Waiting for Gouda

It seems like only yesterday when, in the course of retrieving the usual pile of garbage that the inept tools at the US Postal Service so kindly thrust into my house every day, that I noticed a rather official looking envelope addressed to yours truly. It appeared to be from the Cook County Court system, so I tore into it eagerly, hoping that my petition to have all Cubs fans sterilized was finally being recognized. Alas, no such luck. Instead, the very official and very, very serious card inside somberly informed me that I was being summoned for jury duty, that most important and most serious call to action that is every citizen’s imperative to uphold. Jury duty – the government’s way of punishing you for registering to vote.

Naturally, my first reaction was the same as of any loyal, honest American. How the hell can I get out of this? I thought about ignoring the letter altogether, my fear of the threatened contempt-of-court charge balanced neatly by my faith in the general inefficiencies of bureaucracy. I had to admit, however, that I was curious about the system, and decided that if, in fact, I had to report to the Circuit Court, I would do so with an open mind, prepared to do my duty. As instructed by the card, I called the night before and listened to the recording that stated that anyone whose last name began with the letters C through Z had to report. This struck me as odd and I immediately wondered what the A’s and B’s had done to deserve their reprieve. The mysteries of the system hung like a thick cloud in the air, dense and impenetrable.

Now knowing that my participation in the American legal system was mandatory, I began to envision possible scenarios. What could I do if I really wanted to be on a particular jury? Granted, the probability of this happening seemed pretty slim, even to me, but what if there was a case where the defendant was accused of smuggling illegal monkeys? There’s no way I was gonna miss out on that! Should I smile, or would that be inappropriate? If one or more of the attorneys were women, was innocent flirting acceptable? Or what if I decided I really didn’t want to participate after all? Should I lie and tell them that I hate all jungle animals and scream “Death To Apes!” while in the jury box?

I imagined that the courtroom could be a forum to express my opinions. If it were a drug case, for example, I would look the judge right in the eye and tell him or her that I felt that the war on drugs caused terrible damage out of all proportion to the good it achieved. They would listen thoughtfully to my carefully composed thoughts, nodding knowingly at appropriate times, leaning forward with wide eyes as my rousing speech reached its climax, when they would burst out in applause, even the sheriff’s deputy, a man never known to show emotion in all his twenty-three years of service. The judge would immediately dismiss the case at hand, the district attorney would quit his job and found a new local NORML chapter, and the press would burst in the room, all a-chatter with their pencils and old-timey flashbulbs. I would be on the front page of the Tribune, beaming in glorious black and white under the headline LOCAL MAN WOWS COURT, and be invited to Mayor Daley’s house for his annual St. Patty’s Day Symposium on Social Ills and Keg Party.

Yes, I could definitely see the potential in this whole jury duty thing. I was going to be ready. I would comb my hair and wear a decent shirt. I might even floss.

I had a duty, and I was going to do it.

What follows, is a minute by minute account, all the drama and excitement of the American legal system, painstakingly recorded for the enjoyment and edification of you, the loyal reader. Please take caution. Should the hard-hitting action and heart-racing drama of the following account become too overwhelming, the author recommends that you stop reading for at least thirty minutes, during which time you meditate or concentrate on some mundane task until you feel it is safe to continue.

FRIDAY, MARCH 7, 2003

The following takes place between 7AM and 3PM on the day of my Cook County jury duty.

6:57 AM
I wake up. It occurs to me that perhaps it would be better, that it would be perfect, if I had woken up at exactly 7 am. This might have looked better on the page, you know? Seven in the morning is just such a perfect American time to get out of bed, where as 6:57 isn’t a good time at all. I wonder if I am fit to serve.

7:13 AM
I stand in front of my open closet door, wondering what to wear. I am torn between wanting to look presentable and not wanting to go out of my way for the bastards. Eventually, I settle on a short-sleeve button down shirt, and I am off to mousse my hair.

7:45 AM
I head out to the garage and warm up the car. My summons is for 9am, but it is way out in Rolling Meadows, IL, one of the bizarre and distant lands, full of mystery and danger, that some of the locals refer to as suburbs, meaning “dark place of minivans”. Although I have directions, I have no idea how long it might take one to get from Chicago to Rolling Meadows, which is apparently twenty-eight miles distant. This may not seem like a great distance to some of you, who might make a trip such as this every day to work, or to the grocery store, but to someone who is used to city driving, this might as well be three states away. I suspect that the next hour may be the most trying part of my day.

8:05 AM
Sitting in traffic on the highway. Not moving at all. What could be the cause of this wretched lack of movement? I fully expect, once we start moving again, to eventually pass a terrible accident in which at least two people have been completely decapitated. Nothing less than this will justify such a delay. I feel that if I had to commute like this every day, I might end up like one of those people you read about on the news who flips out and starts ramming people with his car. Then, I suppose, I would end up having to go to court. I take a few deep breaths, and when I open my eyes, the car ahead of me has inched forward approximately two feet. I nudge forward and fill the gap. Only fifteen more miles to go.

8:25 AM
Welcome to Rolling Meadows, IL. The traffic opened up nicely after we got past O’Hare. That I was able to drive sixty miles per hour alleviated my disappointment in seeing no carnage. The main attraction in Rolling Meadows appears to be a horse-racing track, which this weekend, according to the large blinking-lighted sign by the road, is hosting an arts and crafts fair. Distracted by my own musings on the logistics of, say, a country quilter displaying his or her wares on a racetrack in early march, I drive right past the courthouse entrance. It’s okay, I’m rather early anyway. I tour a small housing development on the opposite corner before turning around and heading back.

8:35 AM
I am in the courthouse parking garage. Level 2. I am rather surprised at all of the cars that are piling into this place. Who knew that so many people had so much business at the courthouse? As I watch throngs of people shuffle past, I attempt to determine whether they are fellow duty-doers, witnesses, employees, litigants. For the most part, this is not an easy task. Except for that one skeezy looking guy. He just looks totally guilty. Man, am I going to be a good juror.

8:40 AM
At the courthouse entrance. There are, of course, metal detectors, which is fine with me. Normally I am the sort of person who flies through such tests and checkpoints without incident, making me eligible to stand in line impatiently and scoff and grumble at those folks ahead of me in line who are incapable of completing the task at hand in the time that I have mentally allotted them. This skill comes into play in all sorts of everyday situations, too, not only related to security. The checkout line at the grocery store, the drive-through ATMs, small public restrooms at venues that attract large crowds. It is not easy being organized and adept at transactions in a world of slowpokes, I tell you.

But today, for some reason, here, at the courthouse, it all goes awry. Men are to stand in one line, women in another, with each line attended by several security officials of the same gender. The women’s line, perhaps aided by their ability to carry all of their belongings in a convenient satchel, or purse, as some call it, is quite short, moving quickly and efficiently. On the other side, a long string of men stand, fumbling and digging into pants pockets, coat pockets, shirt pockets, all juggling and jingling of change and keys and pens and wallets, dropping stuff, stooping over, spinning in circles, speaking in tongues. I believe one man up near the front of the line is dancing a jig, although I cannot conceive a reason why he might choose now to do so. I hope that it is not some sort of requirement for entry. The jury member instruction card merely states that we are to bring something to read and some change for the vending machines. Nothing at all about dancing.

To alleviate the back-up, the female security officers begin to wave some of the men over to their side. I wonder, if this is even an option, why have two separate lines in the first place? No matter. I toss my book, Games magazine, pencil, half a roll of quarters, keys and wallet into a little plastic bin and saunter on through. Now, just to find the jury room and…

SCREEE-SCREEE-SCREEE !!!

The lady officer on the other side of the detector, a rather burly woman, indicates I should go back through by pushing me in the small of my back. They tell me to take off my watch and try again. All righty. Sorry about that. This has never happened to me before, honest. I’m usually very good at this sort of thing. I’ll just step back through now…

SCREEE-SCREEE-SCREEE !!!

Again, the lady officer gently guides me back through. Perhaps it is my glasses, they suggest. This seems silly to me, but who knows. Perhaps in these troubled times, the detectors are set on Extra Sensitive, or something. Off come the glass, and now…

SCREEE-SCREEE-SCREEE !!!

Son of a bitch! The humiliation. I am gumming up the works now, aren’t I? I do believe people are grumbling at me. At me! Are they staring? I can’t see, for they’ve taken my eyeglasses. This is just terrible. I have become what I despise. No jury would ever have me. I don’t know what I’m doing here. In fact, I just don’t know what I’m doing with my life anymore. This is all just awful. I think the burly woman is getting it into her head that she’s gonna have to frisk me, and I am not at all encouraged when she tells me to take my belt off. I want the other line! I want the other line! I think. The belt comes off, and by now there are four separate little plastic bins with everything I own in them piling up at the other end of the conveyor belt. I don’t think I have any metal plates in my body. I’m pretty sure. Women stand behind me, neat little purses in one hand while the other rests dramatically on their collective hip. I wonder if I busted out into a foxtrot, if that would help matters. Fourth trip through. I think I’m actually holding my breath.

I pass. Thank God. I gather up all of my stuff. My keys, my pencil and book and magazine, my half a roll of quarters that has somehow popped loose of its paper and thereby transformed itself into a big old handful of loose change. My belt, which I have to put on, I suppose. I do so, right there, hoping that the people passing by, those moving from one place inside the building to another, don’t think I’m some kind of weirdo. They made me take it off! I would tell them.

8:55 AM
The Jury Room, and I, for one, think that my timing is impeccable. Just the right amount of minutes early. What a responsible juror I would be. The greeter woman sits at a low table just inside the door, asking for my summons. I hand it over and she tells me that I need to be assigned to a panel. The Circuit Court has a very high-tech system for this task, which involves reaching into a beat up old cardboard box and grabbing a slip of paper that has a number on it. I guess this is supposed to be a random assignment, but I can see what is written on each of the papers. My choices are 5, 12, or 14. Why these three numbers? Who can say? The system’s dim veil of intrigue is pulled ever tighter. I pick 12, for no good reason. Stepping further into the room, which looks for all the world like the waiting area at a regional airport, I see that everyone else looks supremely irritated. Rows and rows of burgundy colored chairs that look like the might be rather uncomfortable, and quickly prove that they indeed are. Everyone has spaced themselves out remarkably equally, as if it were choreographed, neatly maintaining a four chair cushion to their nearest fellow juror.

9:03 AM
There are exactly nineteen of us here. How many juries can you possibly get from nineteen people, assuming that the lawyers actually want to weed out those people who are too smart or too stupid? On the counter near the front of the room, there are five tiny, pathetic houseplants lined up in a perfect row. All five are different, each with a different colored and sized little planter, just sitting there, not looking particularly pleased with their lot in life. There is something rather depressing about them. In fact, whoever decided to “decorate” the place with these poor specimens might have been better off doing nothing at all, as this seems to be the theme around the rest of the room. No art or signs of any kind hang on the long, bare walls. A small bank of windows on one side reveals a day ugly and gray.

9:10 AM
Everyone here, upon further inspection, is old. I appear to be the only person in the room below the age of fifty. I wonder if I’m in the right place. Perhaps I’ve stumbled into Senior Court or something. In any event, it seems like something should be happening by now. Does punctuality mean nothing to the justice system? I settle in with a crossword puzzle.

9:28 AM
We’ve got movie sign! It’s time to watch a video. Bonnie, the jury room supervisor, invites us all to move to one side of the room so that we can see the television that hangs from a ceiling bracket off to one side. There is much murmuring and shifting and collecting of personal effects as we all slowly slide across the room, as if it were a ship listing to port, none too happy about having to give up our four-chair cushion of personal space. By the time I make my way over to within the appropriate angle of viewing, I’m forced to take a chair in the back row. Bonnie tells us that what we are about to see is an informational video that will tell us everything we need to know about being a juror. I am skeptical.

The first thing I notice when Bonnie hits the lights and cranks up the video, is that audio/visual quality is evidently not a top priority for the Circuit Court. The television is, I would guess, a late 70’s model 13-inch box with a blown speaker, barely clinging to life. Although I can hardly make out the screen from my seat thirty feet away, from the opening warbling strains of ostensibly patriotic sounding marching music, I can tell that this video totally sucks. It is so reminiscent of the wretched elementary school documentaries on electricity safety or how bears catch salmon, forced upon us when the teacher needed an hour of down time, that I have a flashback to sitting cross-legged (what we used to call Indian-style) on the cafeteria floor, daydreaming about chocolate milk. By the time I extract myself back to reality, the Honorable Timothy C. Evans, Chief Judge of the Circuit Court, is thanking us for being upright and dutiful citizens, every third word being swallowed by static. He soon fades out, and the Information begins.

Some schmo with a bad tie explains that we’re about to learn what to expect as potential jurors. We’ll learn about the process, the people involved, some courtroom terminology. What he doesn’t mention, however, is that if you have ever seen a television show, ever read a book, or ever heard of anyone or anything that is in any way remotely related to courts or lawyers or a judicial system of any kind, the following information will all pretty much be… review. Nor does he come out and state that if you are over the age of six and are not deaf, blind, mute, and mentally retarded, the entirety of the video will be insultingly remedial. Instead, he eagerly explains, with what seems to be inordinate enthusiasm, such difficult concepts as, “What is a judge?” and “Where do the lawyers sit?” and “What do we mean when we say ‘opening statement’?” We’re also reminded that the lawyers are not witnesses, nor do they actually decide the outcome of the case. In addition, we learn that the jurors actually need to listen and try to pay attention during a trial, even though that can be difficult.

He actually said that. That the Court understands that listening can be difficult, but we must try our best.

Apparently, their expectations for the average citizen are pathetically and depressingly low.

After about twelve minutes, the host insists that we, the viewers, now know everything there is to know about the system. I had no idea that I had always already known everything about the legal system, but apparently I did. Why am I not a lawyer? I better look into taking that “bar” thing I’ve heard speak of.

9:46 AM
Bonnie is back, informing us that most of our day will likely be spent sitting around doing nothing. Hey, no problem. Sounds like another day at the Front Desk. I can handle that.

Except… Wait a minute. There’s no computer here. No… no internet access. Oh Dear God! What am I going to do? Why are they punishing ME? I’m innocent! Innocent I tell you!

9:52 AM
Another quick scan of the room, I believe that the video was right on target. I quickly decide that if I ever find myself on trial for any reason, I don’t believe I want a jury. I don’t trust these people.

Time to scope out the vending machines.

9:57 AM
Slim pickings. And the prices seem a little high, too. But I have a pocketful of change… loose change, now, and I must use it. Diet Pepsi and Fritos. The breakfast of champions.

10:01 AM
It is deathly quiet in here. Like a library, only less… scholarly. I almost feel bad for crunching my Fritos. Almost. I consider chucking one of my corn chips at the lady a couple of rows in front of me, an urge that springs from nowhere so rapidly that I barely have the wherewithal to suppress it. It might have something to do with her hair, which is so remarkably round and large and curly. The woman is lucky. She has no idea how close she came to having some Frito-y goodness riding her head.

10:15 AM
A worker has come into the room with a small ladder to change the light bulb in an exit sign. This place hasn’t had this much excitement since the great Video Watching Migration of 9:28. He works quietly and efficiently, and soon he is gone.

Also: My God. It’s only 10:15?!

11:03 AM
Nothing is happening here. In fact, at this point, I’d be perfectly willing to wager that nothing has ever happened anywhere in the history of the world. Life has stopped. Molecules have ceased to vibrate in an excited state.

A man sits on a small sofa tucked away along one wall next to the rack full of hopelessly dull and outdated magazines. His head is leaned back against the wall, mouth gaping, periodically snoring rather loudly. He rattles and snorts, and although not a word is spoken, the rest of us are embarrassed for him. I cannot tell from across the room, but I’m pretty sure that there had to be at least a little drool involved.

For some reason the words “American Justice!” pop into my head. I’ve decided this will be my mantra for the rest of the day.

I need a pencil sharpener. Okay, perhaps need is a strong word, but my point has gotten a little more rounded than I generally prefer, owing to my vigorous puzzling. Perhaps one of the kindly jury room supervisors can help me out.

11:08 AM
I have elected against speaking to the jury room attendants, out of some irrational fear of disturbing them. Although if anyone here looks more bored than we do, it’s them. At least the rest of us suckers… uh, citizens… don’t have to here more than once a year.

I notice that any time I spent wondering what to wear was time utterly wasted. With the exception of one poor fool in a complete three-piece suit, the men doing their duty on this particular day are slobs.

11:25 AM
Big news. I have moved across the room to sit at a small table near the window which someone has inexplicably abandoned. Having the table makes doing crosswords much easier, although the chairs are exactly the same. On my way past the counter, I spy through an open door a wall calendar hanging in one of the offices back there, dutifully declaring it to be October 2002.

11:30 AM
Bonnie informs us that neither of the morning court sessions required a jury, and so we can break for lunch. She warns us not to skip out on the rest of the day, because the checks are handed out at the end. Oh, Bonnie. Do you really think any of us are here for the money? Oh, no, no, no. We are here because we want to fully participate in a democratic America, Bonnie. In fact, I’m a little insulted. If I thought it would teach you anything, Bonnie, I’d tell you to keep your fifteen dollars.

We are not required to report back to this room until 1:30pm.

I have two hours to spend in Rolling Meadows.

11:32 AM
As I head past the counter to leave, I notice it. Sitting right there on the counter, next to the furthest little plant on the left. An electric pencil sharpener. Right there! On the counter! Could it possibly be plugged in? I excitedly inserted my dull instrument and was thrilled to hear the motor churn to life. My pencil was sharp. Deadly sharp, really.

Highlight of my day. (Note that I did not say, “so far”.)

11:40 AM
I’m back in the car. I pull out of the garage and quickly leave all the high drama and stress of the courthouse behind me. For a while I just drive around Rolling Meadows. Not a bad little hood, I guess. Nice big houses. After a little bit, I pass what appear to be actual meadows. And they could, I suppose, be construed as “rolling”, although it’s a little hard to tell from the car.

11:55 AM
I have driven myself all the way over to Mt. Prospect, IL, in search of something to eat. Mt. Prospect is a town name which makes little sense, because all indications are that there is no “Mt.” within hundreds of miles of here.

12:08 PM
I find myself standing in a line at a Burger King, behind a man whose primary language appears to be Russian or perhaps Polish. He is trying to order from a kid who seems only to speak Spanish. It is not going well. Luckily, the international language of the Whopper soon prevails. Another satisfied customer.

12:15 PM
I now remember why I don’t go to Burger King. I have foolishly ordered a Western Whopper, duped by the commercials with the cowboys and the whole “open-flame” song. It sucketh to the highest heaven. I cannot finish it, mourning the death of an earlier era when I would never have been deterred from bolting down a burger, regardless of quality.

12:50 PM
I am back in the Circuit Court parking garage. I find and select the exact same space, even though there are other available spaces that are closer. Just because I can. I empty my pocket change and take my belt off. I am not going through that nonsense again. And if my pants fall down in court… well, we’ll just have to pin that one on the terrorists, won’t we?

12:54 PM
Back in the jury room. Passed the metal detector test the very first time. All is right with the world again. 96 minutes to go, and my duty is fulfilled. American Justice!
I’m back at my table, adjacent to another table, at which are seated two elderly women. They are discussing the pros and cons of Franciscan nuns. Apparently the both went to Catholic school as children. Over the next hour and a half, I will learn more about these two women than I know about anyone in the world, including that one woman on the bus who also never shuts the hell up.

12:56 PM
Old Lady A apparently had a rather nasty and persistent nail fungus, the details of which she is now relating. Loudly, and with no apparent shame. If only she had gone to a doctor right away.

12:58 PM
I get up to use the pencil sharpener again. I mean, it’s sitting right there! I bet I’m the first person to use that pencil sharpener in a long time. I’ve gotta be the only person to use it twice. American Justice!

1:01 PM
Dear Lord. Fungus woman’s husband died of a brain tumor a while back. Here come the details.

1:39 PM
Forty minutes next to these two, and I’ve heard an amazing tapestry of tales, intermingling, competing, complementing, pulling and twisting, back and forth, each more personal than the last. World War II, alcoholism, spousal abuse, divorces, tumors, children, pets. People who share this much about themselves with complete strangers make me nervous. The best story? This is a tie between Old Lady A’s tale of her childhood kitty-cat, a lovely Angora, that was cat-napped, tortured, and hung by a disturbed neighborhood boy, and, on a completely unrelated note, Old Lady B’s riveting saga of her daughter’s long yet ultimately triumphant journey from being an advertising executive to becoming the head pastry chef at one of Wolfgang Puck’s restaurant.

I realize that there is just one thing I do not know about these women. Their names.

1:54 PM
Thirty six minutes to go. I have proudly served my country by doing two crosswords, a criss-cross, a couple logic puzzles and an anagram puzzle. American Justice!

1:58 PM
I decide that if we were actually somebody’s peers, they might just be better off in prison.

2:10 PM
It appears now that I shall not have the chance to apply all of the wonderful knowledge I so astutely gleaned from that brilliant and insightful visual exploration of the jury process. Now I may live the rest of my life without the opportunity to meaningfully demonstrate that I know what “cross-examination” means.

2:11 PM
Also, I know what a stenographer is! I do! And all for what? For what I ask?

2:18 PM
I’ve come to the disturbing conclusion that the jury room supervisors might just out-Desk the Front Desk in terms of desking. Apparently, their job, in total, is to sit around and watch other people sitting around.

That’s it. That’s all they have.

You would think, with that kind of workload, they would eventually get around to flipping the calendar.

2:21 PM
The jury room phone is ringing! It’s ringing! Could this finally be a little action?

2:22 PM
No.

2:29 PM
Bonnie informs us that it is time to go. The well-lubed engines of the justice system required no juries. Not here. Not on this day.

We are called up by panel number to receive our compensation for the day. Soon, the fat check for $17.20 is in my hand. ($15.00 plus a hefty $2.20 allowance for travel expenses.) My day in Rolling Meadows has come to a close. I would like to think that I have done my duty valiantly and selflessly. That my country is a better place for my having served. That I have done my part for American Justice!

Whatever.