It's Not Just a Duty, It's a Privilege

I have been called for jury duty later this month. This is nothing new; I’ve been called numerous times since I’ve lived in DC. But this time is a little different—it’s Federal Court and I have a bad feeling that I’m not going to be able to get out of it. Back in September, I was called for jury duty for the Federal court. Unlike the regular DC court, which is one day or one trial service, with the Federal court, you are on call for two weeks and can be called in and selected at anytime during those two weeks. Since I had a business trip scheduled during the time for which I was called, I asked for a deferral, and it was granted. I knew they would get me sooner or later, and indeed, I got another summons. Only this one is a bit different. Instead of being on call for two weeks, I have been pre-selected for a specific trial, which is expected to last five weeks(!). I’ve asked for another deferral on the grounds of my job (if I were on a five-week trial, I would
basically still have to do my job as I have daily and weekly deadlines and no one to back me up full time). But I have a bad feeling they’re not going to buy the job excuse a second time.

Of all the times, I’ve been called for jury duty, I’ve only actually served on a trial once. The experience was pretty surreal. It ranged from the scary (a shackled witness wearing old school striped prison duds who got up to the witness stand and said “I ain’t sayin’ shit.”) to the funny (all the witnesses had giggle-inducing nicknames like “Shoop-Shoop”). It was a first degree murder trial, involving one crack dealer who allegedly killed another crack dealer. It was, for the most part, depressing as hell and often mind-numbingly boring. There were a few interesting moments, courtesy of one of the witnesses. Joy* took the stand one day, and I looked over at her and thought, hmmh, that woman sort of looks like a man. But she had a female-sounding name, so I figured maybe she just had very strong features. She identified herself as a prostitute who plied her trade in the area where the murder happened.

When questioned by the prosecutor as to why she was in an alley, she said that she was, “paying the water bill.”
The prosecutor replied, “And by ‘paying the water bill,’ you mean?”
“I was peeing,” Joy replied, as if he were a slow child who needed everything explained in great detail.

I love this euphemism, because it doesn’t really make any sense. It would seem to be more appropriate as another term for turning tricks, but whatever.

At another point during her testimony, Joy told the rather stiff judge, “You got it going on, girlfriend,” which was so absurd that everyone in the courtroom burst out laughing, including the judge.

I sat on the jury for eight days, taking copious notes. Some of the other jurors actually commented on my mad note-taking skills, asking if it was my first trial. They were mostly older, had served numerous times, and were pretty jaded about the whole process. But I figured, if I have to be here, I’m going to do it right. And when you’re potentially sending someone to prison for life, taking lots of notes can’t be a bad thing.

After we heard the closing arguments, the judge announced that the two alternates would be released at this point, before deliberations. There were 14 of us, and we didn’t know who the alternates were. They called my juror number and told me I was dismissed. I walked out of there, feeling a little weird. I was mostly relieved to be done, but I was partly disappointed that after putting in all that time (and taking all those damn notes), I wasn’t going to be deliberating. I heard from another juror (who was a friend of a friend) that the defendant was found guilty, which didn’t exactly come as a shock to me.

A year or two later, I was reading an article in the Post about a bail bondman who had hired two crack whores to kill his wife. (There are so many things wrong with that sentence. Beyond the obvious one of murder being wrong, is it really ever a good idea to hire crack whores for an intricate murder-for-hire plot? And wouldn’t a bail bondsman perhaps have access to a more professional grade of hitpeople?) Shockingly, the plot went awry, and the crack whores were arrested. One of them turned state’s evidence. The article described “her” as a male prostitute who dresses as a woman. And her name was Joy. Actually, I yelled, “I knew it. Because chicks totally don’t have Adam’s apples.”

*Not her real name.