Oh look, there are all the men, sitting pretty on the benches. Please, allow me to prostrate myself at your feet and sit upon the dirty carpet again. Thank you for the honor, dickhead. Parking my ass, I look around at the crowd, assessing them for their possible competency. Yeah, they are all WAY more suited for jury duty than I. At least that is what I am telling myself to keep from vomiting. Check it out, Miss Crunchy Nuts is here...excellent. Great. Thank the baby Jesus she is not sitting anywhere near me today. Fuck, they are calling names, here goes. Nope, it's for the other trial, whatever the fuck that one is. I'm sure that's a week long case about some petty theft. That's why I'm not in that group. And so we sit, and sit, and sit. Finally, Andrew, I call him that because that's how the judge refers to him, comes out and starts calling us to come in. First, the numbered jurors who are to be questioned, then the rest of the poor saps who have to sit and listen.
In case I haven't made it clear, I did get a number. Number 20, that was me. We file into the court room and take our assigned seats. Mine being next to a guy who couldn't stop talking to me. His running commentary was making want to jam a pen into my ear canal. Today, the judge was going to ask us a variety of questions based on the things she read in our voir dire questionnaire. Cool, have at it, baby. My answers are gonna be golden! As she makes her way through the jurors, the stories I am hearing are priceless. "My step sister from my mom's previous marriage, once-removed, who I've only met five years ago, was fondled by her step uncle on her father's side when she was eight...that was 40 years ago. I'm not sure I can be fair." "Do you have a relationship with this woman now?" "No, I haven't seen her since we met five years ago." Really? I can see how the intensity of this issue coupled with your very close and lengthy relationship with her would make this trial challenging for you.
Another schmuck tries to sell a similar line of shit, the "I have a distant relative that I don't speak to who accused another distant relative of some kind of touchy-feely 85 years ago, so I shouldn't be here." Right. And I am Jesus come down off the cross. Shut the fuck up, ass head. Oh, this is a good one, "I have a conference to attend where I've been invited to speak and it's been two years of hard work for me. I won't get the grant money that I've already laid out for the trip if I don't go." Um, ok. So, your job is more important than everyone else's sitting here? Or is it your inflated sense of amazing that causes you to believe it so? By the way, that was Miss Crunchy Nuts. Sorry, Crunch, keep on sitting there. "My daughter needs to be driven to work and I am the only one who can do it. There is no public transportation where we live and her job is far." Your daughter chose a job that she could not get to on her own and now it's MY problem? Eat my ass.
Yay! It's my turn. "So, Ms. Fiore, do you have any prior knowledge about this case from any form of media?" "I do." "From which form?" "The news." "Do you think you can still be fair if we imposed upon you?" "No, I do not." "One more question, Ms. Fiore, in the matter regarding your mother, do you feel it was handled fairly?" "I most certainly do NOT." "Thank you for your honesty." Well, that should do it. I'm feeling pretty good at this point. Almost superhuman. The judge thanks us all and sends us on our lunch break. A break from the action, quite nice, but extended because a bunch of the potentials decided to pass notes to the judge which then had to be discussed at length in chambers. Thanks, assholes. I guess they didn't realize they'd be affecting ALL of us with their invented excuses for why they couldn't possibly serve. We return after having to wait in the corridor yet again, only to have these notes addressed, one by one, painfully. After the notes were rendered useless to these boobs, the judge hands us over to the prosecuting attorney.
Very nice guy, amiable, funny, personable. But he wants a jury. I could be someone he wants, badly. I'd be a dream for his side. He goes around the room, asking, joking, getting more ridiculous answers and stories. The same lady who has the inept daughter now admits that she hardly understands English. That's a legitimate impediment. "How long have you been in this country, ma'am?" "Twenty years." OK, there's a line and you just jumped right the fuck over it, lady. You cannot be here that long and barely speak English. How the fuck do you survive speaking only Tagalog? This ain't the Philippines, honey. Yet, you may be excused because you're an idiot who refuses to learn the language of the country that provides you a lovely life. Nice.
Did I mention the attorney's name was Mr. Butts? Very unfortunate. Mr. Butts gets up to me and says he isn't going to ask me anything because I've made my stance very clear. Well, ALRIGHTY!!!!! That is what I wanted to hear. He moves on to Blabber Boy and whoops, we are done for today because we've run out of time. What does this mean? You guessed it, we get to come back tomorrow! Fabulous. These are three days I won't ever get back. Thanks, jurors 1-19 and 21 for making sure we couldn't possibly have finished today by sharing all of your sob stories. Driving home, I think about tomorrow and wonder what the greasy defense attorney could ask me and begin planning my answers. He isn't ready for me...he's never met someone with no filter in a court room! Wait for it, Clancy, I'm coming at you.
Fast forward, it's Wednesday, and I am back at the court house, sitting on the goddamn floor AGAIN. This time I am dreaming of ways to castrate the men in the benches. My kindle and I are connected at the eyeball and I am just waiting to hear Andrew call us in. Lost in my trashy novel, the sound of "Department 4"rings through the corridor and I am jostled into reality. Fuck. It's that time again. We stand up and file into the court room and take our now familiar seats. Judge O'Malley talks to us about today's portion of the program. Oh just bring it on already. For this segment of jury selection, we are going to be questioned by the defense attorney, Mr. Sleazebag. He bumbles up to the podium on wheels, spreads out his stapled-together file folders covered in Post-It notes, and starts talking to us like we are old friends. I think not, fucker.
Mr. S tries to make jokes but they fall as flat as his comb-over. Nobody wants to hear his stand-up routine on day three. Get to the fucking point. He decides to shake things up and go backwards up the juror list starting with number 21. Great, that means I go second. Then it occurs to me, he should gird his loins. I'm a force to reckoned with, bitch. He asks us all the same question, "After reading the paragraph on the first page of your questionnaire, and seeing 150 counts, 14 children, and a teacher, what was your gut reaction?" Excellent. Here's my chance to draw blood. After Mr. #20, he turns to me and asks the question. My response, "I was disgusted and repulsed. This kind of behavior is absolutely unacceptable in any setting but to be perpetrated by a teacher is reprehensible. As a fellow teacher, I am furious with his actions and treatment of children. We are trained to behave a certain way. That is not what we do, it is not how we are trained, it is inappropriate, and illegal. This man is evil in my eyes and there are boundaries when dealing with children and he crossed all of them." "So, based on that, will you be able to sit through the testimony and be fair?" "No way!" The judge chuckled and said, "He did ask for total honesty." Mr. S thanked me and moved on.
Now if you think my response was classic, you haven't heard anything yet. One woman began tearfully explaining that since "I can't have children, I am very sensitive to children.*SNNIIIFFFF*. I just don't think I can, *SOB* sit and listen to the testimonies of all those children. *Blows nose and wipes eyes* I'm not sure I could be fair given my situation. *SNIFF, SOB* Lord, holy, baby Jesus H Christ on a Ritz cracker, lady, are you fucking serious??? You don't have kids, yet this is more traumatic to you than, let's say, the rest of us who DO? Damn. And just when I thought she was the most ridiculous woman on the entire planet and I was cursed to be in the same room with her, Mr. S. gets to Mrs. Chem Instructor. To clarify, she's Ms. Crunchy Nuts and also the one who had the conference, making her very important. Well, when asked the very same question we were all asked, and then asked if her anxiety was going to cause an issue, her face dropped. Hey, you gave the note to the bailiff, you wanted it addressed, here it is, dipwad. As her chin began to quiver, she broke out into tears as she choked out the words, "It would be, be , be very difficult for me because *SNIFF* my husband and I talk about everything and *SOB, SOB, SNIFFFF* we discuss our entire day with each other, and I wouldn't be able to tell him about, about, thiiiissss. It would be so hard *SOB* to hold this back from hiiiimmmm." "Would you tell us if you needed a break if you felt you needed one, if you felt anxious?" "Yes, yes I would." Awww, you poor wittle baby girl. You has anxiety disorder? Which means what? Oh, I know, I know. You have a prescription for something that helps abate that feeling before it even starts. I do. Pop a fucking happy pill and suck it up, Buttercup!
Everyone had been questioned and we were all looking around at each other, wondering what was next? Would they make us come back tomorrow? Will we find out today if we've been excused? The judge tells us that she needs to confer with the attorneys in chambers and we should wait for their return. Sure, why not. We all start chatting among ourselves and my seat buddy tells me that he knows there is no way I'm going to be picked. I laugh and tell him that I'd be a dream for the prosecution and a nightmare for the defense. The three stooges return to the court room, the judge sits down and begins to tell us that several of us are being excused for cause. Translation, you people are the worst candidates for this trial, EVER. She starts calling names as I sit impatiently, tapping my toes on the floor. Finally, number six, the last juror released of duty is, you know it....ME. We are asked to go to the jury office and turn in our release slips with our badges. I've never run down a flight of stairs so fast. I'm not even sure my feet touched each step. We wait in line, hand them in, and walk out together, incredulous. One of the older jurors turns to me and says, "This is it?" I look at him and say, with utter glee, "We are done!" Did you think this would end any differently? Are you friggin kidding me right now???
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