Out on Bail

The earlier part of this week was spent dealing with the sprawling judicial system of San Diego, although my role was limited to that of a prospective juror. Boasting the third-largest court system in the country (behind only Los Angeles and Chicago, as we were repeatedly told throughout our jury-lounge stay) means San Diegans get tapped for jury service with a frequency not found in most other districts. Since switching my license and residence over to San Diego 2 1/2 years ago, I've been twice called up for duty, and have found the courts to be reluctant to bump dates. I'm curious about the judicial process, and would have no problem serving on juries, if only the trials wouldn't seem to always fall on the cusp of a planned vacation or major class assignment. My attempts to postpone jury service earlier this month nearly fell apart even after I appeared in person to speak with jury services and brandish a next-day plane ticket to Montana. It was only after some begging and pleading to the disinterested clerk that I was able to push my service to Feb. 17 (I've since heard that San Diegans have a notorious reputation for skipping jury duty, and that if one simply shows up on any weekday during the 90-day circle around one's stated court date, none will be the wiser).

So on Tuesday morning I once again took my seat in the vast jury lounge and listened to a portly robotic man rattle off details of employer forms and how to "relax until orientation begins". I buried myself in a magazine as we once again were subjected to a ridiculously cheesy video presentation on California's court system and how much fun we were all going to have deciding the fates of fellow citizens ("California - the greatest state in the union" chirps a female narrative over patriotic music and images of the High Sierras, "but sometimes, we have disagreements"). I suffered through the protracted speech by the judge-of-the-week, who mercifully had a much shorter speech than my previous judge, who had rattled on and on for nearly twenty-five minutes with pointless anecdotes about jurors stopping him in hallways to tell him how wonderful their experience had been. I had settled in for a long wait with a volume of Hunter S. Thompson for company, and had just turned the page to a segment entitled "Here Come De Judge" when I heard my name called for a fourth-floor courtroom.

A too-jovial bailiff spent several minutes pronouncing every single name incorrectly before assigning us numbers 1 through 35 (I received 22) and herding us into courtroom 67, where our judge introduced himself, let on that we were selected for a six-day trial, and commenced to have us introduce ourselves and submit to questioning from both attorneys. It became clear that the case would involve a nearly three-year-old car accident in which culpability had been admitted but damages were to be determined. It also became very clear that this was to be a trial consisting mainly of opposing medical testimony regarding long-term health effects.

While I was fully prepared to sit on the jury and perform my service, I can't deny that I had also carefully considered multiple ways in which I might duck out of my duties, either through simple body language, admitting bias or more extreme measures. Jane suggested periodically shouting out "Guilty!" or "Mistrial!" at random moments. I considered asking the judge multiple times if I would personally be allowed to execute the accused, asking if I might be allowed to introduce some evidence of my own, or constantly making objections throughout the session. But in the end, it was my wife who got me bounced from the box - or, more accurately, thanked and excused. With a case so wrapped up in doctors and medical testimony, the mere fact that I spend my evenings with a certified M.D. was enough to have me quickly excused the moment I took the place of previously-excused Juror #12. The fact that I was excused by the plaintiff's lawyer went some ways towards convincing me the health problems in question were to be bogus in nature, especially as the defense attorney had sternly asked me whether I realized that "doctors were people, just like everybody else"? I had responded that, yes, I had discovered that along the way, which caused a ripple of laughter in the courtroom and led the defense attorney to try a little humor of his own ("So, you're a librarian and your wife's a doctor? One final question, and you don't need to answer this; Did you meet her in the library?" Chirp chirp, chirp chirp...).

I was out of there pretty fast after that, and while I admit to being slightly disappointed in not being able to meet my wife for lunch downtown over the next week, I'm glad I'm not currently sitting in a fourth-floor courtroom looking at PowerPoint presentations of slipped discs. I'm sure they'll tap me next year - I'm up for duty again in twelve months.