Don't Fake The Funk

Jury Duty

I didn't want to do it. But legally, I'm obligated. Good timing with the passing away, though, Ronald Reagan. His death got me a free day for my week of jury duty. That probably saved me from getting on a case, too.

The whole juror selection process is like playing Russian Roulette. First off I'm on telephone standby, which means at 4:30pm every day I have to call in and find out if I have to actually go into the courts. Friday I called and I didn't have to go in on Monday. I lucked out for Tuesday, too. But on Wednesday I had to go. It's like each day was a bullet and I blew my brains out on the third trigger-pull.

So there I was sitting in the big ol' waiting room and these two guys, who sounded like they were straight outta the Sopranos, are sitting behind me talking.

Paisan One: So how do I get outta dis?
Paisan Two: What, you wanna get outta dis?
Paisan One: Yeah.
Paisan Two: Then put 'disability.'
Paisan One: How do you spell dat?
Paisan Two: D - I - S - A - T - I - B - I - L - L - Y.

I kid you not.

And then... again with the Russian Roulette. At around midday they make an announcement to see if anyone would volunteer to come back Thursday. If you volunteered you could leave right away and have the rest of the day free, but if you stayed there was a good chance you wouldn't have to come back the next day. However, the chances of being put on a case were equal for either choice. So I opted to go home, and take my chances with the next bullet.

As luck would have it, the next day we all get pulled into another room to be interviewed by a pair of lawyers for a lawsuit. They interviewed us eight at a time. This was a civil case so they needed only six jurors and two alternates. I wasn't part of the first group to be interviewed, so I sat there staring at the plaintiff's lawyer who was this really hot blonde girl with a very pleasant voice and light brown eyes. She kept looking my way, too. Musta been the scraggly beard and the faded maroon hoody and cargo shorts I was wearing.

One of the questions that they asked of the potential jurors was what they did for a living:

Hot Lawyer Chick: Mr. Daly, what is it exactly that you do?
Mr. Daly: I'm a tree-trimmer. (I don't know why but I chuckled at this.)
Hot Lawyer Chick: And Mr. Daly, where do you work?
Mr. Daly: Uh, on trees. (Oddly enough nobody laughed at that.)

I took the entire hour that they gave us for lunch so I was rushing in the bathroom. One of the judges was in there and I said, "Good afternoon your eminence." I don't think that was the correct way to address him, but oh well. Anyway like I said I was rushing and I wound up splashing water on my shorts so it looked like I peed on myself. Dang! I tried rubbing the wet spots with paper towels but it wasn't working fast enough, and I looked obscene doing it. Then I tried to push my crotch up to the hand-dryer thing on the wall and I looked even more obscene doing that.

So I wound up having to wait it out and rushed back into the jury-selection room two minutes late. It turned out that they had already picked four jurors and needed only two more, and two alternates. So they interviewed the second set of 8 people. I wasn't in that group either. The hot lawyer chick continued to look my way. I smiled but I don't think she was, by law, allowed to smile back, but she did hold my eye for a bit.

To make a long story short, I wasn't picked to be part of the jury. In fact I wasn't even interviewed. I think it's because the hot lawyer chick wanted to legally be able to speak with me. This is where, if we were in the movies, she'd slip me her number and we'd have illicit sex in the judge's chambers.

But this ain't a movie. I went home, and she went to court.

Posted by glenn at June 16, 2004 12:12 AM