Two weeks ago, Eric checked the mail and started cursing.
"Awww, what the fuck is this? Oh, wait. That has your name. Here you go."
I opened it to find that I had received my very first jury summons. When I told Eric's grandfather, known to everyone as Papa, that I had jury duty, he got very excited.
"I've got it the same day. I was going to use my exemption, but since you're going too, we'll go together. I think you'll like it. You get to see how the system works. It's really interesting, and it feels good to do your civic duty."
Papa was an Eagle Scout.
I had to be at Cherokee County District Court at 8:30 this morning. Papa decided that we should leave at 7:45. Since we live 10 minutes away from the courthouse, that put us there thirty-five minutes early. I stood in a marble and granite lined hallway with eighty-four other potential jurors, breathing stale air and smelling wet hair. I filled out my paperwork so I could receive my juror's pay and stared at a mural depicting the history of Cherokee County. I was in contemplation of the Jacksonville Tomato Queen when Papa spoke.
"I donated my money to abused children."
"I didn't. I'm broke, and this is about to double my fortune. Times are hard."
Papa laughed. We sat on the hard wooden benches and watched people collect their compensation. I was backed up in my claim of hard times when only seven other panelists donated their six dollars. After the stack of fives and ones had disappeared, I expected to be herded into the court room. We sat there for another hour. I counted cowboy boots (57 pair), comb-overs (3),
men with plastic covers to protect their cowboy hats (2), and pious men that studied their bibles or completed Sunday school assignments (5). I went to the bathroom three times. After five more minutes of staring at people, I decided that it was safe to go downstairs for a smoke.
While I was gone, they made everyone gather to receive their juror number.
Once we were seated, the judge emerged from his super-secret vault. He made a speech about the importance of jury service, and why bias and prejudice don't carry the same negative connotation in the courtroom as they do in the "regular" world. He followed his speech with a brief explanation of the jury selection process. I must confess, I didn't pay much attention because I was too busy watching the district attorney dig his thumbs into his eyeballs.
The first jury being selected was for a civil trial.
The plaintiff's attorney stood up to give a brief overview of the facts of his case, and ask a series of general questions. His voice was droning, and I disliked his tie, which pictured Bugs Bunny on a rocket-ship. (I was told to dress in a manner befitting the seriousness of the court, why didn't anyone tell him?)
The defense lawyer was next. He was charming and had a pleasant speaking voice. He also had a majestic head of white hair. I decided that his client was probably being railroaded by the beady-eyed plaintiff.
After a twenty minute recess, we were called back into the courtroom, where it was announced that I was not selected for the jury. It's probably for the best since I had decided a woman's innocence based on a thick head of hair and a pair of shifty eyes.
We were released for lunch, and told to meet back in the hallway at one, when selection would begin for a criminal trial.
Papa and I went to lunch at Big Al's Diner. If you ever find yourself hungry in Rusk, Texas, I'd advise you to stop by. Big Al makes a quality cheeseburger.
We got back to the court just in time to wait forty-five minutes. This gave me ample opportunity to hone my hatred for a girl with a shrill hyena laugh and a neck covered with hickeys. She spent all forty-five minutes cackling and making dirty jokes while one woman french-braided her hair and another periodically slapped her with a paperback book if she got too foul. I eventually tired of wishing I could gag her, so I listened to a man tell a story about a hog emergency he had before jury duty.
"I woke up this morning and found three big ol' Russian boars in ma trap. I almost didn't show up 'cause I wanted to shoot them hogs. Then, I decided I better come, so's I called ma buddy and he went out there and shot 'em. You know, them hogs take priority."
His audience nodded their solemn agreement.
When court re-convened, they assigned us new juror numbers . A bailiff toting an inferior firearm directed us to our new seats, despite the fact that they were numbered. A potential juror on the backrow burped loudly, and hickey-neck girl turned around to glare her disapproval. After listening to the eye-gouging district attorney speak, I decided that the contractor HAD stolen the little old lady's money, and I was gonna fry his ass. I didn't like the contractor's smirk. When questioned about my ability to deliver an impartial verdict in the case, I didn't tell them that I already knew the bastard was guilty. I still was not selected. I was disappointed, because I was really looking forward to skipping work on Thursday.
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