I flew in to Chicago on Friday, 3/12, and went straight to the hospital to visit Grandpa. He had a feeding tube and a breathing tube, but for some reason the biggest shocker was that he had four days-worth of stubble. Grandpa shaved every day of his life - he would've been pissed! The entire Petitto family was there: Uncle Joe & his wife Anne, who drove in from Arkansas; Aunt Patty and her kids Corey, Michael & his wife Grant, Gina & her daughter Angelina; Dad, Mom & my brother Bob; Me. Small family, especially for Italians. Grandpa always used to chuckle and say he wanted to have two more kids so that two more kids could take care of him when he was older. Something to think about, I'm sure.
Once the family was ready and waiting, the hospital staff removed both tubes and allowed us back into the room. Bob and Michael said a prayer as we all held hands. I don't think of all of us were in the same room together since my brother Bob & Michelle's wedding in June 25, 2005. Well, I guess all of us were together minus Aunt Anne in February of 2008, when Uncle Mike (Patty's husband) unexpectedly passed from a heart attack.
I guess we were all expecting some type of cinematic experience to occur. Like that he would start sputtering and the machines would all go off and the hospital staff would run in and yell things until the very end. But he just kept breathing, just as he did with the tube. Vitals were just fine. As time went on, family filtered out to eat dinner or to put the kids to sleep, and eventually I was the only one left in the hospital room with him. At 11:00pm the staff moved Grandpa out of the ICU and into a regular room in the center of the hospital, since he was staying so consistent. Every now and then his arms would raise up, or he'd open his eyes (without any recognition) if you spoke loudly to him. For the most part, however, he just breathed real deep and moved his head from side to side on the pillow. I couldn't bare to leave, simply because it was dark and cool in the hospital and because you always hear the stories of those who "passed away in the night." So I stayed until about 2am, when sleep was getting the better of me.
The next day, Saturday, Mom and I went back to visit. He was breathing exactly the same, only this time he was shaved! A very nice nurse had done the task, and he looked back to normal. Kind of. As Grandpa had said to a nurse only a few days earlier, shaving "takes 10 years off" of him. At 94, he was still always the jokester.
Sunday the same. Now we were all wondering if he was just playing us. Just trying to get some well-needed sleep and would be ready to go home soon. I turned to a nurse and said, "Well, he has no feeding tube, though. I mean, it's not like you're going to starve him, right?" She hesitated and responded, "Well, actually, yes that's what it would be." Um, bwah? He was getting medication for pain on top of the regular IV fluid. Other than that, nothing. His heart was at 30% and his kidneys at 6%, but he was breathing fine, his brain activity was fine... it was just tough to think about. Uncle Joe and Anne left to go back to Arkansas, and I never ran into Aunt Patty's kids again - maybe they had already made their peace. I only saw Aunt Patty and my dad, who at one point grabbed Grandpa's arm and said "Keep fighting, Soldier." I guess we all have our coping methods.
On Monday, Mom and I visited Grandpa at 3:00pm. He looked exactly the same. "Ellen" was on television, and Michael Bublé was the guest singer. I put the portable speaker up to Grandpa's ear (they say that hearing is "last to go") and held his hand, moving to the music. At 4:00pm, right before we left, I told him I loved him very much. I also told him that he could rest now, it was time. Gave him a kiss on the forehead and then Mom and I headed out to see Grandma, who was now over at a rehabilitation center for her stroke.
At 6:30pm, Dad called. Grandpa had passed. On March 15, 2010. It was also Dad's birthday.
We had the funeral this past Thursday, 3/18. We brought Grandma from rehabilitation and the whole family, minus Joe & Anne, were once again together.
A couple of years ago, I had given Grandpa a tape recorder. I had thought to perhaps make a movie or write a book about him and his fantastic stories, which he'd tell every time I'd visit. He had filled up the recorder within the first week, and with my being in California, the tape recorder was never cleared for him to begin again. However, I was able to take the audio off the recorder and make a "Grandpa CD," a good hour of all of his endearing tales, from being born to meeting Grandma to having kids, etc. We played it as our funeral service, along with some words from a Catholic priest to follow up. (Side note, but still should be mentioned: Grandpa was born in 1916, so he did still possess traces of a racist mindset. The priest was Indian, and while there were plenty other things to think about in the moment, I couldn't help but wonder if he would've been more upset that such a priest was presiding over his funeral than not being shaved for four days in the hospital. Just saying.) I'm going to miss him like crazy.
Thank you to all who prayed on his behalf. Now please keep Grandma in your prayers, who must not only deal with the loss of her husband of 70 years, but who is continually recovering from multiple strokes, former breast, cervical and thyroid cancer, and a broken hip.
IN MEMORY
Joseph Frank Petitto
1/23/1916 - 3/15/2010
"Nothing is more important than family." - JFP
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
Grandma & Grandpa
My mom called me this afternoon to say the lady who comes daily at 8am to take care of Grandma & Grandpa rang the doorbell and no one answered. She called Dad. He went over to see Grandpa lying on the floor and called the paramedics.
Grandpa may have had a mild heart attack, and his face looked like he had been beaten up. He's on oxygen since he's having trouble breathing and might have had a touch of flu in the past couple of days. They even said he had a small amount of pneumonia. But apparently he's lucid and joking just like always.
Dad and Aunt Patty had decided to take Grandma to the hospital as well just to keep her in the hospital to make things easier. She's been out of it for at least half a decade and they've had to take turns every night changing her and helping her use "the potty" before tucking her in. Once she woke up screaming at Grandpa, only to say she couldn't find her hands.
"They're right here, under the blankets," he had told her.
"Oh," she replied.
To get her into the ambulance with Grandpa, they told the paramedics they thought she might have had a mild stroke. They found out at the hospital that she did have a mild stroke. So there we go.
Mom said the doctors were asking Grandma questions like you'd see in the movies.
"What day is it?" they asked.
"I don't know."
"What year is it?" they asked.
"This year!" she replied, which Mom thought was actually pretty cute. Clever Grandma.
The doctor pointed at Aunt Patty. "Who is she?"
"Antoinette!"
Later on, however, when Mom and Aunt Patty were leaving to go from Grandma's room to Grandpa's room, Grandma said, "Patty Lou, come here!" So maybe she's kinda back to a version of normalcy.
Oh, may I also mention that Grandpa is 94 and Grandma is 91. And they've been together for over 70 years. My prayers are with them right now - I hope yours might be today, too.
Grandpa may have had a mild heart attack, and his face looked like he had been beaten up. He's on oxygen since he's having trouble breathing and might have had a touch of flu in the past couple of days. They even said he had a small amount of pneumonia. But apparently he's lucid and joking just like always.
Dad and Aunt Patty had decided to take Grandma to the hospital as well just to keep her in the hospital to make things easier. She's been out of it for at least half a decade and they've had to take turns every night changing her and helping her use "the potty" before tucking her in. Once she woke up screaming at Grandpa, only to say she couldn't find her hands.
"They're right here, under the blankets," he had told her.
"Oh," she replied.
To get her into the ambulance with Grandpa, they told the paramedics they thought she might have had a mild stroke. They found out at the hospital that she did have a mild stroke. So there we go.
Mom said the doctors were asking Grandma questions like you'd see in the movies.
"What day is it?" they asked.
"I don't know."
"What year is it?" they asked.
"This year!" she replied, which Mom thought was actually pretty cute. Clever Grandma.
The doctor pointed at Aunt Patty. "Who is she?"
"Antoinette!"
Later on, however, when Mom and Aunt Patty were leaving to go from Grandma's room to Grandpa's room, Grandma said, "Patty Lou, come here!" So maybe she's kinda back to a version of normalcy.
Oh, may I also mention that Grandpa is 94 and Grandma is 91. And they've been together for over 70 years. My prayers are with them right now - I hope yours might be today, too.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Jury Duty, Moment 3
Everyone sat in the courtroom, very tired and very much so hoping they still wouldn't be called into a juror's seat. The first excused was Mr. Incomprehensible. His replacement worked as an optometrist for the last six months after working on a Sundance Film for the past 8 years. She was normal; the People accepted.
Defense excused Juror 11, the museum guy. Replacement worked as an analyst for the Department of Medicine at USC. Normal Sunday school teacher type. Poor girl.
Defense excused Juror 3, the squeamish mother. Replacement was a development associate for fundraising who lives in Pasadena. The People accepted. The Defense accepted.
Huzzuh! The panel of jurors raised their hands. "Do you so agree?" Yes, yes they did. Now on to the alternates...
6643. 3866. I could hear Chatty Kathy tell her friend, "You let out that sigh of relief too soon," as she walked up to the alternate chair. 6643 was attacked at age 20, 18 years ago, and she lost 8 months of memory after the incident. Also, her stepson was in jail in Florida.
"Is he young?" asked the Judge.
"Yes. Well. 40," she replied.
"That's young," said the Judge with a smile, clearly over that age limit. I liked her.
6643, with tears in her eyes, then asked for a sidebar as the Judge continued to ask her questions about the attack.
3866 worked at Warner Brothers, reassessing financial risks within the company. I would not like to have her job. Poor girl.
The Defense excused 6643 (surprise) and she is replaced by 7586, a single marketing manager whose car was stolen ten years ago in Chicago and that's about it. Normal girl. The portly Defense asked her a question or two, peering at her with his little eyes behind his big glasses. No more questions. The People accepted. The Defense accepted.
It is finished.
Let's recap, shall we?
I don't know about you, but I'd never heard so many depressing situations in one room in my life. I remember my elementary math school teacher telling the class that 1 out of every 13 people shared the same birthday, so at least one couple in the class might raise their hands at the same time when she picked a date. I didn't realize that 1 out of every 2 people in Los Angeles County had been a victim of an absolutely horrendous crime. How sickening.
We were dismissed (for good) at 1:00pm, and I began walking to clear my head. I passed a homeless man sitting cross-legged on the street, who asked me for money. I passed a crazy man on a bicycle who was flailing his arms and legs so much that he almost combo-punch-kicked me in the face. I passed a frail old lady who stood motionless near sidewalk construction, not really looking at anyone or anything.
And, at the end of my walk, I passed a building that boasted on its front door sign:
Defense excused Juror 11, the museum guy. Replacement worked as an analyst for the Department of Medicine at USC. Normal Sunday school teacher type. Poor girl.
Defense excused Juror 3, the squeamish mother. Replacement was a development associate for fundraising who lives in Pasadena. The People accepted. The Defense accepted.
Huzzuh! The panel of jurors raised their hands. "Do you so agree?" Yes, yes they did. Now on to the alternates...
6643. 3866. I could hear Chatty Kathy tell her friend, "You let out that sigh of relief too soon," as she walked up to the alternate chair. 6643 was attacked at age 20, 18 years ago, and she lost 8 months of memory after the incident. Also, her stepson was in jail in Florida.
"Is he young?" asked the Judge.
"Yes. Well. 40," she replied.
"That's young," said the Judge with a smile, clearly over that age limit. I liked her.
6643, with tears in her eyes, then asked for a sidebar as the Judge continued to ask her questions about the attack.
3866 worked at Warner Brothers, reassessing financial risks within the company. I would not like to have her job. Poor girl.
The Defense excused 6643 (surprise) and she is replaced by 7586, a single marketing manager whose car was stolen ten years ago in Chicago and that's about it. Normal girl. The portly Defense asked her a question or two, peering at her with his little eyes behind his big glasses. No more questions. The People accepted. The Defense accepted.
It is finished.
Let's recap, shall we?
- Juror 4: Molested as a child
- Juror 7: In-law's kids in trouble with the law - one deported back to Armenia
- Juror 8: Girlfriend raped; Cousin convicted of murder
- Juror 10: Arrested for assault; Friend's baby boy beaten by the father, lacerating its liver
- Juror 11: Friends killed and raped by stranger
- Juror 12: High school girlfriend molested
- New Juror 1: Wife molested; Brother arrested; Sister arrested
- New Juror 5: Molested as a child
- Alternate 1: Attacked and raped
- CRIMINAL: Claimed to have consensual sex with an 18-year-old stepdaughter while married to her mother
I don't know about you, but I'd never heard so many depressing situations in one room in my life. I remember my elementary math school teacher telling the class that 1 out of every 13 people shared the same birthday, so at least one couple in the class might raise their hands at the same time when she picked a date. I didn't realize that 1 out of every 2 people in Los Angeles County had been a victim of an absolutely horrendous crime. How sickening.
We were dismissed (for good) at 1:00pm, and I began walking to clear my head. I passed a homeless man sitting cross-legged on the street, who asked me for money. I passed a crazy man on a bicycle who was flailing his arms and legs so much that he almost combo-punch-kicked me in the face. I passed a frail old lady who stood motionless near sidewalk construction, not really looking at anyone or anything.
And, at the end of my walk, I passed a building that boasted on its front door sign:
WEDDINGS. BRIDAL GOWNS. JEWELRY. IMMIGRATION.
INCOME TAX. DIVORCES. OTHER SERVICES.
INCOME TAX. DIVORCES. OTHER SERVICES.
We sure have it all out here in Los Angeles. Just not sure what-all it is, or if I want any of it.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Love You Bunches
I take classes at a place called Act Now!, which invites casting directors to teach exactly what it is they look for and expect during an audition. I took a class with commercial director Chris Game, whose body of work has included commercials for Swiffer and Shell. When waiting in the hallway a couple of weeks later for another class, Chris came up to me.
"I was going to call you," he said. Really? "I want you to audition for this film I'm casting, called DONNER'S PASS. It's for the lead." ... Deal!
I had already planned a trip that weekend to San Fransisco with my college soccer teammate Jen and her roommate Gwen, both of whom now live in San Diego. This means that I first read the script on my iPhone, sitting up in a sleeping bag between beds in the girls' hotel room. I returned to LA on Sunday, only to be just as distracted on Monday by the excitement of seeing my wonderful mother, who was invited by friends to visit San Clemente and took a day away to come and visit me. We all saw Bonnie Hunt, who gives you a free hot dog and root beer just for showing up! Anyway, I digress. Tuesday, the day before the audition, Whit and I drove out to San Clemente to see Mom's view of California. Poor Whit - I made him run through lines with me the entire drive there and back (which worked out well, since the longest of the three scenes I had to memorize included the girl behind the wheel). My only goal, being the first feature film I had auditioned for, was to get a callback.
And I got a callback.
The callback consisted of only one other girl and myself switching in and out of the audition room while several others auditioned for the remaining roles. In a week I found out that the other girl, Desiree (pronounced Des-uh-ree, not ray) won the role. Shucks.
Today I received a call from Chris Game - firstly, because he is currently acting in a play called Love Bites at the Elephant Stage Theatre (I happily bought tickets to see him perform this Sunday); secondly, because he wanted to tell me that he was very impressed with my overall audition for DONNER'S PASS. He said that Desiree had been under that director for the past five years, and that a large group of girls had auditioned for the role. To have been selected in the Top 2 was really saying something. Obviously, I emailed this news to Mom. And her response is really the only reason for this entire blog.
"YEAH! Good for you! That's a big deal that he'll keep you in mind for future stuff!
It was really nice of him to call and tell you that, huh? If the other girl really has been training for 5 years, I guess it's about time she got a role in a film.....
YOU SHOULD BE VERY PROUD OF YOURSELF! Give yourself a BIG hug. And then another BIGGER one for me.
Love you bunches!!!!!"
Now, wouldn't every daughter be so lucky to receive such a vibrant and caring letter from their mother? I couldn't be luckier. And, for the record, I love her bunches, too.
"I was going to call you," he said. Really? "I want you to audition for this film I'm casting, called DONNER'S PASS. It's for the lead." ... Deal!
I had already planned a trip that weekend to San Fransisco with my college soccer teammate Jen and her roommate Gwen, both of whom now live in San Diego. This means that I first read the script on my iPhone, sitting up in a sleeping bag between beds in the girls' hotel room. I returned to LA on Sunday, only to be just as distracted on Monday by the excitement of seeing my wonderful mother, who was invited by friends to visit San Clemente and took a day away to come and visit me. We all saw Bonnie Hunt, who gives you a free hot dog and root beer just for showing up! Anyway, I digress. Tuesday, the day before the audition, Whit and I drove out to San Clemente to see Mom's view of California. Poor Whit - I made him run through lines with me the entire drive there and back (which worked out well, since the longest of the three scenes I had to memorize included the girl behind the wheel). My only goal, being the first feature film I had auditioned for, was to get a callback.
And I got a callback.
The callback consisted of only one other girl and myself switching in and out of the audition room while several others auditioned for the remaining roles. In a week I found out that the other girl, Desiree (pronounced Des-uh-ree, not ray) won the role. Shucks.
Today I received a call from Chris Game - firstly, because he is currently acting in a play called Love Bites at the Elephant Stage Theatre (I happily bought tickets to see him perform this Sunday); secondly, because he wanted to tell me that he was very impressed with my overall audition for DONNER'S PASS. He said that Desiree had been under that director for the past five years, and that a large group of girls had auditioned for the role. To have been selected in the Top 2 was really saying something. Obviously, I emailed this news to Mom. And her response is really the only reason for this entire blog.
"YEAH! Good for you! That's a big deal that he'll keep you in mind for future stuff!
It was really nice of him to call and tell you that, huh? If the other girl really has been training for 5 years, I guess it's about time she got a role in a film.....
Love you bunches!!!!!"
Now, wouldn't every daughter be so lucky to receive such a vibrant and caring letter from their mother? I couldn't be luckier. And, for the record, I love her bunches, too.
Miss California USA
I am a member of two internet sites that post casting calls for actors. Every day I receive an email looking for my type: Caucasian, early 20s, girl-next-door type, etc. I submit to most posts without giving too much notice as to what I'm submitting for, since they all pay. In January I got a call from Raquel Beezley, a representative of K2 Productions, who was in charge of the Miss California USA 2011 Pageant. Apparently I had submitted to the pageant sometime back on one of the websites, and apparently they wanted me to come in for an interview.
What the hell, I figured. My roommate, Kramer, as well as Whit were baffled.
You really want to do this? / No offense, but you're not exactly the type.
Oh, but I can pretend to be that type, I told them, smiling. This should be good.
The interview took place in - surprise, surprise - Beverly Hills in Suite 1012 in a building that - what a shocker - performed plastic surgery. I spoke with a man in his forties whose Blackberry constantly buzzed and who immediately decided I would not be a good candidate until we started talking. He'd very slowly and clearly make a reference to the contest and the rules that we'd have to follow, and I very quickly and sarcastically made a reference to the types of girls that he must meet every day in order to be speaking to me at such a lethargic pace. He laughed, and I pretty much owned the room for the remaining time we had together. He said I'd have to work on my arms and legs, but that the rest of me was fine. Golly, he sure knew how to get a lady. As I stood up, he did a double-take and told me that actually, I didn't have to work on the legs. BAM. Damn right I don't. I left the room knowing that he probably was checking out my butt as I went. Ugh, what an experience.
A week later I got an email that boasted at the top:
During the interview I got to choose two cities (one major, one not-so-much) within Los Angeles as well as an LA landmark that I would represent. The email congratulated me on becoming Miss Hidden Hills, representing LA Live. Why? Because I work at ESPN Zone LA Live and because I randomly Google Mapped a cool LA city name, and that's what popped up. The only next thing I had to do was find sponsorship, fill out a bunch of forms -- and, oh, pay $1500 for entry costs. Um, jigga-what? Very soon I made the decision to not be Miss Hidden Hills. So sad to see you go, they replied.
A couple weeks later I got an email that boasted the headline:
This is just as funny to me as it is ridiculous for a number of reasons:
1) No one could understand why Miss Beverly Hills was able to claim such a title when, in fact, she was from Pasadena. (As I mentioned, every girl could choose any random city they want to represent, and if it's taken, she could choose another - like picking a username for your Bank of America account.) This selection process has been going on for a while, now... No one noticed?
2) I think the mayor might have forgotten that Americans have the freedom of religion and the freedom of speech. Oh, and
3) A decade ago, Miss Beverly Hills would be disowned for saying that she did think gay marriage was okay, not the opposite.
What can I say? People are nuts! Or, at least, LA people are nuts. I can't believe I willingly moved from Normalsville, Illinois, to this crazy town. (ASIDE: Here is where I was going to write "Planters" and link the word to a website with the phrase "Relax. Go nuts," their catch phrase, as a clever finish to this blog. Instead, I could only find the following Planters catch phrases:
"Instinctively good."
"There's a whole lotta snack goin' on."
Ummmm???
Sigh. So it goes.)
What the hell, I figured. My roommate, Kramer, as well as Whit were baffled.
You really want to do this? / No offense, but you're not exactly the type.
Oh, but I can pretend to be that type, I told them, smiling. This should be good.
The interview took place in - surprise, surprise - Beverly Hills in Suite 1012 in a building that - what a shocker - performed plastic surgery. I spoke with a man in his forties whose Blackberry constantly buzzed and who immediately decided I would not be a good candidate until we started talking. He'd very slowly and clearly make a reference to the contest and the rules that we'd have to follow, and I very quickly and sarcastically made a reference to the types of girls that he must meet every day in order to be speaking to me at such a lethargic pace. He laughed, and I pretty much owned the room for the remaining time we had together. He said I'd have to work on my arms and legs, but that the rest of me was fine. Golly, he sure knew how to get a lady. As I stood up, he did a double-take and told me that actually, I didn't have to work on the legs. BAM. Damn right I don't. I left the room knowing that he probably was checking out my butt as I went. Ugh, what an experience.
A week later I got an email that boasted at the top:
Congratulations Jamie on being accepted as a contestant for the
MISS CALIFORNIA USA® 2011 Pageant!
Oh, no.During the interview I got to choose two cities (one major, one not-so-much) within Los Angeles as well as an LA landmark that I would represent. The email congratulated me on becoming Miss Hidden Hills, representing LA Live. Why? Because I work at ESPN Zone LA Live and because I randomly Google Mapped a cool LA city name, and that's what popped up. The only next thing I had to do was find sponsorship, fill out a bunch of forms -- and, oh, pay $1500 for entry costs. Um, jigga-what? Very soon I made the decision to not be Miss Hidden Hills. So sad to see you go, they replied.
A couple weeks later I got an email that boasted the headline:
Discount of $1,250.00 for returning contestants ends this Friday.
Save money for other expenses!
Save money for other expenses!
Nope, I'm good.
Flash forward to today. My mom emails me this link.
Well, as Whit told me, didn't I get out just in the nick of time.
Flash forward to today. My mom emails me this link.
Well, as Whit told me, didn't I get out just in the nick of time.
This is just as funny to me as it is ridiculous for a number of reasons:
1) No one could understand why Miss Beverly Hills was able to claim such a title when, in fact, she was from Pasadena. (As I mentioned, every girl could choose any random city they want to represent, and if it's taken, she could choose another - like picking a username for your Bank of America account.) This selection process has been going on for a while, now... No one noticed?
2) I think the mayor might have forgotten that Americans have the freedom of religion and the freedom of speech. Oh, and
3) A decade ago, Miss Beverly Hills would be disowned for saying that she did think gay marriage was okay, not the opposite.
What can I say? People are nuts! Or, at least, LA people are nuts. I can't believe I willingly moved from Normalsville, Illinois, to this crazy town. (ASIDE: Here is where I was going to write "Planters" and link the word to a website with the phrase "Relax. Go nuts," their catch phrase, as a clever finish to this blog. Instead, I could only find the following Planters catch phrases:
"Instinctively good."
"There's a whole lotta snack goin' on."
Ummmm???
Sigh. So it goes.)
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Going GREEK
After a friend from junior high wrote on my Facebook wall "Jamie!! holy crap! did i really just see you on today's episode of greek!??!" I figured I should check out this week's episode. I had worked on the set of GREEK five times from August through December of 2009, so I had completely forgotten when each episode aired! Lo and behold, I found... well... me. In several places! The episode begins in a classroom (see Picture 1), leads its way into a Valentine's Day Dance (Picture 2) and ends in the dorm hallway (Picture 3, in my jamie jammies!). Qué bueno.
Jury Duty, Moment 2
On Tuesday, 2/23 Whit dropped me off at the CJC and I made my way to Dept. 124 on the 13th floor at 10:30am. Both the security line and elevator ride weren't nearly as tedious as the time before, thank goodness. I read BORN TO RUN until the bailiff summoned us at 11:00am. Before Judge Champagne interviewed the final six selected jurors, she reported that we had an additional juror in the room by mistake. She took roll call and asked the remaining juror to raise his or her hand. A hand went up at the back of the room.
"Weren't you excused yesterday?" she asked.
"Well, yeah, but I wasn't sure."
"Please report back to the 11th floor, where you had first reported, to get your paperwork." He left to do so as she shook her head. Crazy.
The seventh juror didn't seem to have too many problems, except that his sister-in-law's kids were in trouble with the law and one had been deported back to Armenia.
"How do you know the sister-in-law?" the judge asked. "She's married to--"
"An alcoholic," he replied. The audience could not contain its laughter. "My wife's sister," he corrected. Crazy.
The eighth juror seemed normal enough as well: single, dating a girl who worked at Walgreen's, had a 16-month-old with her, worked baggage at LAX.
"Have you known anyone to be a victim of a crime," the judge asked, "or to be convicted of one?"
"My girlfriend was raped when she was eight years old," he replied, "and my cousin was convicted of murder." Crazy.
The ninth juror was a normal girl like me, who probably found being there a large inconvenience and had no choice but to stick it out as quietly and quickly as she could. Poor girl.
The tenth juror's friend's baby boy was beaten by the father, lacerating the baby's liver before he fled. Oh, and the juror himself was arrested for assault and tried in court. Apparently he was jumped in high school by a gang, got the better of one of the guys and beat him so badly that if the Sheriff hadn't showed up when he did, the juror would've probably killed him. Since becoming a public bus driver for the past 10 years, his only problem with the law was getting pulled over by a cop for speeding. Apparently the cop pulled behind the juror, who was riding his motorcycle at a legal speed, and pulled up so close while putting on his high beams that the juror sped up for his own safety. The cop pulled him over. When the cop even grabbed his taser during one point in their conversation, the juror decided to fight the ticket - after all, it would affect his job as a public driver.
During this point of the interview, a woman's cell phone went off, ringer and all. We waited through the moment when she could quickly silence the ringer and hide the phone in a purse for the vibrating voicemail, but instead a voice resonated through the phone's speaker and throughout the whole courtroom: "Giiiirrrrrl, answer yo' phooooooneee!!!" The judge turned to see a flash of pink running out of the courtroom, still in a panic to end the call as she shook her head. Not so much crazy, but my gosh.
The eleventh juror had friends six years prior that were picked up by a stranger. The stranger killed one, raped the other?, and was sentenced to prison. As far as the juror knew, even though he admitted he really wasn't sure, the stranger was out on parole, somewhere. Oh, and the juror's uncle molested a child and has been in prison since the juror was an infant. Crazy.
"Every year I've been called," the twelfth juror began, before continuing a little less audibly, "Every single year..." The majority of the audience heard and responded with a chuckle. Except me; I laughed a bit more audibly than perhaps I should have. What can I say? It was a funny comment. He was a husband and a helicopter pilot, transporting children to hospitals within the LA area. Oh, and his girlfriend in high school was molested in her youth. (Oh come on!)
At noon we were all dismissed. "Except," said the Judge, "Can the lady in pink please stay for a moment?" Oh, yeah, the cell phone interruption. I looked over to see Sleeping Beauty seat herself in the front pew. Ha! Crazy.
After the lunch break, the kindergarten teacher as well as the very persistently annoying, pessimistic juror were released. The kindergarten teacher was replaced by a juror whose wife was molested by a former employee. His brother was arrested for shoplifting and his sister was arrested for something else. The annoying guy's replacement was an Armenian man who spoke such little English that even the stenographer and translator had to ask him to repeat himself numerous times.
During this time, I had to deal with whom I'd like to call "Chatty Kathy." She sat right behind me in the pew and would make a comment on everything each juror said, hoping that she wouldn't be sitting up there next. "Stop saying because," she'd say, "just yes or no." Another juror was excused (I have no idea why) and a new juror took his place ("Phew," Chatty said, slouching back in the pew). He was an outreach educator for a museum (oh, good. excellent) and had two tickets (uh-oh) but overall didn't mind the court process (thank goodness) but minded the jury process (why would you say that?!) and his girlfriend was raped three years ago (well, looks like he's gone).
Juror 4 is excused - the man who had been raped in his childhood. A "nice Jewish boy," as Chatty put it, sat in his place. Out next was Juror 5, the incomprehensible Armenian man. His replacement was molested as a child at age 6 and had been through 8 years of "heavy duty" therapy. And she had two cops demand to enter her apartment on claims of violent crime when it was just her and her two cats. When they demanded to use her phone, she figured she wasn't a fan of the LAPD. Needless to say, she was excused immediately. New girl is a medical assistant, much like the normal Juror 3. Poor girl.
To Chatty's dismay, the nice Jewish boy was excused. His replacement couldn't be understood by anyone. He's a letter carrier for the USPS, and had no idea what his daughter did. Had he ever been in a courtroom? No, he said. Well, yes, he said: he was in court once before on ground of divorce because they claimed he did domestic violence. He said it was untrue. Had he ever been in a court room otherwise? No, he said. Well, yes, he said: for child support.
Even though it was only 4:00pm, the Judge sighed and decided to call it quits. Dismissed again, come back tomorrow.
Damn. At least I got $15 for it.
"Weren't you excused yesterday?" she asked.
"Well, yeah, but I wasn't sure."
"Please report back to the 11th floor, where you had first reported, to get your paperwork." He left to do so as she shook her head. Crazy.
The seventh juror didn't seem to have too many problems, except that his sister-in-law's kids were in trouble with the law and one had been deported back to Armenia.
"How do you know the sister-in-law?" the judge asked. "She's married to--"
"An alcoholic," he replied. The audience could not contain its laughter. "My wife's sister," he corrected. Crazy.
The eighth juror seemed normal enough as well: single, dating a girl who worked at Walgreen's, had a 16-month-old with her, worked baggage at LAX.
"Have you known anyone to be a victim of a crime," the judge asked, "or to be convicted of one?"
"My girlfriend was raped when she was eight years old," he replied, "and my cousin was convicted of murder." Crazy.
The ninth juror was a normal girl like me, who probably found being there a large inconvenience and had no choice but to stick it out as quietly and quickly as she could. Poor girl.
The tenth juror's friend's baby boy was beaten by the father, lacerating the baby's liver before he fled. Oh, and the juror himself was arrested for assault and tried in court. Apparently he was jumped in high school by a gang, got the better of one of the guys and beat him so badly that if the Sheriff hadn't showed up when he did, the juror would've probably killed him. Since becoming a public bus driver for the past 10 years, his only problem with the law was getting pulled over by a cop for speeding. Apparently the cop pulled behind the juror, who was riding his motorcycle at a legal speed, and pulled up so close while putting on his high beams that the juror sped up for his own safety. The cop pulled him over. When the cop even grabbed his taser during one point in their conversation, the juror decided to fight the ticket - after all, it would affect his job as a public driver.
During this point of the interview, a woman's cell phone went off, ringer and all. We waited through the moment when she could quickly silence the ringer and hide the phone in a purse for the vibrating voicemail, but instead a voice resonated through the phone's speaker and throughout the whole courtroom: "Giiiirrrrrl, answer yo' phooooooneee!!!" The judge turned to see a flash of pink running out of the courtroom, still in a panic to end the call as she shook her head. Not so much crazy, but my gosh.
The eleventh juror had friends six years prior that were picked up by a stranger. The stranger killed one, raped the other?, and was sentenced to prison. As far as the juror knew, even though he admitted he really wasn't sure, the stranger was out on parole, somewhere. Oh, and the juror's uncle molested a child and has been in prison since the juror was an infant. Crazy.
"Every year I've been called," the twelfth juror began, before continuing a little less audibly, "Every single year..." The majority of the audience heard and responded with a chuckle. Except me; I laughed a bit more audibly than perhaps I should have. What can I say? It was a funny comment. He was a husband and a helicopter pilot, transporting children to hospitals within the LA area. Oh, and his girlfriend in high school was molested in her youth. (Oh come on!)
At noon we were all dismissed. "Except," said the Judge, "Can the lady in pink please stay for a moment?" Oh, yeah, the cell phone interruption. I looked over to see Sleeping Beauty seat herself in the front pew. Ha! Crazy.
After the lunch break, the kindergarten teacher as well as the very persistently annoying, pessimistic juror were released. The kindergarten teacher was replaced by a juror whose wife was molested by a former employee. His brother was arrested for shoplifting and his sister was arrested for something else. The annoying guy's replacement was an Armenian man who spoke such little English that even the stenographer and translator had to ask him to repeat himself numerous times.
During this time, I had to deal with whom I'd like to call "Chatty Kathy." She sat right behind me in the pew and would make a comment on everything each juror said, hoping that she wouldn't be sitting up there next. "Stop saying because," she'd say, "just yes or no." Another juror was excused (I have no idea why) and a new juror took his place ("Phew," Chatty said, slouching back in the pew). He was an outreach educator for a museum (oh, good. excellent) and had two tickets (uh-oh) but overall didn't mind the court process (thank goodness) but minded the jury process (why would you say that?!) and his girlfriend was raped three years ago (well, looks like he's gone).
Juror 4 is excused - the man who had been raped in his childhood. A "nice Jewish boy," as Chatty put it, sat in his place. Out next was Juror 5, the incomprehensible Armenian man. His replacement was molested as a child at age 6 and had been through 8 years of "heavy duty" therapy. And she had two cops demand to enter her apartment on claims of violent crime when it was just her and her two cats. When they demanded to use her phone, she figured she wasn't a fan of the LAPD. Needless to say, she was excused immediately. New girl is a medical assistant, much like the normal Juror 3. Poor girl.
To Chatty's dismay, the nice Jewish boy was excused. His replacement couldn't be understood by anyone. He's a letter carrier for the USPS, and had no idea what his daughter did. Had he ever been in a courtroom? No, he said. Well, yes, he said: he was in court once before on ground of divorce because they claimed he did domestic violence. He said it was untrue. Had he ever been in a court room otherwise? No, he said. Well, yes, he said: for child support.
Even though it was only 4:00pm, the Judge sighed and decided to call it quits. Dismissed again, come back tomorrow.
Damn. At least I got $15 for it.
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