Jury Duty Day One at 8:45 AM
Tick…
The faces; glazed over eyes, blank stares, boredom personified, ignoring the drone of the video running over their heads. Ed Bradley, the dead TV reporter, is offering anyone listening a history lesson. For a dead man, he looked good on the screen. Next Diane Sawyer is explaining to deaf ears why we have been forced to gather on this wet cold Wednesday morning. If this was a Neilson rated show, they would both be cancelled due to lack of viewership.
Tock…
A talking head is now at the microphone trying to rev up the audience. His melodic voice giving an impassioned speech, giving us reason to rejoice in our collective imprisonment. Most are not listening; they continue with their newspapers, their books, and their quiet computer work or if lucky enough, sleep. “Thank you”
Tick…
Some woman is now retelling us the same drivel she told us 30 minutes ago. I have never heard the word “provided” said with such zeal. I feel sympathy for her. She is trying to motivate. She is trying to do her job. She has given this speech many times. You can tell it is too practiced. She is a civil servant. In my mind, she is just trying my patience. I want to read. I want to sleep. I want to be anywhere but here. “Look alive.”
Tock…
Old oil paintings executed on cracking, yellowing canvases hang about the room. Their muted colors depicting various scenes of old New York do nothing to enliven this drab room. Overhead fluorescent bulbs emit a harsh industrial glow upon mauve colored chairs lined up row upon row. The lamps create distorted shadows on the art, the walls and the seated awaiting the impeding slaughter. “Good morning.”
Tick…
Even within the depths of lower Manhattan encased by a thick concentration of the towers of industry, little light makes its way into the oversized windows. Situated 15 feet off the floor, the only vantage point a visitor gets is a wall of graying buildings looming skyward. Smaller windows situated at chair level offer no better a view. All there is to look at is your fellow involuntary captors. “When I call your name, please collect your belongings and proceed into room 2, via the doorway to my left”
Tock…
John Denver, a sappy folk singer, is credited with saying that “he once spent a week in Toledo one night.” By looking at the three clocks adorning the walls, you cannot tell whether I have been here for 2 seconds, 2 minutes, 2 hours, or 2 days. Each offers a different time of day. If I’m fortunate, Ms Cheery-Behind-the-Microphone is looking at the one showing the time being 3:25 PM. I hope that it's time to go home.
Tick…
He’s up there again calling out names. Please let him not call me, let him not call me. Shit! Shutting down the computer, I hurrily collect my possessions, newspapers, books, pens, coat, umbrella, and finally, now that it’s off, the computer I stow the it into my backpack. Into room “A” I march, like a lemming into the ocean. I sit in my appointed seat, number 4. A nice seat but lacking in legroom as the first row of chairs is hard pressed upon the desk where the lawyers will sit. I cram my belongings under my seat, all the while remembering the warning they gave us concerning rampart theft. In a courthouse no less. The lawyers give their names and whom they represent. Okay, I don’t know of either them or the other players. The jury liaison next gives a quick description of the case. A simple slip and fall on a snowy pavement in front of a grocery store in the West 50’s. There was a flower stall attached to the store where on a January day, an employee was watering the display of flowers, the water trickled down the sidewalk only to freeze. Wham the plaintiff is suing for injures. Not the bodega owner, not the minimum wage employee but the rich building owner for allowing this dangerous situation to exist. I’m out of here. Up goes my hand. Unless the injured party went into death causing convulsions, this is another frivolous money grab.
Tock...
Back into the bullpen I venture. Darn no seats are available at the computer desks. So I settle into one of the mauve colored seats. The seats are not as comfortable as I would have assumed or maybe it’s my boney ass.
Tick...
Years ago when the jury pool was smaller due to exemptions, the majority of potential jurist was predominately black, elderly, undereducated or underemployed. The reason was simple; most intelligent people could be deferred from service. Now as I look upon the bored faces of my fellow waiters, most are white and middle aged. They are definitely better looking and better dressed. I wonder if anyone here is a mortician, a previously exempted job classification. This would a perfect place for them to find quick work; being that some of these people are starting to fade quickly. I wonder if the coffee from the cart is any good. My foot is falling asleep; I have to get up.
Tock…
Another damn announcement… something about that everyone sitting in the room to the left of the speaker must move to the room to the right of the speaker. Okay great. Pack up your stuff again, walk to the other side, find a new seat in the now more densely packed seating area and wait. On the other hand, maybe they’ll start questioning us to determine who are Jewish and send them to the showers! No not that but maybe considering the endless death wait we’re experiencing now, a quick shower would be a nice change of scenery. Looking up at a broken clock, I see that its 3:20. Looking at my watch I see that its 12:05. Lunchtime! “We’ve determined that at this time there will be no need for additional jurist, you can leave now. Please return tomorrow at 9:30.” It was a scene of liberated lab rats escaping.
Jury Duty Day 2 at 9:30 AM
Tick…
You approach the imposing 60 Court expecting to fall upon yet another taping of a Law and Order episode. Sam Waterstone amid a sea of reporters giving an impromptu interview or a rogue detective speaking harshly to a perp who was lucky to bet the rap due to a failure in the legal system. No such luck! You climb the stairs, passing between the columns, under the colonnade, and find a revolving door surrounded by two old wooden doors. No one seems to use the revolving doors. Most use the normal doors. Are they scared of being stuck, having to wait for maintenance to free them and missing a minute of their jury duty? I take the revolving door route and hope for the worse. No such luck. It seems elementary, you push on the metal bar, the door moves and you venture into the lobby of the courthouse. Damn!
Tock…
For a building of such importance, you’d think that the entryway would be more grandiose to match the exterior; a cathedral of justice. Alas the lobby is dark, narrow and divided into lanes by velvet ropes. People with credentials take the lane furthest to the right. They flash their ID and enter. The rest of us mortals must go through a security exam akin to the usual bull at an airport. The line is long. “People with bags please use line one.” Entering into the maze of ropes, you wait your turn to place your bags onto the conveyor belt only to disappear into the depths of an x-ray machine and empty your pockets into a cheap plastic basket. Some black guy is having trouble passing through the metal detector. The security guard when seeing his pack of gum suggests that the gum maybe the culprit. It is. He finally passes the gauntlet. In my time on line not a single bag is physically examined, not a single person is dragged into a side room where they will be questioned after undergoing a thorough body search including an orifice exam. The security guards here are clearly civil service. They have no motivation to move people through the line quickly. I opine that they’d flunk out of TSA training “There is a shorter line at entrance around the corner.”
Tick…
The central core of the building is surrounded by banks of elevators in a circular formation to match the circular dome overhead. While the dome consists of windows even on this sunny morning the area is dark. Each bank of elevators is controlled by its own set of call buttons, so its elevator Russian roulette. Which one to choose? Damn I must make a choice. That set looks nice. I wait with others. The doors open. I step lively. The door close. Someone has already selected the 4th floor. Someone in this elevator stinks. Please make this a quick ride. If I had to choose between a long elevator ride with an odorous passenger or sitting in that damn waiting room, I’d pick the bullpen. “Good morning, we’ll be calling attendance in a few minutes.”
Tock…
“We’ll be calling a group of 30 names. If your name is called please collect your personal belongings and proceed to room 365 on the third floor. You can take the elevators or the stairs.” Everyone turns his or her attention to the gentleman wearing the yarmulke. Slowly, clearly he reads out the next group of unwilling volunteers. As the group of standees increases, the look of relief or eminent demise shows clearly on people’s faces. I watch the group of 30 depart the room followed by a team of attorneys and I think to myself that I’ve been spared from slaughter. Other names are read out for cases that have already been impaneled. The room is less crowded. People are reading, some are sleeping, and some like me, are staring at their computers. Tedium, boredom. They call this Jury duty, the backbone of our judicial system.
Tick…
Lunch is called with the caveat that we must return at 2:15. 2:15? I was hoping to be at home by then. I was hoping to have gone to get discount theater tickets for tonight by then. I was planning to meet Max by then so he can get his new phone at the Verizon store. I was thinking I really need to take a piss but with people leaving I can finally get a seat near a chair-level window and access to an outlet to recharge the computer. If I go to the bathroom, I’ll have to pack up all my possessions and more importantly, risk losing my newly found benefits. I’ll hold it in. Hey that clock on the wall isn’t wrongly set, it’s broken! The time hasn’t changed. Our tax dollars at work.
Tock…
They’re calling names again. No! “When you hear your name, please collect your personal items and go into room C. Seat number 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11…. seat 24.” Shit! It was a divorce case and no matter what excuses people used these lawyers were determined to empanel a jury. They promised that this would never get to trial; it will be over in the matter of minutes. Please don’t select me, my parents were divorced,
my sister is divorced, the waiter who served me is divorced and got screwed AND I shot my cat! However, they were determined. The first 10 lucky contestants seated will be the sacrificial lambs. The rest of you can go back into the main seating area. I and the other 19 prisoners have been saved by a turn of the wheel and the luck of the draw. Time to go pee. The lady in the Washington and Lee promised to save my seat next to the window.
Tick…
The only working clock nearest the central desk is finally nearing the time on the broken clock. Twice a day even a broken clock is correct. Time is moving so slowly. I scan the remaining people. There’s the woman, number 23, that by spying on her juror questionnaire, I was able to ascertain her age, 21 years old. I feel old. She’s flirting with a guy sitting behind her. I can’t help but hear the broken Spanish / broken English conversation of the two women in the row in front of me. I don’t care to hear what they bare saying. There’s the woman wearing the tight purple sweater. She reminds me of Sarah in London, just bustier. Out of tedium, people are striking up conversations with total strangers. Misery loves company. The three civil servants are sitting behind their desk making small talk. It’s just happened the broken clock is correct!
Tock…
“All juries sitting on the left side of the room please collect your belongings and move to the right side of the room.” This is promising. 3:30 PM we are released but we must collect our proof of service to prove that we’ve done our civic duty. 6 years of freedom from state service, 4 years from federal service.
Tick Tock
Tick…
The faces; glazed over eyes, blank stares, boredom personified, ignoring the drone of the video running over their heads. Ed Bradley, the dead TV reporter, is offering anyone listening a history lesson. For a dead man, he looked good on the screen. Next Diane Sawyer is explaining to deaf ears why we have been forced to gather on this wet cold Wednesday morning. If this was a Neilson rated show, they would both be cancelled due to lack of viewership.
Tock…
A talking head is now at the microphone trying to rev up the audience. His melodic voice giving an impassioned speech, giving us reason to rejoice in our collective imprisonment. Most are not listening; they continue with their newspapers, their books, and their quiet computer work or if lucky enough, sleep. “Thank you”
Tick…
Some woman is now retelling us the same drivel she told us 30 minutes ago. I have never heard the word “provided” said with such zeal. I feel sympathy for her. She is trying to motivate. She is trying to do her job. She has given this speech many times. You can tell it is too practiced. She is a civil servant. In my mind, she is just trying my patience. I want to read. I want to sleep. I want to be anywhere but here. “Look alive.”
Tock…
Old oil paintings executed on cracking, yellowing canvases hang about the room. Their muted colors depicting various scenes of old New York do nothing to enliven this drab room. Overhead fluorescent bulbs emit a harsh industrial glow upon mauve colored chairs lined up row upon row. The lamps create distorted shadows on the art, the walls and the seated awaiting the impeding slaughter. “Good morning.”
Tick…
Even within the depths of lower Manhattan encased by a thick concentration of the towers of industry, little light makes its way into the oversized windows. Situated 15 feet off the floor, the only vantage point a visitor gets is a wall of graying buildings looming skyward. Smaller windows situated at chair level offer no better a view. All there is to look at is your fellow involuntary captors. “When I call your name, please collect your belongings and proceed into room 2, via the doorway to my left”
Tock…
John Denver, a sappy folk singer, is credited with saying that “he once spent a week in Toledo one night.” By looking at the three clocks adorning the walls, you cannot tell whether I have been here for 2 seconds, 2 minutes, 2 hours, or 2 days. Each offers a different time of day. If I’m fortunate, Ms Cheery-Behind-the-Microphone is looking at the one showing the time being 3:25 PM. I hope that it's time to go home.
Tick…
He’s up there again calling out names. Please let him not call me, let him not call me. Shit! Shutting down the computer, I hurrily collect my possessions, newspapers, books, pens, coat, umbrella, and finally, now that it’s off, the computer I stow the it into my backpack. Into room “A” I march, like a lemming into the ocean. I sit in my appointed seat, number 4. A nice seat but lacking in legroom as the first row of chairs is hard pressed upon the desk where the lawyers will sit. I cram my belongings under my seat, all the while remembering the warning they gave us concerning rampart theft. In a courthouse no less. The lawyers give their names and whom they represent. Okay, I don’t know of either them or the other players. The jury liaison next gives a quick description of the case. A simple slip and fall on a snowy pavement in front of a grocery store in the West 50’s. There was a flower stall attached to the store where on a January day, an employee was watering the display of flowers, the water trickled down the sidewalk only to freeze. Wham the plaintiff is suing for injures. Not the bodega owner, not the minimum wage employee but the rich building owner for allowing this dangerous situation to exist. I’m out of here. Up goes my hand. Unless the injured party went into death causing convulsions, this is another frivolous money grab.
Tock...
Back into the bullpen I venture. Darn no seats are available at the computer desks. So I settle into one of the mauve colored seats. The seats are not as comfortable as I would have assumed or maybe it’s my boney ass.
Tick...
Years ago when the jury pool was smaller due to exemptions, the majority of potential jurist was predominately black, elderly, undereducated or underemployed. The reason was simple; most intelligent people could be deferred from service. Now as I look upon the bored faces of my fellow waiters, most are white and middle aged. They are definitely better looking and better dressed. I wonder if anyone here is a mortician, a previously exempted job classification. This would a perfect place for them to find quick work; being that some of these people are starting to fade quickly. I wonder if the coffee from the cart is any good. My foot is falling asleep; I have to get up.
Tock…
Another damn announcement… something about that everyone sitting in the room to the left of the speaker must move to the room to the right of the speaker. Okay great. Pack up your stuff again, walk to the other side, find a new seat in the now more densely packed seating area and wait. On the other hand, maybe they’ll start questioning us to determine who are Jewish and send them to the showers! No not that but maybe considering the endless death wait we’re experiencing now, a quick shower would be a nice change of scenery. Looking up at a broken clock, I see that its 3:20. Looking at my watch I see that its 12:05. Lunchtime! “We’ve determined that at this time there will be no need for additional jurist, you can leave now. Please return tomorrow at 9:30.” It was a scene of liberated lab rats escaping.
Jury Duty Day 2 at 9:30 AM
Tick…
You approach the imposing 60 Court expecting to fall upon yet another taping of a Law and Order episode. Sam Waterstone amid a sea of reporters giving an impromptu interview or a rogue detective speaking harshly to a perp who was lucky to bet the rap due to a failure in the legal system. No such luck! You climb the stairs, passing between the columns, under the colonnade, and find a revolving door surrounded by two old wooden doors. No one seems to use the revolving doors. Most use the normal doors. Are they scared of being stuck, having to wait for maintenance to free them and missing a minute of their jury duty? I take the revolving door route and hope for the worse. No such luck. It seems elementary, you push on the metal bar, the door moves and you venture into the lobby of the courthouse. Damn!
Tock…
For a building of such importance, you’d think that the entryway would be more grandiose to match the exterior; a cathedral of justice. Alas the lobby is dark, narrow and divided into lanes by velvet ropes. People with credentials take the lane furthest to the right. They flash their ID and enter. The rest of us mortals must go through a security exam akin to the usual bull at an airport. The line is long. “People with bags please use line one.” Entering into the maze of ropes, you wait your turn to place your bags onto the conveyor belt only to disappear into the depths of an x-ray machine and empty your pockets into a cheap plastic basket. Some black guy is having trouble passing through the metal detector. The security guard when seeing his pack of gum suggests that the gum maybe the culprit. It is. He finally passes the gauntlet. In my time on line not a single bag is physically examined, not a single person is dragged into a side room where they will be questioned after undergoing a thorough body search including an orifice exam. The security guards here are clearly civil service. They have no motivation to move people through the line quickly. I opine that they’d flunk out of TSA training “There is a shorter line at entrance around the corner.”
Tick…
The central core of the building is surrounded by banks of elevators in a circular formation to match the circular dome overhead. While the dome consists of windows even on this sunny morning the area is dark. Each bank of elevators is controlled by its own set of call buttons, so its elevator Russian roulette. Which one to choose? Damn I must make a choice. That set looks nice. I wait with others. The doors open. I step lively. The door close. Someone has already selected the 4th floor. Someone in this elevator stinks. Please make this a quick ride. If I had to choose between a long elevator ride with an odorous passenger or sitting in that damn waiting room, I’d pick the bullpen. “Good morning, we’ll be calling attendance in a few minutes.”
Tock…
“We’ll be calling a group of 30 names. If your name is called please collect your personal belongings and proceed to room 365 on the third floor. You can take the elevators or the stairs.” Everyone turns his or her attention to the gentleman wearing the yarmulke. Slowly, clearly he reads out the next group of unwilling volunteers. As the group of standees increases, the look of relief or eminent demise shows clearly on people’s faces. I watch the group of 30 depart the room followed by a team of attorneys and I think to myself that I’ve been spared from slaughter. Other names are read out for cases that have already been impaneled. The room is less crowded. People are reading, some are sleeping, and some like me, are staring at their computers. Tedium, boredom. They call this Jury duty, the backbone of our judicial system.
Tick…
Lunch is called with the caveat that we must return at 2:15. 2:15? I was hoping to be at home by then. I was hoping to have gone to get discount theater tickets for tonight by then. I was planning to meet Max by then so he can get his new phone at the Verizon store. I was thinking I really need to take a piss but with people leaving I can finally get a seat near a chair-level window and access to an outlet to recharge the computer. If I go to the bathroom, I’ll have to pack up all my possessions and more importantly, risk losing my newly found benefits. I’ll hold it in. Hey that clock on the wall isn’t wrongly set, it’s broken! The time hasn’t changed. Our tax dollars at work.
Tock…
They’re calling names again. No! “When you hear your name, please collect your personal items and go into room C. Seat number 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11…. seat 24.” Shit! It was a divorce case and no matter what excuses people used these lawyers were determined to empanel a jury. They promised that this would never get to trial; it will be over in the matter of minutes. Please don’t select me, my parents were divorced,
my sister is divorced, the waiter who served me is divorced and got screwed AND I shot my cat! However, they were determined. The first 10 lucky contestants seated will be the sacrificial lambs. The rest of you can go back into the main seating area. I and the other 19 prisoners have been saved by a turn of the wheel and the luck of the draw. Time to go pee. The lady in the Washington and Lee promised to save my seat next to the window.
Tick…
The only working clock nearest the central desk is finally nearing the time on the broken clock. Twice a day even a broken clock is correct. Time is moving so slowly. I scan the remaining people. There’s the woman, number 23, that by spying on her juror questionnaire, I was able to ascertain her age, 21 years old. I feel old. She’s flirting with a guy sitting behind her. I can’t help but hear the broken Spanish / broken English conversation of the two women in the row in front of me. I don’t care to hear what they bare saying. There’s the woman wearing the tight purple sweater. She reminds me of Sarah in London, just bustier. Out of tedium, people are striking up conversations with total strangers. Misery loves company. The three civil servants are sitting behind their desk making small talk. It’s just happened the broken clock is correct!
Tock…
“All juries sitting on the left side of the room please collect your belongings and move to the right side of the room.” This is promising. 3:30 PM we are released but we must collect our proof of service to prove that we’ve done our civic duty. 6 years of freedom from state service, 4 years from federal service.
Tick Tock
