It is God’s honest truth that I have never wanted to serve on a jury, despite being told on numerous occasions that this would count as one of the greatest acts of citizenry. After my first experience of being questioned as a potential juror in a murder trial, there seemed nothing more frightening than handing down a guilty verdict to an assailant that kept glaring at me with his one good eye. Have these trial attorneys ever seen any Lifetime movies during “witness protection week”?
Not long after my lone brush with juror box, I began working at different law firms as both paralegal and legal secretary, jobs that pay quite well so long as one as the patience to put up with attorneys. They are not a bad lot, in all honesty, as most seem to really hate their job. Saddled with crazy law school loan and French Laundry restaurant bills, these attorneys must put up with a job that requires that they either work on some very boilerplate, repetitive cases or work for a disreputable insurance company. I worked at a law firm that represented the Republican Party, which goes against my own political affiliations. However, the people were quite friendly and tolerant, especially when I referred to one of their clients as a “…stupid Nazi…”
There are, of course, plenty of litigants to make the job amusing. There was one who sued for emotional distress after claiming that the bank’s well-known advertising jingle gave birth to a new mental disorder. There was another who sued an airline after claiming that her lost luggage resulted in ovarian cysts. In most cases, attorneys would try to avoid jury trials unless it would benefit their case to get a better settlement. In all instances, there were enough hints dropped by attorneys as to their favorite sort of prospective juror: gullible, pliable and not able to reason.
Of course when you hear such things, it makes me less inclined to ever want to serve on a jury.
Which brings me to a summons I received from Federal court over a year ago, demanding that I go from the comforts of my suburban home to downtown Los Angeles, a commute that would require that I fight my way through two hours of last minute lane changes, driving impaired BMW owners and rubber neckers clogging the 101 S. Sometimes, traffic considerations have much stronger influence over civic duty, especially when that duty comes with a paltry daily “salary”.
Nonetheless, I was told that getting out of Federal court jury duty was very difficult. No one wanted to serve, and this was a very popular topic of conversation, especially when those who scrambled to the juror excuse desk were turned away with such regularity. Long distance driving, visible mental problems and work-related issues were not valid enough reasons to be considered for dismissal from jury duty, which meant that all 200+ people in the waiting room had only one hour to find a way to get out of serving.
I was finally sent to a courtroom with one hundred other lucky people, and we were seated on very nice wood benches. As far as theatrics go, the judges bench, attorney tables and jury box was spot on mise en scene from “12 Angry Men” and courtroom drama television shows. Of course, this was no backroom county courtroom. The room was old and elegant, painted a bright color and quite a contrast from the drab hallway that looked like an old California high school.
This particular Federal trial involved a drug purchase that went unpaid, along with the subsequent kidnapping, all featuring a very well-known Los Angeles trial attorney who once used a famous set of gloves as trial evidence. In real life, he seemed to be a friendly and very patient presence, especially after 73% of the jurors claimed to have had family members who had been kidnapped after buying drugs. I am sure that this trial attorney was just as shocked as I was to find that this sort of crime was near epidemic in Los Angeles. While I would have loved for there to have been some sort of extra juror interrogation into each individual instance, especially if there were a wrath of God-like penalty exacted upon each fibber, there was just not enough time between lunch and court closing to sort out the particulars.
After the dismissal of the 73% and their mad dash to leave the room, there were only 27% of us left to fend for ourselves. The only other Asian woman in the room had crafted such a wonderful argument to explain her belief that all lawyers were criminals that she was summarily dismissed as soon as the defense attorney could open his mouth. A Korean man, who had spent his entire time in the courtroom reading from the Bible, promptly told the courtroom that he would not hesitate to vote for the death penalty in this case. With no murder involved, of course, this sort of judgment would seem especially harsh. Or at least the defense attorneys thought so, because that juror was gone within seconds.
The rest of the potential jurors succumbed to being selected or thrown off, and it all seemed contingent upon their Fox News viewership. Those who watched it were dismissed, while those who chose to view shows such as “Top Chef” or “Survivor” were allowed to remain as jurors. The only person in the room who seemed to want to serve, a plaintiff’s attorney, happily took his place as the eleventh juror.
Which meant that at 4:30pm, there was only one juror left to select.
One person left in the room.
Me.
Sitting in this room for over five hours, I had more than enough time to weigh my options. I thought of the traffic hassles and the possible train ride, the rising at 4:00 am or so for a long Metro ride from Ventura County to LA and the scenario that would have me staring at eleven other humans who, in lieu of listening to the facts of the case, were too busy doodling or playing hangman or thinking of Justin Bieber. On the positive side, the court was close to Little Tokyo, and I could eat Japanese food everyday until the end of the trial.
There was, of course, this other part of me that was listening to the merits of this case and coming up with my own conclusions. My own pride outweighed my selfish need to get out duty because of inconvenience, and I began to ponder the merits of this case. Something did not seem right, as least to my own sense of justice as a former paralegal for a collection law firm.
We, as potential jurors, were presented with the facts of this criminal case. The plaintiff had purchased drugs and failed to pay, triggering a kidnapping by the defendants to a rather unsavory part of California. With the plaintiff exhibited a long history of reluctance in giving up his drug habit, especially while under court protection, we were, in essence, asked to protect and maintain his rights to punish his kidnappers so that he could go out and, once again, become a menace to society. Perhaps there would be another kidnapping. More than likely, however, he might die or, at the very least, allow his family members a reason to get out of future Federal jury trials.
There was something more disturbing to me, however. With California and Arizona becoming embroiled in such terrifying, murderous drug wars, why was the Federal court spending so much time and energy concentrating on a case that involved less than $4k in drugs? That amount of money is easily a small claims or lower civil court case. This was small potatoes in a courtroom where my tax dollars was paying for at least four different attorneys and an entire sophisticated legal team. With the amount of lawyers, paralegals and jurors involved, I would at least demand the prosecution of the true criminals that were growing, dealing and transporting these drugs. Instead, I was dealing with the Bazooka bubble gum of drug trials. If this were a baseball card, it would be John Tamargo in a sea of Buster Posey rookie cards.
I was still able to form my own objections to this case, however, ready to argue my own points as I was summoned to the jury box where the famous trial attorney began his questioning.
What shows did I watch? RuPaul’s Drag Race and Honey Boo Boo. Yes, I was the only juror to be honest enough to give those shows out as an answer.
Asked how I felt about serving, I gave Mr. Attorney my case summary, which went something like this:
“This is not a criminal case. The way I see it, this is a simple collection case. Plaintiff, who should be the defendant, obtains goods for which he refuses to pay. Defendant, who should be the Plaintiff if this were a civil trial, used means that are only one or two steps below what your standard collection agency would employ.”
I began to hear lots of laughter coming from the jury box, while the famous trial attorney covered his mouth, trying so hard not to burst out laughing. While I was quite aware that as the last available juror, my dismissal would mean that another 100+ jurors would be called for a new round of selections tomorrow, I stood my ground when the angry, impatient judge stared at me, once again reiterating if I could serve on the jury. My answer was simple: “Only if you convert this to a civil collection trial.”
I was summarily dismissed. Done. The exited the room and walked through the dark corridors until I came upon outside downtown LA, where the traffic was beginning to bubble and ferment as if each car were stuck in tar.
While I felt free enough to resume my silly life as planned, there was a feeling of rejection that comes whenever one is omitted from participating in anything, especially since I was always picked last for flag football. No matter how unpleasant the task was, is there always not some joy in being included? Of course, my mind reeled back to a lunch time brown bag meeting at the old San Francisco law firm, where one attorney alluded to the fact that he would look for gullible jurors to serve on his trials. One particular legal secretary, a woman who constantly bought size 8 bikinis for a body that was clearly stretched past size 14, raised her hand and began bragging of how she was always selected as a juror. She spent five minutes discussing her own merits while the poor attorney, clearly embarrassed for her, sat down and began munching on a pizza.
Maybe not getting selected was the right choice after all.
(c)2014 Slow Suburban Death. All rights reserved
““This is not a criminal case. The way I see it, this is a simple collection case. Plaintiff, who should be the defendant, obtains goods for which he refuses to pay. Defendant, who should be the Plaintiff if this were a civil trial, used means that are only one or two steps below what your standard collection agency would employ.”
Beautiful (actually brilliant and comical) summary of the case-that-never-should-have-been.