  NOTE: The only non-fiction parts of this are the fact of an actual jury summons on the date given, parts of the room description, and the disposition of case as far as I was concerned. The rest, including all participants and incidents herein are total fiction.
"Not even a regular envelope. A college grad joins your community, does his civic duty by registering to vote, and this is how you thank him?" I muttered as I read the computer-printed, official notice. Jury duty. Thursday, February 29, 1996, 9 A.M. at the Town Hall. This was perfect. The poor unsuspecting fools had no idea what was in store for them.
My long-standing desire to proclaim some deserving scumbag of the world microwave-able was close at hand. Except that one cloud lay over my plans. Major societal trash did not appear in Town courts. I figured the best I could hope for was a civil suit of an eighty-year-old granny claiming injuries from the stampede to a blue-light special at a local K-Mart. Still, landmark court decisions had to begin somewhere, and this would serve my purpose.
I marked my calendar. I didn't want the police arresting me for dereliction of my civic duty. Jail would not provide the type of long-term relationships I desired to establish with my fellow man and woman.
# # #
I strolled through a cold, overcast morning toward the Town Hall with a book tucked under my arm. A female co-worker--with whom I hoped to co-work more closely in the near future--had advised me to take along reading material. Great Expectations clearly presented too much optimism for this occasion. On the other hand, Mark Twain's Innocents Abroad was appropriate for those I was about to encounter. I'd been meaning to read it. Twain and I shared world views.
At the clerk's window I submitted my jury summons. The institutional clock on the wall behind her clicked over to eight fifty-one. "Down the hall, to the end, turn right." Her glucose-laden voice had decades of practice behind it. I popped a prophylactic sourball and readied myself to reform the American Justice System.
I selected a center aisle seat in the last row of gray-brown metal folding chairs, noting their slipperiness. If my dose of caffeine wore off and I fell asleep in this chair, I'd likely awaken on the floor. I glimpsed the unpadded wooden chairs in the jury box. Falling asleep in those was probably a contempt-of-court offense.
At the front of the room, atop a platform flanked by the U.S. and State flags, I spied the mahogany Bench and three tall swivel chairs covered with supple, butt-caressing leather presiding over it. Judicial decor blended into bleak recreation-hall appointments and tile floor throughout the rest of the room. Two folded ping-pong tables crouched in a rear corner, while two long rows of fluorescent lights hummed faintly overhead. Through an open rear door came periodic switchboard beeps and the muffled voices of Town Employees pretending to earn their pay.
A fascinating collection of the dysfunctional populated the courtroom.
Three rows up: a pretend blonde, tightly trussed in a cream sweater and hooker-red skirt chewed her cud.
One row up, two seats to my right: my age, wire-rimmed glasses, generic black and white sneakers, denim shirt, and a gag-gift tie. His left leg rested across his right knee. The shadow ringing his mouth and his barely combed hair proclaimed his enthusiasm about being here. His black down vest emanated a faint, but narcotic, eau de greaseburgers-and-fries, which informed me how he earned his minimum wages.
On the far left of the room, near the jury box: military haircut, snug tank top, stretch jeans, earring in the right ear, and a how-about-you-and-me-afterwards stare. Today's equal-opportunity token.
Across the aisle from me: permed gray hair. She turned the next page of her hunk-on-the-cover novel while her facial expressions punctuated the vicarious sex.
Near the front: flannel shirt, gray buzz cut, flipping through a sportsman's magazine. The only one who held promise of assisting me in seeing justice served.
Despite the jaded and jejune arrayed before me, I assured myself that not having applied deodorant to myself today was the perfect touch. The aroma of depravity swirling around me in the close quarters of a jury room would expedite a guilty verdict.
I fingered my bookmark and flipped open the pages to where I had carefully folded a copy of my speech. Chapter Three: "Tribulation Among the Patriarchs--Seeking Amusement Under Difficulties." Given the promise of today, I had edited it to: "Trial and Tribulation Among the Patriarchs." In the margin I'd scribbled, "All hope abandon, ye who enter here!" I'd looked up the quote to be sure I had the wording exact. I unfolded my papers and reviewed my speech.
Now, you're going to tell me that none of this happened--or could happen--because no judge would be crazy enough to let me get out more than a few words before throwing my ass into jail. You might be right.
At five minutes past ten, a past-retirement bailiff in a gray uniform, with patches sewn on both arms, directed us to rise. I saw Tank Top glance at me again. I smiled and shrugged.
The black-robed judge walked briskly in from the rear. He sat, bidding us to do likewise as he snuggled into his chair and leaned forward to rest his forearms on the Bench.
I remained standing. "Your Honor, ... (to be continued ...) |
Rick Taubold
