Well, let’s get caught up. Summer happened, though it’s kind of a blur. We got our stove replaced in May (*air horn*) and I got called for jury duty at the beginning of June, so let’s talk about that.
I’ve never made it onto a jury and I rarely get called to appear for selection, but this time, after a metal detector and a bag search, I found myself inside an actual courtroom where an actual trial would take place. The bailiff asked us to raise our right hands and swear to tell the truth, which was sort of fun and unexpected, and we had to stand up when the judge came in. The judge — imagine if you will a tall, old, white man in a long black robe — told us all to sit down and then he introduced the lawyers and everybody else on the dais. After that he explained the case we’d be hearing if we got chosen.
It was some sort of business dispute that was complicated and substantial enough to need a jury trial, and he estimated it would take about three weeks. It was still exciting at this point because everything felt heightened, like a movie, and therefore more important than real life. But the thrill faded as I tried follow what the dispute was about, and I soon realized that this was going to be work. Jurors need to listen carefully and retain information and then argue for what they believe is the truth, and it was disappointing to realize that I wouldn’t be a very good juror. In fact, if The Law could have seen the monkey shenanigans twirling around my brain while it looked like I was paying attention, they might have saved some time and oxygen and had me escorted from the building right then. In my defense, I admit that my attention span is trash, but also this did not sound like an interesting case. It’s not that I need everything to be murder! blood! and crime scene photos!, but listening to rich people argue about money is the worst.
When the judge was done describing the case, he told us that if we couldn’t take on the responsibility of being a juror we had to come up in front of the court and explain why. Explain why to his face. So we had better have a good excuse. There was a big general shuffle of feet and handbags and then I’d say about eighty percent of my fellow citizens stood up to get in line for the mic.
It being summer in Santa Barbara, about four-fifths of the crowd had vacation plans they refused to cancel for the opportunity to earn $15 a day. The other one-fifth were either college students that were graduating and moving away, caregivers for the elderly, or people whose employers wouldn’t pay them to take time off and do their civic duty. But after fifteen minutes of “I’ve got non-refundable tickets to Maui/Europe/my cousin’s getting married” you could tell the judge was getting peeved.
Then it was my turn.
For context, I wear a Patagonia backpack and hike-y shoes pretty much everywhere, so I stepped up to the mic looking like I was going to say, Your honor, my best friend, who’s an actual squirrel, is having a real Cheryl Strayed moment and we’re hiking the Pacific Crest Trail next week and I need to get some freeze-dried acorns at REI before they close.
The mic was a little low for me (more context: in boots I must be about 6’ tall, though I think of myself as average height) so I guess I hunched down to get close enough to speak into it. Apparently peeved judge didn’t like me doing that, though, and before I could speak he said, You can bring the mic up to you, you don’t have to bend down to it.
Now, there must have been other tall-ish people who stood up there before me, and none of them received this instruction. Let’s set aside for the moment the hint of condescension I got from the judge’s tone and concentrate on the fact that it had not and nor would it ever occur to me to put my hands on a courtroom mic. Doing such a thing did not square with my core philosophy of treating life as an obstacle course to be navigated, not a theater set to be decorated. But I guess this judge was the type who arranged everything for his personal comfort and dignity, and he doesn’t understand why the rest of us won’t do the same, unless it’s because we’re poor, or weak, or both.
So that threw me off. Because I was in a courtroom, I thought I’d better do what the judge said, but fuck if I could pull the mic up to the right level, its little mic joint was screwed in tight. And again, why me all of a sudden? Why was it my job to be the courtroom roadie and start struggling with the A/V equipment? Was the judge kindly trying to help me express myself more clearly, or was this a power play to make me rethink a flimsy excuse, or did it distress his manly gallantry to see this delicate flower of a prospective juror bend her posture in such an unpretty way?
Deep down my most primal radar was pretty sure he wanted to keep me up there to neg me in that stupid pickup-artist way that gets women to want to please you. All the lawyers were smiling at me now like whatever the judge wanted was a fantastic idea, and the bailiff looked dumbfounded. I don’t have a problem speaking in public, but at this point all I wanted was to say my thing and get back to the office.
After a bit more struggle I managed to tilt the mic a quarter of an inch toward the ceiling while making a lot of amplified hand-banging-into-mic sounds, which I am sure everybody enjoyed. Then, when I finally started to speak, my voice cracked. I’m at that rickety age where you can’t answer the phone without making one of those Felix Unger AHEEMMMs before you speak, which I then did, plunging us further into madness.
But I wasn’t done yet! Because if I wasn’t nervous before I sure was now! He was, let’s remember, a judge who felt entitled to judge everything about me, I guess, so I pulled my mask down a bit, not so he could take in the fullness of my withered visage, but so he wouldn’t stop me again to complain about my muffled voice.
Your honor, I said, I can’t do a three-week trial because everyone else in my office is on vacation this month and I’m the only one left to keep things running.
Pretty clever, right? A little twist on the story all those other shirkers were telling — they were recklessly getting on plague-filled airplanes and boats, while I’d be doing the prudent thing by staying put and keeping an entire [he didn’t ask where I worked] afloat single-handedly.
“Is that true?” he said.
Excuse me, sir? Is it true? I believe we all stood and raised our right hands and swore on the bailiff’s bible, maybe you missed it. Was he flirting with me? Using his stern judgely wiles to keep me up at the mic way longer than anyone else. How was I supposed to respond to that? Your majesty, I wish I were kidding but I’m not. Everyone in my office is leaving town. It wasn’t great planning but sometimes you just deal with what life throws at you, or at least I do. Do you want to speak to my supervisor? Too bad, she’s in Fresno and her phone is on mute.
“Yes,” I said.
“You’ll just have to come back next month,” said the judge in his flirty-stern voice.
He had already explained that he was only granting six-week reprieves, everyone who got deferred would have to be on call again in July to fulfill their service to the court. We might both be dead by then — especially him (he was very old). He knew it, I knew it, and all the lawyers kept smiling at me like they were really enjoying this exciting afternoon we were spending together.
I can be cold-hearted, it’s true; it’s a wonderful protective maneuver that has served me well all my life (thanks, Mom). But also, I would never drop everything to be with someone who argues for a living, that sounds like sheer hell. I already have a boyfriend who’s very conversational. But I don’t get off on feeling powerless.
He must have seen it in my eyes: the robes and the daddy vibe — they’re just not my thing. He realized then how futile it was to hold me there any longer.
“Deferred,” he said sadly, and the court typist lady pushed the weird keys of her little machine to record his decision.