Waiting.
Hoping for a heart attack or that someone would call in a bomb scare. But mostly
I’m waiting, abandoned and disregarded, a hostage to jury duty and developing
an acute case of Contempt of Court.
We,
the jury pool, had to wait for an hour and 45 minutes before we were called
into the courtroom.
Why?
No
idea. I assume we were simply being marginalized and treated badly because the staff
at the courthouse is incompetent and entrenched and they don’t have to get off
their fat butts except to go to lunch and make sure they get to the vending
machines for their breaks. Fat, fat, fat. Big hair and long nails, scraggly
goatees and assess three feet wide. Bellies bulging over big belt buckles, wide
sloping shoulders, pudgy hands and backs like lumpy mattresses. Tight jeans and
tight short-sleeved sweaters to show off expensive poorly executed tattoos. On
the Job with Our Civil Servants.
I
signed in early. They made it clear on the summons. Be here at 9:30 or we can
arrest you. So I was there at 9:20, signed my name and sat in one of the poorly
designed plastic chairs that were bolted to the floor. I felt like a prisoner,
which may be their way of creating verisimilitude for prospective jurors. Get
us to empathize? I don’t think so. It’s just rude bullshit.
There
is no small talk, and little eye contact. And we wait. After the first hour of
nothing, I approached the desk and asked why we were waiting.
“The
judge is busy with the lawyers. You’ll be called when he’s finished.”
Oh
fuck you. Just fuck off, you curt, insolent monster.
“Can
I go to breakfast?”
A
smirk. “No, you have to wait here.”
“But
you don’t know when his honor will be ready?”
“No.”
“Then,
can I go to breakfast? I’m hungry.”
“He
won’t be much longer.”
“But,
truly, you don’t know, you have no idea right? You can’t tell me when he’ll be
ready for us. Could be an hour or two more?”
“No.
Can’t say. You’ll have to wait.”
“Can
I go to breakfast?”
I shifted
around for another forty-five minutes, trying to find a comfortable position
without touching the people to either side of me. No one spoke, but suddenly we
were moving, en masse, like a flock of grackles leaving a tree. We shuffled
down a hallway where another grim staff member held us up. She mispronounced our
names, checked us off the list and we slid into the hard church pews in the
gallery of the courtroom. I should have gone to breakfast.
A
dazed looking judge babbled some instructions, his outdated Beatle haircut
shining in the glare of overhead lighting. He never apologized for making us
waste the past two hours. He made it clear that the case would be completed
today, “Even if we have to stay here until midnight.” Unfriendly and ill
equipped. He sounded like a little bully.
The
Prosecutor was a sloppy fat guy with a long ponytail and full beard. He was
repping a stone-faced miniature cop who had arrested the (alleged) drunk
driver. The Attorney for the defense had thick brown hair that was expensively
cut to look boyish and casual; he ran his hand through it every thirty seconds
while grinning sincerely at the jury pool.
The
defendant was all dressed up in his best black t-shirt. He was an older guy,
gray hair, spindly arms, red eyes and rough skin. Looked like a drinker and I
don’t think he was a stranger to the proceedings. I wondered about the t-shirt.
The
idiot is on trial for another drunk driving arrest and this is the way he
dresses? Genius. But I was supposed to reserve judgment.
It
was much to late for that.
Next,
the attorneys addressed us, introducing themselves and their clients.
The
defense dork made sure to tell us that the man in the dirty t-shirt was an
“innocent man”. No one laughed. Except me.
I
laughed because many years ago I had a friend who was a defense attorney. He
had successfully represented three local cops who had been arrested for
stealing televisions from a local electronics store. I saw him and his clients
in a bar shortly after the trial. I’d read in the local paper that the cops
were acquitted and I said, “Hey, Mike, you got those guys off? Good for you.
They were innocent, huh?”
Mike
said, “No one is innocent. Some people are not guilty.”
My
first lesson in the law.
Over
the next twenty years or so I made the acquaintance of many attorneys. I used to
drink with lawyers because I liked talking about the law, logic and deceit,
which was what lawyers practiced daily. We’d stay up until the early hours of
the morning telling stories of crime, corruption and incompetence.
Now,
in court, after we’d been seated and listened to the fatuous introductions by
the principals, the defense attorney began to ask questions. He danced around
and tried to get us to like him. Might have worked, too, if some of us weren’t
already finished for the day after the long wait.
“Anyone
ever had an interaction with law enforcement?”
A
grubby old man in front of me raised his hand and jumped right the fuck in.
“I
think all cops are parasites and have nothing to offer anyone. I was arrested
for armed robbery when I was 14. I didn’t do it and I’ve hated cops all my
life.”
Nice
start. And thank you, sir.
Lawyer-boy
redirects his attention to the other side of the room and asks if anyone knows
the cop or the defendant?
A
few locals say that they might know the cop, a wife/husband works with the
State Police as a clerk or they read about the drunk driving arrest or may have
dreamed about it. Standard stuff to waste more time.
It’s
the Prosecutor’s turn and he asks what were our feelings about the State Police.
The
guy next to me raises his hand.
“Yes
sir.” The attorney looks at his seating chart. “Mr. Ellis?”
“Yeah.
I saw a story where a cop walked into the back yard of someone’s home in Utah, he
was looking for a fugitive, and the family dog barked at him and he shot it. He
just shot the dog and didn’t even blink. There was a video of it on YouTube. I’ve
read a lot of stories like that, these guys are trigger-happy and jump the gun
and are always ready to shoot. I don’t trust the cops any more. It’s like they’re
looking for trouble so they can kill someone. They don’t ‘protect and serve’
any more.”
Wow.
Well said. Another ally.
The
suit wanders away and directs a few more inane questions to the left side of
the courtroom. He particularly focuses on the perspiring woman who heaves to
her feet to say how much she supports the police, no one knows how difficult it
is to be a cop, they put their lives on the line every day, they are our heroes.
Yeah. Sure. Great. Siddown.
He
ambles back and says, “Do you think you could put your past experiences aside
and judge the case on the evidence?”
Then
he looks directly at me and says, no shit, he says, “Sir. You look disgusted by
these proceedings.”
“How
right you are”.
“Can
you tell us why?”
Damn.
My friend Paul Broadman used to say my face was a three-act play. I have a hard
time filtering my feelings. I’ve been accused of having Tourette’s syndrome.
But I don’t. I just hate jury duty. Really.
“Let’s
see. No, I can’t put my past experiences on ice. I have prejudices against the
court and the way we, the citizens are disregarded and treated with disrespect
throughout this whole performance. Also, I have trouble believing any of you.
I’ve been taught that everyone in court is a liar. The defense, the
prosecution, the witnesses, the judge and the bailiff, too.”
“Where
did you learn that?”
“From
my pal Riley. He was a pretty successful criminal defense attorney in San
Francisco. He told me that everyone lies and that both of the lawyers are
trying to make a movie, twisting the facts to support their client, and whoever
makes the best movie, whichever attorney entertains the jury the most by using
witnesses and evidence and lies and duplicity, wins. Also, I worked in the
criminal justice system for over a decade and it was my experience that rich
people who had resources went home after court and poor people went to jail.
I’m going to find for the defense. It’s only fair.”
“Where
did you work?”
“San
Quentin State Prison in California.”
“Does
my client (he puts his hands on the guys shoulders, massaging them), does my
client look like a person who would be in San Quentin?”
“I wouldn’t
attempt to say. You could be, though.”
An
hour later they had seated a jury and the rest of us were dismissed after being
informed that we were still eligible to serve and may be called back at any
time. Our lives were still hijacked and we could be abducted and threatened. We
would still be eligible to be treated with disregard, discourteously, rudely
and insolently by ill-mannered inarticulate overweight men and women of the
civil servant class. Can’t wait.
I’m
so burned out from the joke of justice, the puppets, the bad lighting, the long
waits and silly costumes. Right now I’d let Charlie Manson and Jack the Ripper
walk free. After I’ve had my breakfast.
