You may have already won!About a year ago, I received a notice from the U.S. District Court, District of Minnesota that I could potentially be on call for jury duty for a couple of months in the latter part of 2006. This was for a petit jury, which is fancy courtspeak--and trust me, those fuckers have a fancy word for everything--for a jury that isn't a grand jury. A grand jury decides whether or not to hand out an indictment against someone who has been arrested and charged with a crime. This is not a judgment or commentary on someone's guilt or innocence, but is simply a formal accusation. If the defendant chooses to plead not guilty, a trial is scheduled, and a petit jury is selected to review evidence and testimony in order to ultimately decide whether the defendant is guilty or not.
I didn't even have to open the letter to know that this was not something to be dicked around with. The envelope was clearly marked as being from the U.S. District Court with various stamps and messages about jury duty, felonies for tampering, fines, and being sent to federal pound-me-in-the-ass prison for ignoring its contents. The implied message was open this and read it, or bend over and spread 'em. I chose to open and read the letter, sent back the very detailed personal information form, and hoped I wouldn't have to worry about it further.
The months passed, I found a new job, took a few trips, started dating someone new, and eventually completely forgot about the letter until another stern and official looking letter arrived in November. This time it confirmed that I would indeed be on call for jury duty for the months of January and February in 2007. Fanfuckingtastic. The detailed letter and the form asking to outline any vacations, events, and other potential schedule conflicts made it very clear that this was going to be a huge pain in the ass. I dutifully filled out the form, honestly informed them that I had no schedule conflicts (lying on penalty of anal rape is not a wise decision), and hoped to Christ nothing would come of it.
By the time Thanksgiving rolled around, my dating situation dissolved disappointingly but amicably, and I had a wonderful early celebration of Christmas with my family in North Dakota. Again, I soon forgot about the cloud of jury duty hanging over my head until I returned to my home Christmas Day to find another letter from the U.S. District Court, District of Minnesota. This time it was stamped with "Notice to Report" (or something to that effect). Shit on a fucking cracker! The letter made it clear that I had better show up on January 9th, or a large forked branch from an oak tree would be inserted in my rectum, or some other butt-related visual indicating a pattern of disturbing fixation on my part. The letter also said that I must call a jury hotline after 5 pm the day before I was to report, as these trials are often rescheduled at the last minute. So not only must I not schedule any meetings at work that day, I may have to suddenly reschedule anything for the following day. This just kept kept getting better.
On Monday night, I called the hotline, and sure enough, my jury panel had been rescheduled for Wednesday. I emailed my boss to let him know I would be in for work Tuesday after all, and rescheduled a few meetings. On Tuesday, I called the hotline, and this time our panel was confirmed for Wednesday. "Good," I thought. "Let's get this fucking thing done and out of the way."
I will never itch againThat night I couldn't sleep at all. I tossed and turned, despite eventually downing a total of nearly 200 milligrams of benadryl, or about 7 and a half tabs. I wasn't necessarily nervous about the next day, but I can't sleep when my mind kicks into overdrive. I kept thinking about the logistics of getting there. I had decided that I'd drive to the Fort Snelling park and ride and hop the light rail. The Government Center stop was just a block from the U.S. Courthouse in downtown Minneapolis, so it seemed like a less stressful and time-consuming alternative to fighting rush hour traffic, finding a parking space in a ramp, and walking who knows how far to the courthouse. I've ridden the light rail dozens of times, but never during morning rush hour. The questions and scenarios raced through my head. Would I show up and have a hard time finding a parking space at the park and ride? Would the train be so full that I'd have to wait for another one? Are Chocolate Lucky Charms as good as regular Lucky Charms? Auuughhh! Shutup, shutup, shutup, brain!!! Finally I nodded off around 3 or 3:30 am. The sound of my alarm clock at 6:30 nearly brought me to tears.
I wolfed down a banana and stumbled through my morning routine. Knowing how I sometimes tend to dawdle in the morning, I carefully set out my clothes the night before. While the letter from the jury clerk said we could wear jeans if they did not have any "obvious" holes in them (so a hole in the crotch is ok as long as I keep my legs clamped shut like a Mennonite virgin?). But I decided that if I was going to step foot in a federal courtroom, that I would spiff it up. I set out my dress pants, best suit jacket, black dress shoes, and a freshly pressed button down shirt. I thought wearing a tie would be overkill, however.
I drove the 8 miles to the park and ride, found a parking space on the other end of the earth, and hoofed it to the train platform. The downtown train zoomed away just as I stepped foot on the platform. That would be the trend over the coming days no matter how I timed my arrival. I stuffed a couple of dollar bills into the machine, pocketed my ticket, and silently took my place huddled under a heat lamp with a small crowd of sullen and yawning strangers. With relatively warm temperatures forecast, I only wore my suit coat and didn't bother with gloves. The morning air was chilly, but the radiant heat from the lamp and shoving my hands into my pockets were sufficient to stay comfortable during the 7 minute wait for the next train.
The train ride was punctuated with the sort of noise you'd expect during rush hour. Loudmouth businessmen yapped into their cell phones trying to reschedule meetings, check on sales figures, and periodically announce, "No, I'm on the train! Yeah, the train!" like they were a three year old announcing they'd just made poopy in the big boy potty. But no gold stars were to be awarded. Meanwhile, young bookish looking men read textbooks and listened to their iPods loudly enough for the whole car to hear, and the rest of us kept silent, save the occasional cough or bubbling, wet sniffle courtesy of a winter cold.
Twenty minutes after I stepped onto the train, the warm recorded female voice finally announced, "Government Center Station. Exit right." I stepped out onto the platform and squinted in search of street signs to get my bearings. I knew I was on 5th Street and the courthouse was on 4th Street. The building number was 300, so it must be on the corner of 4th Street and 3rd Avenue. I'm a regular savant that way. The nearest sign caught my eye--3rd Avenue. Perfect!
As I rounded the corner onto 4th Street, I realized that neither building on either side of the street had a visible number--at least one that I could readily see. So I headed through the revolving doors into a very stately looking stone building closest to me and hesitantly addressed the hefty woman in the information booth. "Uh...I'm supposed to report for jury duty. Is this the 300 building?" The rotund woman obviously had been asked this question at least twice for every donut she's ever eaten and let out an exasperated sigh. "Across the street," she droned, lethargically nodding her head in the direction of the exit.
I knew her from her goofy oblong moundsThe revolving door spit me out onto the sidewalk, and I turned my attention to the other side of the street. I immediately recognized the
extremely unusual landscaping in front of the other building. There was a large paved plaza spotted with high and steep oval-shaped grassy hills. Some of the hills had trees growing out of them, and some had little cartoonish statues that looked like characters from the
Mr. Men and Little Miss books. Amidst the hills were rows of large cross sections of logs and a few benches. At the time the landscaping was completed several years ago, it made the news because its oddball design was dismissed by many as too ridiculous and undignified to grace the entrance to a building owned by the federal government. This was indeed the place I needed to be. Thank you for making a very recognizable point of reference, really weird landscaping designer person.
I pushed my way through yet another revolving door into the cavernous lobby of the U.S. Courthouse. The moment I spied the security line to the left, years of post-September 11th travel had me instinctively fishing change and keys out of my pocket in preparation. The line was mercifully short, and when my turn came I greeted the aging guard, dumped my metallic goods into a plastic bin to be x-rayed, and walked through the metal detector. BEEP BEEP! The guard on the other side waved me over, and again on instinct, I raised my arms so he could wand down my nethers with his handheld metal detector. My belt buckle beeped, and so did my shoes. Why on earth do dress shoes need metal? They're dress shoes, not steel-toed work boots. If you're wearing dress shoes, it's doubtful any planned activities involve the risk of dropping anvils or I-beams on your toes!
I grabbed my bin of keys, change, and erector set parts, and made my way to the elevators. The jury assembly room on the 2nd floor was clearly marked with a sign and an arrow. We were supposed to report at 8:15 am. It was about 7:55 by my watch. I waited my turn, checked in with the refreshingly perky and friendly jury clerk, helped myself to coffee and a cookie, and took a seat amongst the other haggard souls.
Around 8:30, the smiling jury clerk (did I mention how fantastically perky this woman was?) stepped into the waiting area behind the front desk and announced that while only 52 of the 60 expected people arrived, we would go ahead and start. I smirked and barely stifled an evil chuckle as I thought of 8 arrest warrants being issued for failure to report for jury duty. Maybe they don't go that far, but the thought of some jackass trying to skip out on the very hassle I was dutifully enduring followed by the thought of them getting their shirking ass thrown into jail gave me great satisfaction.
While daydreamed about the humiliation of others, the clerk turned down the lights and started an orientation video. I snapped out of it and directed my attention to the video projected onto two large screens at the front of the room. The production quality, music, and the hairstyles and clothing of the actors suggested this video had been put together about 10 to 15 years ago. The actors, playing people who had served jury duty in U.S. District Court in the past, addressed the camera describing their personal experiences with jury duty. A fat farmer in bib overalls leaned on a wooden fence in front of mooing cows and talked about how difficult it was to sit and listen all day. A nurse with gigantic bangs holding a clipboard talked about how interesting it was to learn about our justice system. A business man sat at his desk and interrupted his imaginary phone call to talk about how it felt to be part of such an important decision. A parade of other actors furrowed their brows and spoke of their concerns or misconceptions about jury duty then brightened as they explained how wrong they were and how rewarding being a juror was. Yes, yes, I'm sure it's all very magical.
Twenty minutes later the video ended, and the clerk turned the lights back on. We squinted, stretched, and yawned as she explained what would happen next, which was that we were going to sit there doing nothing for a while longer. The judge was conferring with the lawyers and would come to address us when they were finished. Having forgotten my book at home, I checked my email and read the news on my phone. Once I had read all of the news in the entire world, I napped fitfully.
Sometime before 11, the judge arrived and broadly explained the nature of the case. It was a criminal trial that involved allegations of sexual abuse of a child. My stomach sank. Prior to that moment I had focused all of my energy on how disruptive this process was to me, how it took me away from work and potentially could cost me money if I were selected and the trial went on long enough. It was all about me. But now I had my first inkling of how serious this was. There was a lot at stake both for this child and the person accused of the abuse, and my complaints and personal disruptions were petty in comparison.
Before we moved up to the courtroom, the judge wanted us to answer a yes or no question on a sheet of paper. The question was not one he felt it was appropriate to ask us in open court, but it had to be asked due to the type of trial. We would be asked to explain in private if necessary. I'm paraphrasing, but the question was, "Have you, any member of your immediate family, or someone you are otherwise close to, been sexually abused or raped?" Unfortunately I know more than one person whose experiences would make that answer yes. I checked the appropriate box. Memories of what happened to them came flooding back and my cheeks grew hot. My stomach sank deeper. After everyone had folded their sheets in half and passed them to the jury clerk, we were instructed to take the elevator to the 13th floor ("lucky 13," someone joked) and wait in the hall. This is the floor with the courtroom where jury selection would take place and where the trial would begin afterward.
The wide hall in front of the courtrooms ran the entire length of the 13th floor and was bathed in bright sunlight from a row of massive windows. Through them I could see the stone building across the street where I had previously encountered the exasperated information booth woman in my search for the courthouse. I thought to myself that the half-cooked hot pockets she was surely eating at that moment must look like specks of dust. I felt a brief tinge of guilt at the thought, remembering my own former corpulence, but couldn't stop smirking.
After 20 or 30 minutes of waiting, we were instructed to enter the courtroom and fill in the hard wooden pews to the rear of the room. This is where those wishing to be an audience to the proceedings would be seated during the trial. But for now, they were to play unforgiving, posture challenging hosts to our uncomfortable backs and asses. After another wait of indeterminate length, one of many to come, the court reporter and the woman who I believe is called the courtroom deputy stepped into the room. The deputy called out, "All rise," and everyone in the room rose to their feet as she said, "Court is now in session" and banged the gavel while the judge took his seat and gave his permission for us to return our tired asses to our seats.
The judge again explained that the trial was about the alleged sexual abuse of a child and then revealed why this was a federal trial. The defendant was Native American and the alleged incidents took place on a reservation. Since this was a felony, it was a federal crime. The judge introduced the prosecutor for the United States of America, a very attractive dark-haired woman who appeared to be somewhere around 40, and the FBI agent helping her with the case, a quiet looking gentleman in his 50's with stark white hair. The judge then introduced the defense attorney, a tall and slender chap in his 40's with graying hair (something about him screamed, "LAWYER!"). And finally, he introduced the defendant, a very young, understandably nervous looking Native American fellow in a polo shirt. We would later find out he was just 21.
The judge explained what was about to happen. A list of the names of all participants in the trial, including the defendant, attorneys, and witnesses would be read aloud and displayed on the monitors in the room. If we knew or were familiar with any of these people, we were to make note of it, as we would be asked to explain later if we became part of the jury panel. The panel would be comprised of 32 people selected at random from the juror pool, or the 52 people who had bothered to show up. This panel of 32 would be asked questions in open court, and as people were excused for various conflicts and potential biases, they would be replaced with people randomly selected from those who remained in the jury pool. This process would continue until 32 people, or as close as possible to 32 people, remained. From that 32, 14 people would be selected by the defense and prosecution for a jury of 12 with 2 alternates. The remaining members of the panel had to choose between auditioning for
American Idol or
America's Next Top Model on the 8th floor and would then be excused, providing they didn't make the cut. The last part seemed rather unusual, but who am I to question a district court judge appointed by Bill Clinton?
One by one, 32 names and places of residence were called, and those people were directed to an assigned seat either in the jury box or a bench just in front of the gallery. I was not among the names called and breathed a sign of relief. The judge said he would ask a series of yes or no questions, and panel members whose answers were yes were to raise their hands. He would make note of who answered yes, and further explanation would be requested later as each person on the panel introduced themselves by following a sheet with a script of biographical information. This process of asking potential jurors questions to ascertain their level of impartiality is called
voir dire. The process is also known as
excrutiatingly boring or
nap inducing.
The judge instructed those in the jury pool who were not on the panel to listen carefully and make note of any questions we would have answered yes to with the pen and sheet of paper provided to us so he wouldn't have to ask all of these questions to new panel members as others were excused. Some questions asked if we were related to any members of law enforcement or court officials. Some asked about personal and family histories of alcohol or drug abuse. Some asked about previous experiences with the justice system, and others seemed completely non sequitur. After each question, there would be a long pause as the judge noted who had raised their hands. Finally around 12:30, the judge announced that we would take a lunch recess and return at about 1:15 pm. Thank God, because I was starving. The banana and cookie I'd eaten hours ago were had long since been processed into energy, used, and converted into life affirming poop.
As instructed by the courtroom deputy, we rose to our feet as the judge left the room through the door seemingly disguised as just another wall panel behind the bench, and we were excused to leave. On the first floor of the courthouse is the Federal Cafe. You can order from the deli counter or the grill. Either option will get you a bland, overpriced sandwich with a pickle from the former and fries from the latter. You may also select from the cooler full of soda, water, and tea. I ordered a pathetic grilled chicken sandwich with fries and selected a big bottle of Arizona plum tea from the cooler. The damage was $8. Christ! Do I get a reacharound with that? I stared at the woman behind the register. I took her silence to mean that no reacharound was forthcoming. I moved on.
Defensive ears are listeningAfter lunch, we all waited in the large sunlit hall again. 1:15 came and went. We were running on court time now. Specific times mean very little. But God help you if you aren't there when they decide to start. Around 1:30 or 1:40, the courtroom doors swung open, and we were instructed to return to our seats. The Spanish Inquisition continued (and nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition). Finally the judge had finished all of the questions, and we moved on to the biographical portion of the selection process. Each person on the panel took their turn reading from the scripted biography. This would be rather innocuous under normal circumstances, however given the fact that the defendant was in the courtroom, the personal information disclosed in open court was more than a little disconcerting. What if this guy was on trial for murder? I like my legs and knees unbroken, thank you very much!
No one else seemed to be terribly troubled by giving out their personal information, and everyone nervously followed the script, stammering into a wireless microphone as if introducing themselves at speed dating event. A fictionalized example of a juror's spoken biography might be, "My name is Jason Seward. I am 49 years old and live in St Paul. I have a bachelors degree in marketing from the University of Minnesota. For the last 11 years, I've worked the crowds at Vikings and Twins games handing out flyers and coupons for Dream Girls, a strip club in downtown Minneapolis. Prior to that I worked mopping up jizz from the peep show booth floors at Sex World. My wife Amy is 45 years old, went to college for 2 years but did not finish her degree, and works for Wells Fargo in Eagan as a teller. We have two children. Anna is 24 and is unemployed, and Jack is 18 and goes to the University of Minnesota and works part time mopping up peep show booths at Sex World, just like his old man did. I have never served on a jury before. My hobbies include hunting, fishing, and throwing rocks at my reflection in the mirror."
After each person's getting-to-know-you speech, the judge selectively probed them for more details if he thought something might be pertinent to the trial or serving on a jury. He also asked them to explain their reasons for raising their hand to certain questions during the first phase of the selection process and asked them where they read or watched their news each day. Of the first 5 people questioned, the judge immediately excused 3 of them. One was married to a Native American woman and had extensive dealings and contacts with many families on the reservation in question. One had a son who had been treated for childhood leukemia by a doctor who was to be a witness. One simply didn't feel he could believe the testimony of a child under any circumstances. It seemed to be a troubling trend, but they would be the last to be excused, at least in open court.
Sitting in the pews of the gallery, my back was aching, and my ass was numb. At first, listening to the life stories of all of these strangers from so many walks of life was interesting, but it eventually grew tedious. I entertained myself by thinking of all of the amusing tactics my friends and coworkers had suggested for getting excused by the judge. My boss kept tell me me to "give 'em the CRAZY EYE!" and lambasted me for shaving
my porn star mustache too soon. A coworker insisted that I eyeball the room and declare that "there sure are a lot of honkeys in here!"
Mercifully, Five o'clock rolled around. The judge announced that we would not finish that day, thanked us for our patience, and that we would resume at 9 the next morning. I was happy the day was over, but less than thrilled that I'd have to return. I came in that morning firmly believing I'd be walking out the door and heading back to work around lunchtime. How very naive I was.
On the elevator ride to the lobby from the 13th floor, for whatever unknown reason, I winced at the thought of waiting for the train with the rush hour crowd. I just wasn't in the mood to stand shoulder to shoulder with the rush hour grumps and without thinking much of it, I called
Miss Employed from the lobby of the courthouse. I hadn't seen her for a while and thought it would be fun to meet her for dinner downtown and catch up before I headed back to Eagan. She sounded delighted at the prospect, and we made arrangements to meet in the warehouse district, an area just a few blocks down the street near the legendary
First Avenue and 7th Street Entry and the Target Center where the Minnesota Timberwolves play. After dinner, she refused to let me ride the train back after dinner and kindly drove me to the park and ride. I drove home, exhausted from the day and the lack of sleep, and soon drifted off with the television still on.
I didn't even think about it until long after my courtroom experience was over, but I wonder how it would have affected my odds in the jury pool if I had professed my platonic friendship with a call girl to the judge. Perhaps that's one to keep in the ol' back pocket should I get called again. "I'm good friends with a call girl...and there sure are a lot of honkeys in here!" Now that's a winning combination.
Coming next:
day 2
Unfortunately over time, my poor lappy lap has deteriorated, particularly in the last year. I spent $90 to replace the hard drive a little over 2 years ago. Last summer I spent $30 on a cheap knockoff power cord (one from the manufacturer would have cost $70) when the cord I had started shorting out such that I could only get juice to the thing if I held it at a certain angle. In October, my wi-fi card started shorting out. Or rather the slot the card plugs into was shorting out, making buying a replacement a useless proposition. Luckily I had recently upgraded the USB wi-fi adapter for my Tivo and had the old one lying around. I plugged 'er in, coiled the slack in the long USB cable, and duct taped the whole tangled affair to the cover with the adapter peeking above my screen like an antenna. Stylish!
Unfortunately over time, my poor lappy lap has deteriorated, particularly in the last year. I spent $90 to replace the hard drive a little over 2 years ago. Last summer I spent $30 on a cheap knockoff power cord (one from the manufacturer would have cost $70) when the cord I had started shorting out such that I could only get juice to the thing if I held it at a certain angle. In October, my wi-fi card started shorting out. Or rather the slot the card plugs into was shorting out, making buying a replacement a useless proposition. Luckily I had recently upgraded the USB wi-fi adapter for my Tivo and had the old one lying around. I plugged 'er in, coiled the slack in the long USB cable, and duct taped the whole tangled affair to the cover with the adapter peeking above my screen like an antenna. Stylish!
