Last Monday I had jury duty. I know what you’re thinking: “Dag, Jiffypop, seems like you end up with mad jury love every 2 years on the dot!” You’d be right. Since I became eligible for juries at age 18, I have been called four times. In 9 years. I’m a popular guy, down at the Jury Picking Division or whatever.
This time, I was called to Federal court, which is nice because you get paid more. $40 a day, plus travel expenses, because there’s only one federal court and you can be called up from Rehoboth or wherever. To make the money you actually have to get picked for a jury, but since I was batting a thousand for that, I figured it wouldn’t be a problem. Also I discovered that federal civil trials don’t require a full jury of 12; they usually pick 9 or so, with no alternates, and as long as there are still 6 at the end of the trial, it’s all gravy.
So I rolled up to the courthouse, where they told us all about how the jury would be picked, which is 30 minutes of my life that I’m not getting back. Then they dragged us all up to the courtroom, where I brought all kinds of reading material (the smart juror brings two magazines and a fun novel at minimum).
The judge (The Honorable and Extremely Bitchin’ Kent A. Jordan) explained what the trial was going to be about (some prison inmate was suing some of the guards that allegedly beat him up and took away his girlish laughter), and asked a bunch of questions related to it, like “Do any of you know the plaintiff,” “Do any of you know the defendants,” “Have any of you been beaten in prison by a giggling warden with yellow eyes,” that kind of thing. A bunch of us stuck our hands up (my buddy Craig is a prison guard), and so the judge had us come up individually and explain ourselves.
During this process, we weren’t permitted to read any of our stuff. Apparently the bailiffs wanted us paying close attention to what was going on, even though the judge and lawyers were whispering and we couldn’t hear a damn thing. This meant that I sat there largely without entertainment for the better part of 2 hours. Plus I had to pee.
Finally the judge got to me and I reported that I have a friend what works at the prison, and also yer honor I don’t much care for them muhnorities and stuff, and if y’all could see fit to lettin’ me outta this I could be gettin’ back to my huntin’ and drankin’ and birthin’ lizard babies. Then I sat back down.
Finally, they started drawing names out of a hat to fill the initial jury pool. They were going to pick 18 people, and then the lawyers could whittle that down to the 9 they wanted. I figured there were 40 or 50 potential jurors, so I had a theoretical 36-45% chance of being picked, but because God likes to see me on juries, I was sure I’d be picked, probably at #18 just to add to the humor. (Whenever I get picked for a jury, I’m pretty sure God is up in heaven screaming “BURRRRNNNNNN!!!!!” at me.)
Oddly enough, I didn’t get picked. I was like, “whaaaaa?” but sat quietly as they filtered the jury down to 9 sad individuals. Then the judge dismissed us, and I sprinted from the building before they realized that they had freed me.
To be honest, I almost wish I’d been picked. Of all the juries I’ve been on, I’ve never actually gotten to hand down a verdict, which would be pretty awesome. And that plaintiff looked like he needed a good dose of reality. (A reality in which prison guards can beat the prisoners for fun and profit. That would be awesome. Particularly if they then shared the profits with me.)
