Jury Duty II: The Wrath Of Crom
OK, at the end of the first part, you had been bored to tears and were waiting for me to get to the point. That proves you haven't ever read anything I write because my writing, like the world, has no point. It's just a bunch of random events that we feel the need to put meaning to so that we don't feel like some higher power is either playing dice with our lives, or sees us as flies who need their wings torn off.
We were then filed into the jury box, which had a lot of fairly comfortable seat and a bar in from so we could put out feet up, or smaller people could have something to rest their feet on and we were told by the judge that he wanted a mini-biography of us. We were to say what we did for a living, what kind of education we had, if we had a significant other and if we did what they did for a living, same for kids, if they were old enough to work, any organizations we were in, interests we had, and how we come to our decisions.
Most of the people in the panel had to have help from the judge after what they did for a living and if they were married. I guess most people just don't like to think about their lives very much. I think about my life constantly since I am trying to figure out where I went wrong, and I can understand why they don't since they have obviously screwed up far more than I have.
When it got to be my turn, I stood up, and tried to rein in my smart-ass nature and I think I was almost successful. OK, maybe not.
"I'm Cory Strode from Chaska, and I work two jobs, one pushing paper at American Express and the other one working part time at a correctional group home, which is a nice way of saying I work with juvenile delinquents who have been caught by the police. I don't have a significant other or an insignificant other, but my 11 year old son hasn't been working since Kathy Lee had to start carding, so he just goes to school now. I'm not in any organization that I know of, and my interests are reading, writing, reading some more, telling people to visit my website and trying to sleep once in a blue moon when I'm not working or reading. I come to my decisions by looking at all the options and usually choosing the one that will make my life the most complicated."
I got a couple of laughs from the plaintiff's lawyer, but the defendant's lawyer glared at me. That's called foreshadowing, folks, pay attention. The judge smiled and said, "Now I like a happy juror, next person please." In other words I had fooled the judge as I fool most people. Fools. Bah! And other phrases that Doctor Doom would use in describing his villainy.
While the other people were talking about their lives (I did not know that watching TV was an interest. I always saw it as a lost resort) I realized that I was on a jury with a bunch of retired people and housewives. First, I am not going to get to retire, so I resented the retired people. Second, I have a lot of contempt for housewives, since they don't have to go to a job, and can take breaks anytime they want. If you are a housewife, I guess you'll be offended by this, but I don't think it's fair that women have a vast multitude of options including staying home and raising children, when my two options are work or homelessness.
Now, we had been told that the case was a discrimination case, and the plaintiff was a black man, dressed in a short sleeve shirt that looked like he'd been able to get it at a fairly good price at Sears, so I already felt sorry for him. I remember the dark days when I had to buy clothing like that. Thank God I was able to escape those days and enter the world of tailored shirts and the late J. Peterman catalog. Yes, it still hurts.
And I will never get over that loss as long as I live.
The defendant, on the other hand, was wearing a short sleeved white shirt that looked like it had been washed about a hundred times too many, with an old wife beater T-shirt underneath, and he sat there, scowling at the jury the whole time. I don't just mean a regular look of contempt that I go through my day with, but his arms were folded tightly on his chest, his head was down, and he was glaring at us through his untrimmed eyebrows with a look of hatred. All he needed to complete the picture was a sign that said, "I hate all uppity Nigras" and a suitcase for his sheet. I may have not been one of the most bitter people in that room (although I was the most mizzerable, that's a crown I am loathe to give up) as that man tried to set us aflame with his ire through the entire process.
The biographies lasted almost an hour, and when it was done, the judge called the lawyers up to the bench and played what he called "white noise" over the speakers so we couldn't hear what he had to say. It was a loud version of the sound made by your TV when you have fallen asleep and the station you were watching goes off the air. It is at this point that the housefrau next to me wants to engage me in conversation about Chaska.
I don't know much about Chaska, even though I've lived there since I moved to Minnesota 11 years ago. Why? I don't care. The movies I want to see are somewhere else, the plays I see are somewhere else, their cable blows so I got a dish, and I couldn't tell you who the mayor was if you put a gun to my head. I. Don't. Care. Where I live doesn't matter, since I am a citizen of the world, not a hometown booster.
"Better the pride that
resides in a citizen of the world,
The pride that divides when a colorful rag is unfurled"
-Neil Peart.
Had to fit that in somewhere.
The Housefrau who now probably thinks I'm her friend, and doesn't realize that I have as many friends as Howard Huges did during his last year of life, talks through each of the little conferences. She does so without any input from me about the bike trails and the shopping and the lovely little outfit she got at JC Penny on sale at the mall, and how Billy is doing well in school while I go through various suicide methods in my head, ranking them in order of finality and entertainment value. When the "white noise" goes off, each time she tells me what a wonderful conversationalist I am. I smile and nod, since she knows about as much about me now as she did when we signed in. That I dress better than anyone but two of the three lawyers, I have the best damn hair in the courtroom and that I avoid eye contact with people the way I avoid movies based on Saturday Night Life skits.
The judge asks us a bunch of questions, to which we raise our hands if we would answer yes. The first one is if we know anything about the case or any of the people involved. Oddly, I think that that should have been asked first, but I guess the judge likes to put people on the spot before weeding them out on the easy ones. I was able to say no, since I don't know anyone. I don't like anyone. And I don't follow local news, since local news's job is to scare the crap out of you so that you move to the suburbs and buy all the crap that's being advertised during the local news. He asks a series of other questions and takes notes over who raises their hand. I should have raised my hand every time, but was so filled with ennui that I can only tell the truth.
He then calls the ones who answer yes to some of those questions for more white noise conferencing. The one I had to talk to them about was if I'd ever been fired from a job. The three lawyers were standing by the judge's desk (no, it doesn't even look like a bench so I'm not calling it that), and each person had to walk around the jury box, cross the courtroom and go up three steps to talk to the judge. Oddly it reminded me of Communion, except the judge didn't have any grape Kool-Aid or little squares of Wonder Bread. I go up and tell the judge a truncated version of the incident that I'm not writing here because it isn't any of your damn business.
Suffice it to say that maybe I shouldn't have had a gorilla suit and chainsaw that day, but I still think it was funny, and funny is all that matters.
The lawyers then get a chance to ask us questions, and I had never realized how truly wonderful it was to have my ass kissed. Not just kissed, but slobbered over to such a degree that I felt uncomfortable. I don't take compliments well, since they are about as rare as a woman who talks to me a second time. They told us how wise we were, how knowledgeable we were, how we were the best pool they had ever seen. They had me so lulled into a false sense of competency that I might have slept with the smaller one if he would have got me good and drunk. Damn, but lawyers are dangerous. Then, the ass kissing stopped and they needed to know a few things about us.
Like if we thought that there were too many lawsuits. Or if people should work things out before they go to court. Or if juries were giving away too much money. Or if we'd ever been discriminated against. And they went on for a good half hour.
And I watched the clock go past when they said we would be able to have a break...and then past when we would have had lunch...and then past the point of caring.
Then, as I was lulled into a superficial coma by all of the inane questions, the lawyers finished up and the judge told us that we were to go downstairs and wait for them to winnow down the jury to 12 people. The judge promised that it would take 15 minutes. I don't trust anyone who promises me anything. I don't trust anyone, so I figure we're in for the long haul. We trudged to the elevator and went back down to the jury room, where we were told there were treats.
We've been in a courtroom until 1:30, have been told there isn't time for lunch so we get a cookie and apple juice. Oh boy. Please, where I sign up to do this every day of my life so that I can lose weight even faster and get hyper all at the same time.
I stare out the window for a while, not talking to anyone, and the other people are eating their cookies and assessing their odds of being on the jury. Me? I don't much care one way or the other. Sure, it would be a nice change of pace, but it would also be boring, and my life wouldn't be under my complete control, which I have trouble dealing with.
Quick pointer, want to make Cory go nuts? Take an aspect of his life and make it so he doesn't control it. Within two hours, he'll be in desperate need of a couple of ECT session and restraints on his bed.
Thank you.
A half hour later, the judge calls down and we are to file back upstairs. It is at this time that I realize that people don't understand elevators. There are around 20 of us, and all 20 try to get on the same elevator, even though it would make the 11 story ride really uncomfortable. I am in the back of the elevator, since I have an unerring knack of knowing which one is next as long as I'm not thinking about it. So, for the ride back to the courtroom, I am flattened against the back wall, the bar we are to hold on to is jammed neatly into my back, and the feel of human contact driving me nuts.
When the elevator opens, I breathe a sigh of relief and try to mentally force the cattle in front of me to hurry their way down the chute. We go back into the courtroom, sit down, and names are called of the people they won't be needing. I am number 3.
I get to leave. An entire morning and half the afternoon gone, and while the judge tells us that what we did was vitally important, I remember all the times I was being told how valuable I was as the door kept looming closer. Yeah, what I did was important, and we really needed to read about the Tea Dome Scandal in High School.
The others who weren't chosen were almost giddy as they got on the elevator, and I just wanted to get my briefcase and leave. When we checked out, the perky lady said that she was so happy to meet us, and we might be called again in late October, since we are part of the pool for the next two months.
I tried to restrain my glee.
It was hard.
But I did it.
The last thing I saw as I grabbed my briefcase and headed out the door was one of the housefraus who hadn't been chosen filling up her pocketbook with the Saran Wrapped cookies, "for her kids" and making sure that the perky lady was in her office while she did it. Maybe they didn't want me for the jury because I didn't take it seriously, but I did have to think that the fact that she wasn't on a jury deciding what was right and wrong showed that in some small way, the system worked.