"2010 is going to be a great year," I told myself as I unlocked the front door to my Los Angeles apartment. In my hand I grasped two weeks' worth of mail, which I began tearing into after dropping my suitcase on the living room carpet. "2009 wasn't fun for anyone, really -- but 2010: this is the year of opportunity!" And I was right. The first letter I opened was a professional but personal invitation to something I had never before dreamed that I would do, especially at my age. Stamped and confirmed by the Los Angeles Supreme Court, I now had the opportunity to serve Jury Duty.
Ugh. There's never really a good time to be a juror, especially when you are living and working in Los Angeles. After working late Sunday night, I did not realize until mid-afternoon Monday that I needed to have been at the Courthouse by 9:30am. (Thank goodness there aren't any legal ramifications or anything! Oh, wait, yes there are...) After embarrassingly phoning in to report my absence, my call date was pushed two weeks -- to today. I'm not compensated through my part-time waitress job; I'm only paid $15 a day, not including today, and I have to wait to get the check in the mail. To think that I had to decline an audition this morning for a potential $450 day spot. Fantastic.
Luckily, my boyfriend Whit offered to drive and drop me off at the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center (plugging that title into my iPhone map was fun). Otherwise, I would've had to park at the Walt Disney Concert Hall, validate, take a bus near the CSFCJC and then walk the rest of the way. In the elevator on the way up to the 11th floor, after mentioning to a nearby lady that she and I had the same pair of black non-slip non-laced Sketcher shoes, the lady responded, "Oh, they're perfect for my 70-year-old self. And let me tell you, after taking the subway here, it was a long walk after!" I had to stifle my surprised cough as I watched her hobble next to me, gripping her cane for support. As Whit's Southern mother would say, bless her heart!
For those who don't live within the City of Angels' walls, just know that our Court has the largest caseload in the country. They pride themselves on it. And the first thing they want every potential juror to do first is walk through a security line, not all that different from what you would stand through before boarding your Southwest flight. This time, however, half the people are not expecting to be scanned, and half of those people have to sadly watch as their nail clippers and sewing needles are thrown into a trash can, never to be seen again. Thank goodness I didn't wear any bobby pins with my french braid this morning; I mean, who knows?
A not-so-quick, jam-packed elevator ride up was next on the List of Things That Can Drive You Crazy At 9am. Other than the 11th floor, apparently jurors were also called to the 5th, 7th and 9th floors as well. And fingers crossed that an unassuming juror would not press the "Up" button in haste as our doors were closing - unless we all wanted to hear Vicki from I, ROBOT declare "Go. Ing. Up." a thousand times over as the doors flutter and we all make our way nowhere.
I checked in at the front desk at 9:30am, which was two hours later than I would have needed to arrive if I didn't complete the 2-hour dated orientation video over the weekend. Boy, was that online experience a blast. I had to watch a series of 12.3 minute videos of random judges reading forced jokes from a teleprompter (or, judging [ha!] from the time period, from huge cue cards). Then I'd have to answer 5-10 questions about what I was supposed to have watched when instead I was heating up some Easy Mac. Even if I got the answer wrong, I could move on in the orientation process. Wonderful checking system they have there.
I found a cozy space adjacent to the big assembly room and scrunched myself in the corner. An hour later, at 10:30am, The Calling Of The Names began. Respond only with a "Here" or "Yes," please. Speak up. Sorry if we mispronounce your name. Antonia Sumuhad. Andres Gonzales. David Ready. (This last name perked my ears up, since David Ready is also a producer with Lorenzo Di Bonaventura's company, which did the TRANSFORMERS films, among other things. I emailed an assistant that works for Di Bonaventura, who said David was definitely still in the office. Shucks.) 30 names called, and none of them mine. Breathe Out, Take 1.
11:00am approaches quickly, as I'm nose deep in Christopher McDougall's book BORN TO RUN. If you're a runner, read it. If you used to be, read it. If you like being barefoot, read it. Troy Conrad. Tu Trong. Manu Shock Potrizikan. Roy Lee. Roy Lee? Is Roy Lee not here? Jamie - (Enter quickly racing heart) - Galvin. Phew. 30 names up, 30 names down. Breathe Out, Take 2.
11:15am: Robert Coz, Holly Biando ("Yeah," she muttered.) Jack Black ("Here," she said.) Out of the 9 of us in that little adjacent cozy, only two other people remained: a Mexican woman and an Asian guy in glasses with faded white off-brand sneaks. Oh, whoops, actually there were three: an African-American woman coughed herself awake, hiding under her heavy jacket. Plus me. Breathe Out, Take 3.
11:41am, and I've flown through 90 pages of how a 70-year-old man can finish 100-mile races in nothing but sandals and a long blouse, tied at the waste. Davie Kwan. "Here," the Asian guy said. Erica Vialba. "Yes," the Mexican woman said. Robert James. Ruth Castillo. Did she say Captain Joe? What? Donny McDonald. Kin Maak. A long pause, followed by: That's all. It's just Sleeping Beauty and me. Breathe Out, Take 4.
The announcer lady announced that the last group may break for lunch and return at 1:30pm. As they made their way to the exit and the rest of us waited for further instructions, an African American man spotted Sleeping Beauty and shook his head, chuckling and calling her lucky: she could come back after lunch and just sit around until dismissed, but he had to come back from lunch and, well, stay. As he left, Sleeping Beauty told me that she was called in last year and never had to report for duty. She didn't plan on being called in this time, either. "It's a political thing," she said, smiling, "If you don't go in, you'll suffer as long as they want you to." We wait for our lunch break dismissal, until they unexpectedly piped over the speakers to make one last call.
Jacquelin Kelly. "Here," Sleeping Beauty said with a sigh. Well, that was quick.
Stephanie Chaw. Rafael Soriano. Fung Lu. Jamie Petitto. $#!+. "Here."
Fine. Report to Dept. 124, 13th floor, at 1:30pm. Go eat lunch now, Slaves. I headed to Starbucks and ate a chicken wrap and Protein Power Plate packed with grapes, apple slices, a hard-boiled egg and tiny bagel with beurre d'arachides.* I headed back in the beautiful sunshine to place myself amongst countless others in the chilly hallway on the 13th floor in booth slabs that made me and my laptop slip and slide like water on wax paper.
"Are you ready?" I looked up to find Sleeping Beauty, aka Jacquelin Kelly, smiling at me.
I yawned. "Almost. You had to do this last year?" She nodded. "I postponed for months and months. But to avoid jury duty you have to be dead, and if so you have to bring your death certificate." Whit's really good at Photoshop... I mean, maybe...
As I pondered my pseudo death, I heard someone softly say my name. Maybe they were looking for whats-her-name, Jamie Galvin? "Jamie!" I turned to see Jordan Ballard, a friend and former colleague from my stressful days at International Creative Management. Well, ain't that a small world? I hadn't seen him for a year! Anyway.
The bailiff calls Dept. 124 into the courtroom, about 50 people in all. All were excused for a half-hour but those who thought jury duty would cause financial hardship. Jacquelin came by my side a few minutes later and told me that she tried to get out of it by mentioning a previous surgery accompanied with a doctor's note. Didn't work. Poor Jackie.
We head back into the courtroom, and after the longest introductory speech ever - including that the judge herself had gotten a jury notice, that it happens to the best of us, that the court was not asking us to join the Peace Core or go into battle, but merely to look at the facts, at evidence - 12 jurors were called to their place. The reason for 50 potential jurors is that at least 20 can be excused from the courtroom for one reason or another; the Court was just playing it safe. The case involved a man who had 22 counts of treating children the way they shouldn't be treated. Out of the first six jurors, one had been molested as a child, another was a fourth grade teacher and thus a protector of children... and the last guy, wow: He worked for EDD until 2002, when he left due to physical and mental reasons, as he puts it. He immediately told the judge that he couldn't be on the panel, since there were child cases that upset him on the job. She asked, rhetorically, if he made objective choices for EDD to decide whether or not someone was eligible for unemployment, regardless of his sympathy for them. He begrudgingly said yes. She asked if he knew any police officers. Three, his nephews. She asked if he automatically would give credit to a police officer's testimony over that of any other person on the stand. He very hastily said yes, yes. She finally responded, "You really are trying to get out of this, aren't you?" Silence.
And then the judge dismissed us all at 5:00pm with the order to return at 10:30am the next day -- which is, in fact, tomorrow.
To Be Continued.
* Peanut Butter
