Trials and Tribulations: Part One
Jan. 10th, 2005 01:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
penfieldI don't understand why people so detest being called for jury duty. "Ugh, I've been called for jury duty," a person will say, with a tone of voice usually reserved for the discussion of rectal exams.
Being called for jury duty should be a proud moment. But strangely, this is one of the few times people actively hope they don't receive a call. Folks will sit by the phone and wait for calls from potential dates or employers. Patients will mope in doctors' offices and waiting rooms, hoping the nurse will call them next. Actors hope for callbacks. Ballplayers wish for call-ups. Animals listen for mating calls. Seminary students pray for "the calling." Our society has cell phones, answering machines, call forwarding, call waiting and three-way-calling, all because we just can't get enough calls. Except when it's the county courthouse, and then all of a sudden we're not home.
Dear American people: jury duty is a crucial, sacrosanct rite of citizenship and a small price to pay for a judicial system that provides us with a warm blanket of safety, as well as hours and hours of unsettling reality entertainment. Sadly, though, Judges Wapner, Judy, Joe Brown, Mills Lane, Ito and Reinhold cannot by themselves handle the staggering volume of litigation choking our courts today. This is where you come in, with your flimsy excuses and fake sniffles.
But I, personally, enjoyed the process. Not only was jury duty a reason to break free from my regular work-a-day grind, it was also an opportunity to sit and pass judgment on another person. This is one of my favorite pastimes anyway; to receive a day off and a $30 per diem for it is like paying a Philadelphia Phillies fan to sit in the front row and throw condiments at the umpire.
While I had never been summoned to jury duty before, I did have a modicum of experience with the art of jurisprudence. During my senior year in college, I served as the Tribunal Chief for my fraternity, dispensing my own personal brand of justice ("Big Gavel Justice: The Brand You Can TrustTM). Due to hazy interpretations of the bylaws and the general reluctance of most brothers to cooperate with the tribunal unless there was nothing interesting on TV, most of my punishments were limited to some form of probation, which is a fancy way of saying "We don't know what you did, but don't do it again."
So I was excited. I was also prepared. From listening to friends' experiences in other juristictions, I got the impression that there would be a lot of waiting. So I brought with me two crossword puzzles, three books, a blank spiral notebook, gum, a banana, two granola bars, my cell phone (complete with Tetris) and my mp3 player. If there had been a nuclear attack and they needed to shelter us in the basement, I could have gone at least a week without being bored, assuming the other possible jurists did not immediately cannibalize me.
The first thing I did, though, upon entering the jury assembly room, was survey the other people called along with me. What I expected to find was a wildly diverse, Rick's Cafe-style collection of citizens from all walks of life, coming together in the name of Truth. What I actually found was a lot of old people. A lot. It was like a Bingo hall at 3 p.m., a sea of white hair and crochet needles.
It slowly occurred to me that this made total sense, since the jury pool is selected from the voter registration rolls. Senior citizens comprise a powerful, incontinent voting bloc in America and especially Arlington County, which helps explain why Virginia voted for George Bush in 2004. Some of the people in that room probably voted for Hoover.
I pulled up a chair next to one of the few young-looking people I could find in the room. At least I think she was young. And I think it was a she. I couldn't really tell, because she was slumped over with her head on the table and a thick mop of black hair covering her face. It was entirely possible that I was seated next to former Guns 'n' Roses guitarist Slash. At any rate, she appeared to be hung over and was therefore not going to engage me in conversation.
Eventually, there were more than 100 people milling around the room, some of them younger than my parents. Before I could even get through all the Acrosses on my first crossword puzzle, we were beckoned by the county clerk and escorted into one of the vacant courtrooms by a professionally stern bailiff. For nearly two hours, we sat stuffed in the courtroom pews while the county clerk explained logistical procedures and rhapsodized on the importance of fulfilling one's civic duty.
The clerk actually seemed like a nice, interesting guy, so I only felt close to nodding off once. Fortunately, I guess, the pews are designed to restrict comfort. Made of solid wood and shaped almost exactly like an L, they offered almost as much lumbar support as a crucifix. At least the defendant's chair looked comfortable.
Eventually, the clerk and his staff gave everyone a booklet ("The Answer Book for Jury Service," sure to come in handy for the forthcoming Law and Order: Mail Fraud Unit series), a section number and a phone number to call after 5 p.m. to see if our section would be needed the next day. Then he told us where to pick up our $30 before we went home.
This $30 is supposedly for defrayment of expenses -- such as parking, lunch or courtroom popcorn -- incurred while in the court's service. This money is also often used as reimbursement to companies who provide their employees with paid time off. Later that day, when I returned to work to inquire about the company policy, our office manager produced a statement on policy that he indicated was developed a long time ago when the office first opened. I think it may have been written on parchment. Anyway, it said that I was eligible for up to 10 days of paid leave for jury duty. It didn't say anything about reimbursement. Tempting fate, I double-checked the policy with the company president, who said, "Whatever, that sounds fine. You can keep the cash." Frankly, he sounded a lot more excited about whether I would be allowed to send someone to the electric chair.
At 5 p.m., I called the jury duty hotline and heard my section called. Excellent. Maybe this time I would be able to get some reading done.
TO BE CONTINUED.
Being called for jury duty should be a proud moment. But strangely, this is one of the few times people actively hope they don't receive a call. Folks will sit by the phone and wait for calls from potential dates or employers. Patients will mope in doctors' offices and waiting rooms, hoping the nurse will call them next. Actors hope for callbacks. Ballplayers wish for call-ups. Animals listen for mating calls. Seminary students pray for "the calling." Our society has cell phones, answering machines, call forwarding, call waiting and three-way-calling, all because we just can't get enough calls. Except when it's the county courthouse, and then all of a sudden we're not home.
Dear American people: jury duty is a crucial, sacrosanct rite of citizenship and a small price to pay for a judicial system that provides us with a warm blanket of safety, as well as hours and hours of unsettling reality entertainment. Sadly, though, Judges Wapner, Judy, Joe Brown, Mills Lane, Ito and Reinhold cannot by themselves handle the staggering volume of litigation choking our courts today. This is where you come in, with your flimsy excuses and fake sniffles.
But I, personally, enjoyed the process. Not only was jury duty a reason to break free from my regular work-a-day grind, it was also an opportunity to sit and pass judgment on another person. This is one of my favorite pastimes anyway; to receive a day off and a $30 per diem for it is like paying a Philadelphia Phillies fan to sit in the front row and throw condiments at the umpire.
While I had never been summoned to jury duty before, I did have a modicum of experience with the art of jurisprudence. During my senior year in college, I served as the Tribunal Chief for my fraternity, dispensing my own personal brand of justice ("Big Gavel Justice: The Brand You Can TrustTM). Due to hazy interpretations of the bylaws and the general reluctance of most brothers to cooperate with the tribunal unless there was nothing interesting on TV, most of my punishments were limited to some form of probation, which is a fancy way of saying "We don't know what you did, but don't do it again."
So I was excited. I was also prepared. From listening to friends' experiences in other juristictions, I got the impression that there would be a lot of waiting. So I brought with me two crossword puzzles, three books, a blank spiral notebook, gum, a banana, two granola bars, my cell phone (complete with Tetris) and my mp3 player. If there had been a nuclear attack and they needed to shelter us in the basement, I could have gone at least a week without being bored, assuming the other possible jurists did not immediately cannibalize me.
The first thing I did, though, upon entering the jury assembly room, was survey the other people called along with me. What I expected to find was a wildly diverse, Rick's Cafe-style collection of citizens from all walks of life, coming together in the name of Truth. What I actually found was a lot of old people. A lot. It was like a Bingo hall at 3 p.m., a sea of white hair and crochet needles.
It slowly occurred to me that this made total sense, since the jury pool is selected from the voter registration rolls. Senior citizens comprise a powerful, incontinent voting bloc in America and especially Arlington County, which helps explain why Virginia voted for George Bush in 2004. Some of the people in that room probably voted for Hoover.
I pulled up a chair next to one of the few young-looking people I could find in the room. At least I think she was young. And I think it was a she. I couldn't really tell, because she was slumped over with her head on the table and a thick mop of black hair covering her face. It was entirely possible that I was seated next to former Guns 'n' Roses guitarist Slash. At any rate, she appeared to be hung over and was therefore not going to engage me in conversation.
Eventually, there were more than 100 people milling around the room, some of them younger than my parents. Before I could even get through all the Acrosses on my first crossword puzzle, we were beckoned by the county clerk and escorted into one of the vacant courtrooms by a professionally stern bailiff. For nearly two hours, we sat stuffed in the courtroom pews while the county clerk explained logistical procedures and rhapsodized on the importance of fulfilling one's civic duty.
The clerk actually seemed like a nice, interesting guy, so I only felt close to nodding off once. Fortunately, I guess, the pews are designed to restrict comfort. Made of solid wood and shaped almost exactly like an L, they offered almost as much lumbar support as a crucifix. At least the defendant's chair looked comfortable.
Eventually, the clerk and his staff gave everyone a booklet ("The Answer Book for Jury Service," sure to come in handy for the forthcoming Law and Order: Mail Fraud Unit series), a section number and a phone number to call after 5 p.m. to see if our section would be needed the next day. Then he told us where to pick up our $30 before we went home.
This $30 is supposedly for defrayment of expenses -- such as parking, lunch or courtroom popcorn -- incurred while in the court's service. This money is also often used as reimbursement to companies who provide their employees with paid time off. Later that day, when I returned to work to inquire about the company policy, our office manager produced a statement on policy that he indicated was developed a long time ago when the office first opened. I think it may have been written on parchment. Anyway, it said that I was eligible for up to 10 days of paid leave for jury duty. It didn't say anything about reimbursement. Tempting fate, I double-checked the policy with the company president, who said, "Whatever, that sounds fine. You can keep the cash." Frankly, he sounded a lot more excited about whether I would be allowed to send someone to the electric chair.
At 5 p.m., I called the jury duty hotline and heard my section called. Excellent. Maybe this time I would be able to get some reading done.
TO BE CONTINUED.
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Re: she's a Court.... House!
Date: 2005-01-12 09:15 pm (UTC)