Jury duty: doing time for killing time
A story about doing my civic duty (and paying the price)
Hello and welcome! I’m Michael Estrin. I write Situation Normal for people who take their humor with a side of humanity and a dash of insight. (Read to the end for a picture of my writing partner, Mortimer🐶)
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Jury duty: doing time for killing time
I had jury duty this week. My life philosophy is this: try to make the best of every situation. But that’s impossible with jury duty. In the words of one of America’s greatest lawyers, John “Hold My Second Cousin’s Beer” Adams, “jury duty is fucked six ways to Sunday.”
OK, John Adams never said that. But Adams, who won acquittals for six of the eight British soldiers accused of participating in the Boston Massacre, later credited his legal triumph to the jury system, saying, “we entrust the rights of defendants to people who are too dumb to get out of jury duty, which is a good thing, because these schmucks will believe anything.”
(Uncomfortable fact: Adams blew a major racist dogwhistle to win his case).
Naturally, I don’t think of myself as a dumb schmuck, so when I got the jury summons, I did my homework by watching the classics of jury cinema.
12 Angry Men
This one made me nervous because I don’t like arguing with angry strangers. Also, 12 Angry Men never lets us forget that these angry strangers hold another person’s life in their hands. Talk about pressure!
Runaway Jury
Now, this one was what I call a positive look at the jury system, assuming you had the foresight to rig the jury for revenge and profit. Sadly, I hadn’t done any advance work, so there weren’t any real lessons from watching Runaway Jury. That said, my verdict is that John Cusack is guilty of being fucking awesome.
Jury Duty
This one is a Pauly Shore movie, so I’m legally obligated to tell you that it’s terrible. I know everyone already knows that Pauly Shore movies, with the exception of Encino Man, suck butt, but the law is the law. Also, out of an abundance of caution, I watched this one on mute, with my eyes closed.
Reporting for my civic duty
In Los Angeles, the walls of the jury assembly room are decorated with photos of celebrities who have done jury duty. In the San Fernando courthouse, where I was summoned to report, I saw photos of Jamie Lee Curtis and Edward James Olmos. I thought about snapping pictures of those celebrity jurors, but I didn’t want to run afoul of the court’s privacy rules.
Instead, I sat in the assembly room for hours. At first, I cursed myself for obeying the summons. Then I cursed the trickster gods of Los Angeles County who plucked my name out of the file and assigned me to purgatory in Pacoima. Then I made some notes for a one-man play called Purgatory in Pacoima. Then I imagined reviews for Purgatory in Pacoima, and silently cursed the critics who called it “unambitious,” “stale claptrap,” and “fucking dreadful.” So then I looked around the room at my fellow jurors. Why was I the only one who brought a book? Didn’t people read anymore? Didn’t they know that reading is the best way to kill time?
Was it possible to actually kill time? I stared at my watch, willing a minute to die. The minute came and went, and I imagined myself on trial for killing time. Then I looked at the pictures of Jamie Lee Curtis and Edward James Olmos. I tried to imagine my celebrity jury, but the thought of Commander Adama and the star of Halloween sitting in judgment over me made me uncomfortable, so I opened up my book and dozed off.
Murder was the case that they gave
After hours of napping and marinating in my own ennui, the clerk told us to report to a courtroom upstairs. But before we left the jury assembly room, the clerk pulled me aside.
“Can you bring these papers to the clerk upstairs?”
Of course I could do that, I thought, I have a fucking law degree. But what was in it for me? Extra pay? Hazard pay, on account of potential paper cuts? And what was so important about these papers? Did taking possession of them implicate me in a legal drama like the one depicted in The Paper Chase? These questions, and dozens more, raced through my mind, but I accepted the assignment without inquiry because I was bored shitless.
Upstairs, we waited in the hallway outside the courtroom. Once again, I tried to kill time, but with so many witnesses around, I decided it was best to make them my co-conspirators. Fifty of us killed sixty minutes because they needed killing. But justifiable homicide wouldn’t be our defense. No! If charged, I would plead Murder on the Orient Express, which is to say, nobody did it because everyone did it.
As it turned out, none of us were charged with murdering time. But when we finally entered the courtroom, we learned that the defendant had been charged with murdering his wife. That was some heavy shit to lay on us so late in the day, but we took the news in stride.
One woman said she couldn’t be a juror because she didn’t speak English. But her argument fell flat because she spoke to the judge, at length, in English.
Another woman said she was too busy to serve, but when asked to expand on her scheduling conflicts, she said she had “a lot of stuff going on.”
A man said he couldn’t be a juror because he found murder deeply upsetting. But the judge replied that everyone finds murder deeply upsetting, which is why it’s a crime. That comment stumped the man, who sighed and said, “yeah, you got me, I’d just rather be playing golf.”
Thankfully, there was good news for those of us looking to shirk our civic duty.
“We already have a jury,” the judge said. “We’re just looking for three alternates.”
And so, the search for alternates began.
An alternate jury of your peers
Using the paperwork I had carried upstairs, the clerk selected seven jurors at random. Those jurors were instructed to take the seats in front of the jury box. For the next thirty minutes, the judge asked them basic questions.
Are you married?
What do you do for a living?
Have you ever been a victim of a crime?
Have you ever been convicted of a crime?
Are you awake?
That last question didn’t go over well because everyone in the courtroom was asleep. But that’s why judges have gavels, which are the wooden hammers of alarm clocks.
After the judge was done asking his boring questions, he said it was time for the lawyers to ask their boring questions. But then the judge glanced at the clock.
“You know what,” he began, “I want to give the lawyers all the time they need to bore you to death, but we’re almost out of time for the day, so I’m going to ask everyone to come back tomorrow.”
Same shit, different day
Obviously, I went back. I had to. They could issue a warrant for my arrest. Also, I wanted to try a horchata latte from the coffee place down the street from the courthouse. Hyped up on caffeine and sugar, I settled in to watch the lawyers ask their questions.
The public defender zeroed on the people who said they had been victims of crimes. He didn’t say so, but I could tell he was worried that they might take their trauma out on his client. But everyone said they could be fair and impartial, so after seven minutes, the public defender sat back down.
The prosecutor took even less time. She asked the panel if everyone understood the presumption of innocence. Everyone said that they did, but sensing that nobody really meant it, the prosecutor told the judge that she was satisfied.
For the next five minutes, the judge and the lawyers talked things over. Presumably, they were talking about the jurors, but as a former member of the California bar, I can assure you that they were talking about the excellent horchata lattes down the street.
Eventually, the judge and the lawyers broke things up. The judge told three unlucky jurors that they had been selected as alternates. Then he thanked the rest of us for our service and said we were excused.
We went back downstairs to turn in our badges and collect our paperwork.
“That’s it, they wasted two days of our lives for that?” a woman asked me.
Part of me wanted to tell her that we had served an important function, that our mere presence had contributed to the rule of law in this country. But even with a horchata latte coursing through my veins, I didn’t have the energy for a civic lesson.
“At least we get fifteen bucks a day, plus thirty-four cents per mile to cover the commute.”
“Fuck that shit,” she said.
How could I argue with her eloquence? I couldn’t. We had done our time for killing time.
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Stick around and chat
You know the drill. I’ve got questions, you’ve got answers.
Have you ever served on a jury? Tell your story!
What’s the best movie about jury duty? Warning: if you say it’s the Pauly Shore movie, I will delete your subscription.
Can time be killed? Get weird with this one.
Imagine you’re on trial for killing time. Which celebrity would you want to see on your jury? Explain.
I actually served on a jury once, and I’m planning to tell that story on my podcast. Will you listen?
Last thing…
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Been on both sides, serving and selecting. After serving and complaining, one of my law partners told me it was necessary. He’s . . . I hate to admit it . . . right, but I still complain. The good judges keep the lawyers moving, keep the jury pool informed.
Have you seen the sitcom Jury Duty? It’s hilarious. It’s a partially scripted comedy about an off-kilter jury, where one member of the jury is a real person who doesn’t know they’re on a sitcom. Highly recommended.
My favorite star in the LA Jury Duty waiting room is “Weird” Al Yankovic.