We The People

Well this has been an interesting week. Much to my apathy, I was called for jury duty in September, which I deferred due to a pilot program being launched in the ER by yours truly. On Monday, my deferred date as a reserve juror, I was not only placed in the jury pool for a criminal trial, but selected as a member of the jury. I had conflicting feelings during jury selection, because though I was not thrilled with the idea of sitting for any amount of time, I felt like being selected would be a form of winning. So my competitive side fought with my hyperactive side in a heated silent battle that was, in fact, futile, due to the fact that it was not up to me whether I served on this jury or not. Unless I followed the example of juror number 2, who claimed violent constant problems of a liquid sort arising from his aging prostate in spite of the judge’s assurances that he could take breaks whenever he wanted.

So I was selected. Juror number twenty, is how I’ve been referred to for the last few days. I’m so glad I wasn’t a gross number like 14 or 17 or 9. That would have been hard for me.

My plan from the beginning was to win jury duty by becoming foreman, or foreperson if you must. My other plan was to resist the strong and sometimes maniacal temptation to stand up and say, “I object!” in a sonorous and grave voice. I became concerned about this on my way to the courthouse the first day, realizing that I was un-Ritalined and have impulse control problems at events of a solemn nature. Like there’s an increase in impulses of inappropriate ilk (I nailed that alliteration, that was so metal) in direct proportion to the sternness, seriousness, or sadness of a situation (again, metal). I was talking to my sister on the way to the courthouse and giggling quite rambunctiously at the thought of asking for clemency, pleading the fifth (or other amendments, possibly even funnier to plead the third), inviting the lawyers into chambers, and saying things like “jurisprudence” and “pro se”. Also I was concerned that I might sequester myself. Also I was hoping that things would get rowdy and the bailiffs would have to kick some ass. I’m not a great candidate for these types of things but you might not know it from my generally suburban demeanor. It’s all inside, basically pulsating.

Anyway, the trial commenced; a domestic violence situation in which a man had beaten a women. My experience in the ER was useful for this. My experience as a jiu jitsuka was annoying for this. As they were describing the altercation(s) I was mentally forming countermoves and attacks. Let it be said that testimony was boring at times and it was best that I stay occupied. We were given pencils and pads of paper and my doodling became an obsession, to the point that I traded pencils with jurors number 19, 13, 24, 7, and 10 because my point got unpointy and I was doing some very fine work.

In the jury room, which was going to be glorious and sinister yet welcoming in my mind, I found that the walls were peeling a bit and the toilet was haunted. The wall directly opposite me had a particular peeling that evoked the image of male genitalia, which was distracting not just because I kept looking at it but because I had to summon all of my inner fortitude to not point it out to the rest of the jury. I did not feel that dick and balls was a proper theme for my impending forepersonhood. Also, the men’s toilet kept refilling and flushing itself during awkward silences, which was pretty funny. Of course I felt that Moaning Myrtle would have been the proper reference here but I did not feel that I had a sympathetic audience. All in all I’m incredibly proud of my restraint while feeling some mild despair at the loss of opportunity the peeling and the toilet provided, humor wise.

On the last day I triumphed and was named foreperson of the jury. We deliberated and returned a verdict, and overall it went smoothly. I feel that my guidance was instrumental in securing the wild mispronunciation debacle of the reading of the verdict, as my last name causes panic quite routinely. Though it is phonetically spelled the obvious foreign overtones of the name do seem to intimidate a reader.

Throughout the length of my jury duty, I tried to impress upon my sons the dignity and importance of my civic responsibility. I insisted that they refer to me first as “Juror Number 20,” and then when I became the supreme leader of the jury, “Foremom.” I also intoned, “Please rise for the jury” whenever I entered a room because I found it both refreshing and so right when in the courtroom. It had varying results at home, few of which were anyone rising. I both objected and sustained/overruled objections in conversations with my kids. I’m nothing if not in character for an event. I plan to continue on in this vein until I get tired of it, which may take a while.