UNIVERSAL DONOR: MA VIE EN CROUTE
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Universal Donor
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Tuesday, January 13, 2004
Today was my first day of jury duty, and it's just exactly as you've heard, except with a lot more John Ritter than I thought was indicated by law. I've had a fairly healthy fear of JD since I read Sars's account of sitting on a civil case in 2002 (it's worth a read, and much funnier than I'm going to be: part 1, part 2, part 3). My boss spent a month on a grand jury, spending every morning deciding whether or not bad people should go to trial, which sounded okay but seemed inconvenient, and I had weird fantasies about mobsters or their sleazebag lawyers giving me the sticky eyeball, threatening me and forcing me to go into hiding and leave my rommates vulnerable to certain carbombing.
First thing today in the big waiting room we saw a government video produced on a government budget, with government quality, and for all I know government actors moonlighting from their jobs at the DMV. It was similar to that institutional video in Being John Malkovich about the 7 ½th floor, with fewer midgets but an impressive historical segment about medieval trials by ordeal, which featured an Aragorn-goateed magistrate-type dude wearing what I'm pretty sure was an authentic Columbia Sportswear parka, with a fur-lined hood for extra authenticalicity. After having my intelligence insulted by a videotape, the two clerks took turns condescending to us over the PA as they told us how to write our names on the forms using a pen and our hands. They referred to each other, these clerks, by saying "talk to my partner" or "ask my partner for help remembering where you live," so I whiled away a daydreamy five minutes or so picturing their cozy lovenest, bedecked with rainbow flags and campy posters from Carole Lombard films. or whatever gay civil servants use to cover up the drafty holes in their poverty-chic garrets. A frighteningly obese man (like, you know, the "hello sir, how may I help OH MY SWEET GOD" kind of obese) sat against the back wall (where I guess he thought the teacher might not call on him) and snored for a few hours in quick, belly-quaking gasps, and we all laughed until we realized that he might be dead before we were ever selected for a jury. But the domestic clerks made us feel right at home by turning on Nick at Nite's Three's Company marathon. There was something about making beds, which Mr. Furley only caught the part where Jack said "So me and Janet were trying to make it, and Chrissy found us all tangled up in the bed" HAW and then there was a pie-baking competition which apparently involved only whipped-cream pies, a very specialized sitcom type of contest, see; and then Larry was naked at a party because there was some kind of misunderstanding and I lapsed into a coma. There was a lot of blah-dee-blah before they let us out for lunch and cigarettes, but I got called for my first voir dire at about 2:15. If you don't know, it means two lawyers take eight jurors and six alternates into a room and talk to us like we are exceptionally brain-damaged golden retriever puppies ("You understand what the law is, don't you? Don't you? A-woo-boo-boo? Yesh you do! Oh yesh you do!"). Tomorrow I will explain how I jedi-ed my way off that fucksuck case ("I'm not the juror you're looking for..."), and hopefully, I will have earned my freedom through conscientious application of all-American shirking and dirty dirty lies. For justice! 0 comments |
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