There are many things the United States requires of its citizens, among them paying taxes, taking part in the census and carrying overpriced health insurance. Like many of you, I’m no fan of anyone telling me to do things I’d prefer not to do, least of all a bunch of government bureaucrats. Yet I accept my civic responsibilities, however grudgingly, because one of the things I’m darn near certain I would dislike even more than being bossed around is being sent to prison. I imagine filling out a census form or the occasional IRS audit would seem like a walk in a really, really nice park compared to mandatory group showers and spontaneous rioting at San Quentin.
Still, of all my legal obligations as an American in good standing, there is one that I have either completely ignored or managed to finagle my way out of for the entirety of my adult life. I’m talking about, of course, jury duty. Jury duty is the law of the land equivalent to your wife waking you up in a panic at 3 am claiming she heard a noise downstairs. You know it’s your responsibility to go down and investigate and that a remote possibility exists that if you don’t you and wife could end up looking like extras from a slasher movie, but short of hearing someone crank-start a chainsaw with your own two ears you will invariably reassure your wife that whatever it is she thinks she heard was just the house settling, ignore it and go back to sleep. And guess what, 99 times out of a hundred nothing happens.
I don’t know what it was about the latest jury duty summons I received that invoked images of an ax-wielding madman coming for me and my wife — especially since I’ve never been married — but rather than toss the summons in the trash and take my chances like I’ve done countless times before, I decided to do my duty. To this day I’m not entirely sure why. It could have been fear of consequences. It seems the older I get the more I find myself sweating stuff I never worried about before, like obeying the speed limit, paying parking tickets and heeding the judicial system’s clarion call for compulsory service. If I had a wife, I bet she’d be proud of me.
Another possible explanation for my sudden bout of social responsibility is that I’d recently watched a documentary about Navy SEALS. Heck, if those guys can carry out military operations in hostile territory under such extreme conditions on behalf of this country, well, the least I could do is drag my butt down to an air-conditioned courtroom and try to lie my way out of jury duty. I owed America that much.
It says right on the summons that “no one is exempt because of his or her job, race, color, religion, sex, national origin, sexual orientation or economic status.” And while there’s no explicit mention of “complete indifference,” I figured it was implied. So it was that on the night before my first day of compulsory service I found myself logging into the LA Superior Court’s website and entering my juror ID number.
Now look, I’m not going to lie to you, there’s not a single aspect of the jury duty process that can even remotely be described as fun. But I’ve got to admit that there is something quite exhilarating about the moment just before you click “submit” on the website to find out whether or not you’re required to appear the next morning. It’s akin to playing Russian Roulette, only instead of a 20 percent chance you’ll blow your head off, you’re at risk of completely losing your mind during a six-week real estate civil trial.
“You DO NOT have to report on the appointed date.” Boom! Jackpot, baby! First click was a winner. And so was the next night, and the next one, and the one after that. Indeed, when I logged into “My Jury Portal” on Thursday, the eve of the final day I’d potentially have to report to jury duty, I was feeling pretty good about my chances of satisfying my obligation without ever having had to step foot in a courtroom. You know what happened next, right?
The following morning I was herded along with about 120 other potential jurors into a nondescript anteroom inside the Inglewood Courthouse. The woman in charge informed us that we’d been transferred to Inglewood from various other jurisdictions (I was slated for the courthouse near LAX) because Inglewood had exhausted its jury pool.
“That means that every one of you is almost certain to be assigned to a trial,” she said, although to me it sounded more like she said “you’re totally screwed, suckers!”
My mind began racing. What if I actually did wind up on a six-week real estate civil trial? As a guy who lives from one freelance writing gig to the other, I’d be bankrupt by the time we delivered a verdict. I’d lose everything I have, which really isn’t all that much to begin with. Or what if I wound up on some criminal trial involving the mob or ruthless drug lords who routinely intimidate jurors or, worse, “off” them? I’m too young to be offed. There’s so much more I want to do with my life, like see the pyramids and eat In ‘n Out burgers.
“Oh god this is awful!” I thought to myself. Or at least, I thought I’d thought it to myself. Turns out I’d inadvertently shouted it out loud. People were shooting me funny looks, including the woman in charge and an armed guard standing near the doorway. Oh, this was just great! Now they had me pegged as a troublemaker. You know what they do to troublemakers in the system, don’t you? I was guaranteed to be assigned the worst trial on the docket. My life, as I knew it, was over.
But then the woman in charge threw us a lifeline: “We understand that this is not the courthouse you were originally assigned to, so for that reason if anyone here is unable to serve at this time due to transportation issues or financial hardship, you can suspend your service for up to six months.”
Hallelujah! I wanted to run up to the front of the room and kiss this woman. But the armed guard was still eying me suspiciously so I thought better of it.
“Anyone interested in suspending their service just needs to fill out one of the short forms located on the table by the door, and then you’re free to go,” the woman in charge informed us. Before the words were even out of her mouth I leaped up and sprinted to the table with the short forms. Last thing I wanted was to get caught up in a crush of humanity all desperate to escape Inglewood at once.
But to my surprise there was no mass exodus. Not even a mini-stampede. On the contrary, of the 120 potential jurors in the room I was one of only six who got up to leave. And one of them looked like she wasn’t too sure about it either. Dear god, I thought, I’d just been holed up in a room with 114 crazy masochists who actually wanted to sit on a jury. Imagine what other sort of deviant behavior they’re into. It sent a chill up my spine.
It felt amazing to throw open the courthouse doors and step out into the warm embrace of freedom. You never know how you’re going to react when confronted with real danger, and in this case (pun intended) I felt I acquitted myself quite nicely (there’s another one for you). I was proud of myself, too, for almost sort of carrying out my civic duty. Doing so made me feel so, I dunno… grown up.
So I vowed right then and there that I would never again throw a jury summons into the garbage. When my six-month reprieve was up I planned to do the right thing… move the hell out of California!
