a pair of plain black dress shoes. No open toed sandals displaying my fabulously formed phalanges or backless clogs exposing my heavenly heels to tempt this pervert. The man must have sensed my disgust for his disturbing predilection, and slowly withdrew his feet towards his person.

Approximately ten minutes later, my name was called for a panel being sent to an outlying community with a small population. I began to revel in this opportunity, immediately fancying myself a modern day traveling judge like those from the days of the cowboys, dispensing my own brand of rural justice. But alas, my dreams of power were crushed when, after one and a half days of uneventful jury selection during which my name was not randomly called to even participate in the voir dire, both attorneys agreed on a jury and I was unable to take my place among the elite twelve (everyone knows that the thirteenth member, the alternate, is nothing more than a second class citizen who almost never gets to participate in the deliberation, and is therefore basically the judicial equivalent of the last picked in a game of elementary school kickball). And with baited breath I must now wait another full year for my opportunity to teach a dirt bag a lesson. Oh how being forced to tarry tortures my soul!