30th
Jury Doodie: The pleasure of patriotism measured by the minute
Since early March I have successfully dodged the joke that is jury duty I have unfortunately been unable to perform one of my crucial roles as a proud American citizen, as I have been busy shaking cocktails and traveling the good ol’ US of A quite a bit. No more, my friends! Today I am proud to say, I reported to 850 Bryant Street (yes, the same place where they took your stupid friend who got hammered and tried to swim with those 500-pound sea lions next to Pier 39) for jury duty and did my best to make George Washington the most proud deceased president since Jimmy Carter. Oh wait, Jimmy’s still alive? My bad. He looked pretty out of it last time I saw him. Anyhow, I documented the whole grand process, and found that weaseling your way out of participating in jury duty is as distinctly American as apple pie and baseball and spousal abuse! Hooray Constitution!
Here’s how my day went:
10:00 am—My alarm goes off, my biological clock normally nudges me awake by now, but I was up until around 3 am emailing people with bullet points of why I would make a good roommate in the next month. At the same time that I sit in my Hugh Hefner robe contacting random Craigslist strangers living in Haight/Civic Center/Downtown/North Beach/Nob Hill/Mission, people in Boston are on their third Dunkin Donut, people in New York are on their fifth cigarette and people in D.C. have already vetoed three congressional bills that would have lowered the price of unleaded gasoline. I grab a large coffee and briefly discuss evading jury service with the female barista at the Java Lab, a cool little coffee joint across from City College, she suggests I fake Tourettes.
Noon—I get off BART at Civic Center and step into Tu Lan, my new favorite restaurant on Sketchy Sixth, I sit there for about 30 minutes, knowing darn well I won’t be able to get to the courtroom by exactly 12:30 when I’m supposed to. I do not mind, as the #24 Rice & Imperial Roll, Pork Kebab overwhelms my senses and takes me to my Vietnamese happy place. More hoisin sauce please.
1:00 pm—After surviving the gauntlet of derelicts, druggies, dopers, addicts, alkies, disheveled and despondent along Sixth, I walk through the court’s metal detector and prove that, yes, I am indeed wearing a belt today. I then proceed to the 3rd Floor with all the other shiny, happy people that are headed to Room 307. I am one of the few that is not wearing headphones of some sort, and feel as though I did not get the memo and really should have. I do, however, have Catcher in the Rye, and am the only one who can say that.
A middle-aged man is standing at a podium and talking endlessly about the unexpected minutiae that is critical to getting a jury trial done right. I am clearly late, and have missed the best part of his talk, so I discreetly walk to the rear of the room and sit between Lady with Way Too Much Perfume #1 and Kid with a Shaved Head in a Hoodie #3 in a surprisingly comfy chair. I already feel the effects of all that food setting in. I mean, Julia Child herself is on their menu! I have to clear my plate! I feel sleepy and the man’s lack of effective speaking abilities is positively killing me. It’s always the people who shouldn’t have a microphone that end up using them.
1:05 pm—I clearly missed the majority of the gentleman’s speech, as he gives Reason # 478 about the importance of being a juror in California, and then thanks the crowd for actually showing up (ha ha, only kidding folks, we know where you live!) before starting a VHS tape on a square TV that is a beautiful tribute to SONY in the late ’80s. It feels—and smells—like elementary school, minus the chicken nuggets.
As I could have guessed, the video begins with dramatic music and stunning imagery from the Great State of California. You know the old standbys: the Golden Gate, Half Dome in Yosemite, crashing waves along some suburban pier in Southern California, the Hollywood sign, the Coronado Bridge, a blonde chick surfing, some guy riding a bike through a vineyard during sunrise. Yes biking, through a vineyard, at sunrise. It apparently happens more than you think in the Golden State. I mean, hell, I only live 45 minutes from wine country, and I had no clue!
“While California is the greatest state in the our amazing country, there are sometimes issues that arise between our residents, and it is the responsibility of the people to fairly and justly settle these issues in a judicial manner. Without the help of countless Californians just like you, our judicial system comes to a standstill and cannot function effectively. Your participation is crucial….”
You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say this video is sounding a wee bit like propaganda! I think it’s time to crack open the book, and wait for them to call my name or yell at me for reading. After a few chapters, the video is still going! I look up and see the goateed Charlie Rivera espousing on the excitement that is jury duty, and how his favorite part of the process is delivering the verdict to the courtroom after hours of careful, thoughtful deliberation. Charlie is proud and quite excited about “having been a former juror” and could be a high-octane insurance agent. Or a custodian. Charlie is still talking. Excitedly.
1:30 pm—The video ended about 5 minutes ago, and we’re still watching the credits roll by. Seriously. At this point, my hot-girl-stuck-serving-jury duty tally is up to four, and I am actually kinda impressed at the number of hot chicks that somehow couldn’t talk their way out of coming to court for jury selection like they do with speeding tickets the amount of beautiful California girls that have proudly exercised their right to help decide a court case that is probably nothing more than whether a crack in the sidewalk caused an old lady to trip and break her arm—and her walker. It is almost 80 degrees out today, although apparently, this is the hottest spot in the City by the Bay. Just then, a six-foot stunner walks in just over an hour late, sporting some tight-fitting dressy business attire and black striped pants that could melt titanium. She casually strolls in, tosses a punctuality-be-damned smile at the sleepy/bored/headphone-clad crowd before sitting down in the chair in front of me. Hot girls get away with hell, they really do, but hey it’s all fine by me, eye candy makes the day go faster! I am now entering a rare, blissful zone of pork kebabs, warm summer weather and model-looking girls in sexy striped pants.
Credits continue to roll, no one seems to notice.
1:55 pm—They call my name! Apparently whatever they were doing in Courtroom Chamber #23 beforehand is done, and they’re ready for us to pack in there and get down to biz. We walk across the hall and meet two sheriffs who act more as ushers than peace officers, telling us to make ourselves comfortable and make sure than our cell phones are all silenced. They need T. Truong and M. Nevin at the movie theater more than they do here. Our seats got a lot less comfy, and now I’m sitting next to Lady with Way Too Much Perfume #2. The judge arrives, talks about the case we’re about to decide on and introduces the prosecutor, then the defense attorney, and his lovely assistant. Again, good looks in striped pants, and the hot-girl-stuck-serving-jury duty count is now up to seven. The judge informs us that we either have to fill out a questionnaire detailing our prior jury service and come back Wednesday to hear whether we’re qualified to serve, or attempt to file a financial hardship form documeting why serving on a jury would be a severe bummer in the pocketbook. He then explains that California law dictates that financial hardship exemptions are very difficult to grant, and that it has to be a very compelling reason to get excused from service. If we do hit the court’s G-spot on that form however, we are officially off the hook for a year. I immediately ask for the financial hardship form, a ballpoint pen and start scrawling away. There are a few of us doing the same.
M. Nevin and his 1970s pornstar mustache come around the courtroom with questionnaires and exemption forms, asking who needs which and volunteering pens to those not willing to write in blood. Over 80 percent of the courtroom needs exemption forms and apparently is suffering a severe financial hardship by even being here today, let alone the possibility of a drawn-out, Law and Order-style trial that takes them away from their day jobs for weeks at a time. But hey, on the bright side, the court will pay you a flat stipend of 15 bucks a day plus a remarkable $2.50 for mileage to get to the court! $2.50! That’s almost half-a-gallon of gas! Nice!
Just about everyone fills out the financial hardship exemption form, sends it down their row and crosses their fingers that Judge Jameson lets them leave before rush hour. The portly court attendant tells everyone to remain seated and wait until whether their request is granted or denied. She is simultaneously helpful and stern, happy to answer questions, but not happy when you tell her you gotta pee. “Sorry, you gotta wait until the judge decides on your hardship form.” Apparently the good-looking defense attorney’s assistant’s work here is done, as she gives an obligatory smile to M. Nevin on her way out of the courtroom. M. Nevin returns a big, ear-to-ear toothy grin and thinks he’s the man. With a mustache like his, who can blame him.
2:15 pm—After sitting and simmering in our seats for what seems like between two and eight hours, the portly court attendant reads off names of people excused from jury service in this case. Apparently if you’ve bathed in cheap, pungent perfume before showing up to court, you automatically get a free pass out of serving. They no longer can stand the stench of your stinky ass, and repectfully thank you for your time and dedication to civil service. Now go bathe for a change. Using an overwhelmingly smelly chemical fragrance to get out of jury selection is a tried-and-true game plan, and remains an option for those who are not impressed by the more-than-generous $2.50 offered for mileage. Somewhere between Roberto Runelves and May Sing Soo, my name is called, and I am instucted to go across the hall to the jury office.
I’m free.
It’s official, I’m not a member of the jury. I’m told that I am good for another 12 months, and that the jury office will contact me when it is my turn to possibly serve on another panel. I opt to take the stairs instead of waiting on the elevator full of fat folks to empty out and fill up with more fat folks. I then get temporarily lost on my way out of the court, and manage to dodge the crackheads, derelicts, etc. in my walk back to Civic Center BART.
And just like that, with a ding and a high-pitched hum, the subway train has left the station and I’ve done my part as a good American citizen. My excitement and fulfillment is immeasurable, to say the least.
In review, jury duty is truly an American privilege and should not be called or considered anything less than that. When I was sitting there watching the VHS of the guy on the bike in the vineyard, counting the number of girls not wearing bras and adding up how much tip money I was losing out on, it was something that I felt honored to be a part of. I had been selected from the millions of other Californians to be considered to be a small part of the absolute magic that is the blind justice system in the Golden State. In conclusion, I can only hope two things: 1.) that I will soon be selected again to serve on a jury panel and that 2.) my family will enjoy that weeklong vacation that they didn’t even know that they were going on this week! Surprise!
