So, I was called for jury duty, which was, to my best recollection, my fifth time since moving to California. Before you start to fret about some poor defendant being stuck with me as one of the panel of twelve, be comforted with the fact that, in the spirit of the "One Day, One Trial" policy here in Sacramento County, I was not chosen and was dismissed at the end. In retrospect, I'm sure glad that I was not picked, as I paid a karmic surplus merely in my attempt to make it to the fuckin' courthouse in time.
I received my summons about 3 or 4 weeks ago, and I wasn't worried about how I was going to get to court on time. I like walking and was planning to give myself an ample head start (as long as I gave myself over 45 minutes from where I live in Midtown it would have been fine).
And then, Mother Nature decided to conspire with RT to give me a little character building personal challenge.
The weather, as it turned out, greeted me that morning with 45 mile per hour gusts and a shitload of rainfall. Resigned to having to take the light rail into downtown, I headed over to the 23rd and R station at about 7:20 or so, figuring that, since the trains run 15 minutes apart at the most, I'd have plenty of time to get to where I had to go.
Wrong.
Giving me one more reason to rue the lameness that is Sacramento Regional Transit, the ticket machine would not take any of my dollar bills. Moving across the tracks to the other machine, I noticed that other people were having the exact same problem. Although I probably should have felt some sort of humbling empathy in seeing my fellow members of humanity feeling my pain, I was none too happy to know that there was a FUBAR situation developing here at the RT station, as the 7:25 train pulled up.
I no longer have a cell phone, since I decided that I hardly speak to anybody anymore and it was a waste of money. I could have used the pay phone at the station, but when I've called the court in the past, just for general information, I've been put on hold and sent to Automated Menu Hell. My choice at this point was to either get forced into contesting a ticket for having no proof of fare or getting a bench warrant issued for failure to report for jury service. Even worse, I may have had to report back the following day. Nah. Not going to happen.
I'd like to share with you at this time a little personal issue that I have. If it's one thing that I don't like in this life, it's when I don't have an answer to something, and don't know if what I'm about to do will have consequences or will turn out okay. Sure, I have to deal with that kind of shit on almost a daily basis anyway, and usually things will turn out alright, but I would still rather have answers and information before I choose to do something.
In that mental state, and knowing that it was approaching 7:30, I knew that I had to do something to address the situation. I chose to start a panicked walk-mixed-with-jog down Q, then 22nd Street, then Capitol Avenue, then through a corner of Capitol Park and down L Street, turning to take 10th Street north and cutting across Wino Park, whoops I mean Cesar Chavez Plaza, and booking through I Street. Unfortunately, I overshot the street for the Superior Court building, turning and traveling on 8th, and was disoriented enough to ask some young lady on a phone outside of the Sacramento County Sheriff's doorway for directions back over to what turned out to be the entrance a block away at 9th and G.
I made it in the line outside of the courthouse door at the 8 AM deadline on the dot. Somebody up there likes me, or at least gave me the common sense not to be hitting the potato chips too hard nowadays.
By now, completely looking like a drowned rat, I waited in the long line at the Jury Assembly Room and checked in with my now-soaked summons, then took a seat in the hall. I sort of envied other folks who were using their laptops and taking advantage of the free Wi-Fi that the Court had generously provided for prospective jurors. And then again, I was glad that I had decided against bringing my laptop with me, considering the circumstances that had unexpectedly occured.
I neglected to mention earlier that I'd brought in a briefcase full of notebooks, reading material and other stuff, and had to lug that along under my coat for the little foot race I took through the storm. I chose to take along a copy of a book called The Price of Dissent, Bud and Ruth Schultz's fantastic collection of oral histories of people who have experienced repression and persecution from Uncle Sam because of their personal beliefs and expressed opinions, and pretty much nothing else. I'm reviewing one of the accounts for a project which I may or may not complete within the next few years. There was also, admittedly, a passing thought about how sorta fucked up it would look to be reading that particular book. That only encouraged me even more.
As the process of beginning to call out names for that day's cases began, a woman sitting next to me looked up from her book and remarked, "Have you ever read that short story, The Lottery?" I replied, "Yes, a long time ago", while racking my brains to try to remember what that one was about. She continued, "They announce people's names and then they get executed. It sort of feels like that," with a smile. I may have agreed with her under normal circumstances if the worst part of the morning had not already been past me.
Eventually, my name was called and I headed upstairs to a courtroom. When I got there, the hall was already filling up, and a friendly young woman had motioned over to me to let me know that there was a seat open right next to her. I thanked her and sat my still-pretty-soaked ass down. She mentioned that there seemed to be a lot of people in this jury pool, and I had replied that I had used the stairs because my last name was at the end of the alphabet and by the time I was called, the elevators were already crowded with people waiting in queue. We briefly spoke about the weather outside, and I couldn't help but notice that she seemed just a wee bit agitated and nervous.
The deputy acting as bailiff came out of the courtroom briefly and gave us some pointers on what to expect and how to behave in the courtroom.(For instance, no food because crinkling wrappers will piss off the court reporter.) He then requested that we separate the four pages of our carbon copied voir dire questionnaire in order to make his job easier when he takes them from each juror as they get called to sit in the jury box. Everybody dutifully proceeded to pull their sheets apart. I found it kind of odd that my neighbor to the right, who had helped me to get a seat earlier, did not even pull out the questionnaire. It was no longer a mystery about two minutes later when the bailiff re-emerged, motioned to her and kept the door open as she entered the courtroom.
Great. I'm not even inside the courtroom and I've already carried on a conversation with the defendant. Oh well. We didn't discuss the trial, unless she's being charged with illegal cloud seeding or something, so I guess it was still cool. It still felt kind of fucked up, though.
The clerk then came out and announced eighteen names of people who would be the first to sit in the jury box (12 prospective jurors and six alternates), and then the rest of us filed into the gallery. The judge got things started and gave us the particulars on the trial that we were being considered for, along with the usual admonitions (eg don't discuss the trial details with anyone, etc.). I won't bother to tell you at this point what the charges were because, although legally I can speak about it now, the trial is still pending for all I know. All I can say at this point is that I have a family history in regards to the same offense, and probably would have been sent back to the jury room anyway.
After the initial questioning of the first group of potential jurors, the judge called for the afternoon break, which turned out to be two hours. Luckily I was prepared and had plenty of music to listen to and stuff to read and work on. The drag was that the weather sucked and I was still pretty damp, so I didn't feel like stepping outside. I settled for going up to the cafeteria and a lunch of coffee and cupcakes. I sat in the area near the jury lounge, listened to my usual repertoire of freeform eclectic audio mixture on shuffle play, and did some people watching for most of the time.
One thing about jury duty: it's sort of like the DMV. It's the Great Equalizer when it comes to making everyone get together in one public place, regardless of race, birthplace, occupation or education. There's business suits, baggy pants and hoodies, burkhas, cowboy hats, turbans, leather biker gear and hemp clothing. It almost seems like there should be a hope that these occasional perceived obligations of civil responsibility have a side benefit of reminding its participants that we have numerous differences, too many to even bother counting, and we should always consider that fact when acting out our lives in this world.
After the break, it was back to Final Jeopardy, and the panel was questioned about the usual: if anyone had been convicted of offenses relative to the trial, and of they had been victims under similar circumstances to the allegations that they would possibly be deliberating upon. After the judge excused initial people from the panel, the empty seats were filled and the new arrivals were reviewed on the same questions.
Then it was time for the respective attorneys to have their fun with their peremptory challenges, with the prosecutor and defense taking turns kicking out panelists at whim. This process can go on for a very long time, depending on the size of the jury pool and how anal the attorneys are. Typically, the defense tends to get a little happier with the challenges, and it was no different this time around. However, after one more break and a relatively short time, the two parties magically agreed and twelve jurors were picked along with two alternates. Us stragglers were then dismissed, and we made our way back to the jury room.
One other deportee and myself were smart enough to hit the stairs right away, and we ended up at the front of the line as our remaining fellow rejects filed in and lined up to be dismissed. When I got to the window to turn in my badge, the question I got was: "But, were you excused"? The answer I wanted to give was: "Look, lady, I hauled ass by foot here from 23rd and R because the ticket machine didn't take my money and I practially ran here in a downpour to get here on time, then I spent eight hours trapped here in soaking clothes and was not picked for a jury. You really need to let me the fuck go, and we can try this again in a year or so, aight?" But, I simply replied "Yes," and requested an RT pass. I kind of felt like giving myself a break for the trip back.
That, of course, was not going to happen without even more bullshit. The light rail train headed back toward my homestead was delayed by at least 45 minutes, and I stood out there along with a flock of mostly government workers wondering if it would ever show up at all. Finally, I got my waterlogged carcass home. The next day, my thigh and calf muscles felt like I had rode the American River trail up to Folsom and back from Discovery Park, thanks to my impromptu morning workout.
I respect the American justice system and for all of the citizens of our country to have a right to a fair and speedy trial with a jury of peers. I just wish that it was at least a little easier for me to get through it. It's not the Superior Court I felt inconvenienced from, but definitely RT and its continuing dedication to making its customer service become suckier by the day, every day. Perhaps the Jury Comissioner's office can mail an optional postcard that folks can send back to request an advance RT ticket to be mailed before the reporting date, just to ensure that things run as smoothly as possible. I have a feeling that, if it was anyone else in my situation that day, a lot of others would have just thrown up their hands in the air, said "Fuck it", and tried to avoid even showing up at all. Now that wouldn't help anybody.
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