At Jury Duty
The jury room is packed with over five hundred people when I arrive, nearly late. Outdoor temperatures hover around freezing, the wind is up, and everyone is wearing heavy coats, sweaters. There is a steamy, musty odor in the overheated room. A chubby, overdressed woman in extremely high heels is more or less shouting at everyone to take a seat, assuring all that preliminaries would be over in a few minutes and we could get out of the overheated room. Nothing, she says, can start until everyone is seated.
I make my way to the far side of the room and spot a vacant chair between a young man with a thin, scraggly beard and a distinguished-looking older man with a full head of white hair. The younger man wears a hooded sweatshirt over stained jeans and heavy work boots. The older man is nicely attired in a business suit over a bright yellow cashmere sweater and red necktie. I work down the row and sit down between them. I’m the last to be seated.
The chubby woman almost immediately calls for us to rise. A judge enters, greets us, makes a few stale and innocuous jokes, then administers the oath, and we are all invited to sit down and wait while those who have any valid reasons why they should be excused come forward. A long line quickly forms in front of a desk where the judge sits down to hear individual pleas to be dismissed.
The younger man next to me watches the line form and shakes his head. “Shit. Gonna take all morning.”
“It’ll go faster than you think,” I say. “They don’t excuse very many.”
“They excuse enough,” he says.
“In Ohio,” the older man says, “it was harder to get an excuse than it is here.”
“I wish I had me an excuse,” the younger man says. “Missing a day’s work.”
“They’re not supposed to dock you for jury duty,” the older man says.
“Yeah, right.” He looks across me at the older man. “Boss’ll dock me for taking a shit.”
“You should report him,” the older may says. “That’s not legal.”
“He don’t care about legal. But when you gotta take a shit, you gotta take a shit. Nobody reports taking a shit, you know?” He laughs.
The older man is miffed. “I was talking about docking you for jury duty. If he does, you should report him.”
“You report him. I report him, he’ll fire my ass. Pissed off enough I’m here.”
The older man mentally chews on this for a moment. “This is your duty.”
“This is fucked,” the younger man says.
The older man nods affirmatively. “It’s an honor and a privilege.”
“Pain in the ass.” Suddenly something in the line of excuse-seekers attracts the younger man’s attention. “See that redhead?” He folds his jury summons paper into a cone and points it toward her. “The one in the blue sweater with the big neck on it?” He leans around me to see the older man more clearly. “What you call that? A mock turtleneck or some shit?”
The older man displays disinterest. “I think it’s called a scoop neck.’“
“She’s hot! Got ten bucks says she gets excused.
“She may have a reason,” the older man says, matter-of-factly.
“Yeah, she’s got a pair of them,” the younger man snorts. “Right under that sweater.” He stares openly at her. “Two dollars says when she gets to the desk she leans over. Gives his honor a peek at them.”
“That’s disgusting,” the older man says with a sniff.
“Oh yeah?” the younger man says. “You the one getting the peek, you wouldn’t think so.” She steps forward as the line moves. “She’s hot and she knows it.” He sits back, folds his arms over his chest. “Bet she leans way forward and he lets her off.”
“Please, be quiet,” the older man says.
The younger man looks at me. “What d’you think? Think she’ll lean?”
“I wouldn’t take the bet,” I reply with a glance at the older man who is staring stiffly ahead, his jaw clenched.
“Whatever,” the younger man says. “She’ll lean, give him a peek. She’ll get off.”
The older man shifts his weight, tries to cross his legs, but there’s no room in the rows for such a maneuver. “Probably picking that sweater out all morning,” the younger man says. “Probably got some Victorian’s Secret on under it.” He leans forward, looks around at the older man. “Or nothing at all.” He winks at me. “Awl natural.”
“She may have a perfectly valid excuse,” the older man says.
“Sure she does. And he’ll get a good look at it when she leans over that desk.”
“You’re—” the older man starts, then stops himself and deliberately folds his hands on his lap, studies them.
The younger man half-rises and looks around the room. “Got all these other assholes. What they need me for?”
The older man seems relieved by the change of subject. “It’s the first of the year. I’m sure the dockets are full, and—”
“Never pick me,” the younger man says. Then he looks at me. “You?”
“No,” I say. “I never get picked.”
“Me, neither.” He makes a fist and lightly pounds his leg.
“Waste of fucking time. Don’t want a asshole like me. Fucking lawyers. Nothing better to do between ski trips.”
“I’ve been selected six times,” the older man puts in. There’s pride in his voice.
“Bet that’s right,” the younger man says, snickers.
“What do you mean by that?” the older man asks, bristling.
“Nothing.” He snickers again.
The older man glares at him, then checks me for a reaction and says softly but still audibly. “I don’t wonder that he’s not been selected. Back in Cincinnati, I was called every year, and I was selected often. I was proud to do it.”
“Ever been picked here?” the younger man asks.
“Uh, no.”
“Well, this ain’t Cincinnati, and I never get picked.”
“Maybe this is your lucky day,” the older man replies.
“Lucky, shit!” He laughs. “Don’t want to be picked. Just don’t have an excuse, so I got to hang around here. Lose money all day. They pick you, you got to serve all week. That gets expensive.”
“I told you, they have—”
The younger man waves his fingers dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
There is a quiet, chilled silence between them. We watch the line move forward. Some are excused, some return with crestfallen expressions to their chairs and desultorily take their seats.
“Look, it’s your civic duty to serve,” the older man says abruptly. “You would want people on a jury who would want to serve if it was your trial, right?”
“Just as soon not get busted in the first place,” the younger man laughs.
Somewhat timidly, the older man asks, “What do you do?”
“Sell dope.”
“What!?”
The younger man nods, opens his hands to express honesty. “Mostly coke, but some crack, a little meth.” He leans forward, looks directly at the older man. “Mostly to kids, you know, on school yards and shit.” The older man becomes agitated, starts to stand up. “Chill, Pop,” the younger man says. “I work construction.”
The older man looks away, embarrassed. “Construction.”
“Yeah. Run a front loader. Got a wife and kids, house and a car just like you.”
“I see.”
“And I got rent and a car payment. Know what I mean?”
“I know,” the older man says.
“Yeah, right.” He rests his elbows on his knees, folds his hands under his chin and leans forward. “Need to be at work. Whole job’s on hold till I get there. That’s why I’ll get docked.” He shoots the older man a hard look. “Don’t say nothing. You don’t know how it is.” He studies the older man’s silence. “Kind of car you drive?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Mercedes, I’ll bet. Or a BMW.”
“If you must know, I drive a . . . uh, a Toyota.”
“No shit?” He looks at the older man, his eyes wide. “Corolla? Camry, maybe?” The older man shakes his head, looks away. “Didn’t think so.” He looks the older man up and down. “I’m guessing Avalon?” The older man doesn’t react. “Maybe a Lexus?” The older man stares straight ahead, folds his arms. “Thought so. Toyota,” he says with a sneer. “Shit.” He looks at me. “Lexus’s just a Toyota with a hard on.” He puts his chin back on his fists. “Boss don’t give a shit. You’re late, not there, don’t get paid.”
The older man shakes his head. “You should file a complaint.”
“Yeah, right. Then I’ll file for unemployment.” Suddenly, he looks hard at the older man. “What would you know about it?”
“I work for CityCorp.”
“Big whup.”
The older man looks directly at the younger man. “I know about these things.”
The younger man shifts his weight, grimaces. “You don’t know shit.” He looks at me. “Think they could have found harder chairs? Going to make us sit on our ass all morning, they should put in some good chairs.”
“We won’t be here long,” I say.
“Shit,” the younger man says in a louder voice than before. “This is just fucked.”
“Would you mind watching your language?” the older man says, looking around. “There’re women present.”
“Women—shit,” the younger man says.
“I—” the older man starts, looks at me, cuts himself off.
“Just need a good excuse,” the younger man says. “I’m there by ten, I only lose half a fucking day.”
“I’m telling you, you—” the older man starts.
“Nearly showtime,” the younger man says abruptly, then nods toward the redheaded woman, now two people back from the desk. “Still time to get a bet down.”
The older man makes a snorting noise. “It doesn’t work that way.”
“Take the bet, then.”
“All right,” the older man snaps. “How much?”
“That she leans, or that she gets off?”
“That she—uh . . .” He’s momentarily befuddled. “The first one.”
“Chicken to go all the way?”
“She might have a valid excuse. I can’t bet on that. You don’t know, can’t find out.”
“Could go up and ask her.” The older man sets his jaw. “Might give you a peek, too.” The older man still says nothing. Finally, the younger man sits back. “You taking the bet or not?” The older man nods. “Okay, we’re on.” The redheaded woman is now at the desk. “Ten bucks.”
The older man is surprised. “Two.”
The younger man leans forward, stares at the older man. “You got the dough, right?”
He’s shocked. “Of course, I—”
“Want to make it a hundred?”
“No!”
The younger man gives me a quick wink. “That way you won’t have to break a bill.”
“Two dollars.”
“Got a C-note burning a hole in my pocket.” He winks at me again.
“No,” the older man says, “I—” He stops as the redheaded woman steps up to the desk, then bends deeply at the waist, much farther than necessary, her palms flat on the desk top. The judge’s eyes drop to the scoop of her sweater’s neckline, linger there while he smiles like an idiot, obviously not hearing her or looking at the paper she has handed him. He continues to stare down her neckline as he signs it.
“Double or nothing she gets off,” the younger man says.
The older man is flabbergasted, confused. “No! I mean—”
“Hurry up. Now or never! All bets down!”
“All right, you—” The redheaded woman quickly stands up straight, lightly brushes her fingers over the judges outthrust hand, takes her paper, adjusts her shoulder bag, and walks directly out of the room.
The younger man explodes in loud laughter. People around us turn to look at him. “That’s four bucks you owe me, Pop.” The older man doesn’t respond. He’s staring incredulously at the judge, the others in line, the outer door through which the woman has disappeared. “C’mon,” the younger man goads. “Pay up. You work for CityCorp. You got it.” He thrusts out a grimy hand across my front, palm up.
The older man stares at the hand. He stiffens, looks straight ahead. “No, I . . . I mean—”
“Hey, a bet’s a bet. You gonna crap out?”
The older man looks at me, helpless. “I, uh . . . I don’t gamble. I didn’t bet. I mean, I didn’t mean to . . . It was—I, uh . . . .” He abruptly comes to his feet, looks around, then quickly makes his way down the row, across the aisle and finds a vacant chair and sits down, his hands folded in front of him, staring straight ahead. I can see sweat trickling down his neck.
The younger man stares at him for a moment, then sits back, folds his arms. “Knew that would happen. Happens every time.” He laughs dryly. “Just like my boss. Goddamn Yankees. Fuck you walking.” He leans forward, studies the now much shorter line of excuse-seekers, then nods toward a short man on crutches. “Okay, how about it? Wanna bet on the gimp?”