Jury Duty

Okay, gang, here it is the second week of the new year, and here I sit in the jury room, waiting to be called in front of a judge and presented with some hideous criminal case that will destroy what is left of my faith in human nature. In Hunterdon County.

I expected this sort of thing when I lived in Trenton, and I got it, too, serving on a grand jury once a week for something like six months in the year after the riots. That would have been 1969, I think. the most horrifying specimens were paraded in front of us that year, child molesters, arsonists, murderers, and we had to indict or not indict. We let all the marijuana cases go, as I recall, partly because the laws had been greatly liberalized that year but our defendants were to be prosecuted under the old laws, and partly because when we got home most of us planned to toke up.

My faith in humanity was not shaken by this experience, silly twit that I was. I had no idea what was going on. I dressed myself in a gray flannel suit and a white blouse with a high ruffled collar, and I looked so wise and cool that I was elected deputy foreman, even though I was dumb as a box of rocks. One thing I could always do was dress. Newspaper friends of my then husband used to try to pump me for information about the cases, but I was useless to them, not because it was unethical to discuss these things outside of the court, but because I hadn't the faintest clue.

Now here I am again, a petit juror this time, waiting to be called for a case. Or not. I hear there's an alleged child molester coming up for trial, and a young woman who allegedly murdered a beloved old man of the town. Ugh. With any luck at all the lawyers will settle, and the bailiffs will send us home.

Later that day--

I'm home now. My fears were not realized, I'm happy to say; we were not faced with a nasty criminal case. (I guess this means I get to keep my faith in the human race, although, of course, the bad guys are still out there.) What happened was, we were herded into the courtroom and gently briefed on a civil case involving a motorcycle accident. Many jurors were chosen and subsequently rejected, probably because they themselves had been involved in accidents at one time or another. Or for other reasons. We didn't know, because they all approached the bench to explain themselves privately to the judge and the lawyers while the white noise machine blocked our hearing.

So how did I get to go home, you ask? Simple matter. I approached the bench when my turn came and revealed that my eldest had been involved in a motorcycle accident some years ago.

"Do you feel that this might affect your judgment in this case?"

"Well, I've had a thing about motorcycles ever since."

"A thing?" the judge said.

I shugged. "I hate 'em." Tell the truth and shame the devil. They all smiled and showed me the door.