Loopier by the Minute

So, guess who gets to be on a fucking jury? 

Evidently, the Feds are pretty serious about their jury summonses.  State court (which I managed to only get one of in the 15+ years since I registered to vote), you can call and whine, and they will let you out of it.  Federal court, you better be bleeding from the eyeballs and have a doctor’s note that you’re contagious, plus some sort of threat to someone else’s life, before they will consider allowing you to shirk your civic duty.   Before the first jury was selected, the judge basically invited excuses.  About 10 people got up (I was not one - I read the directions that pretty much said “you’re fucked, get over it”), and she told them all, other than one, to sit down and shut up. 

Furthermore, the Feds don’t just have one-week jury terms.  Oh, no.  It’s like 3 or 4 weeks, and even if you serve on ONE jury, you could still end up stuck on ANOTHER one.

Being a paralegal was no excuse.  There were three lawyers in the jury pool and they didn’t let any of them leave either. 

The day did not start well.  I couldn’t sleep for shit, and clearly had an unconscious battle with the snooze, which the snooze won handily.  (And whatever asstard decided we need to report at 7:30 for jury duty can blow me.)  I managed to throw myself together, find a fucking parking space, and walk the three blocks from said parking space to the courthouse (noting several more proximate parking lots along the way.) 

Despite my prompt arrival, it was wait in line time.  Then it was sit and watch a stupid 1980’s video on jury service.  (Seriously, I forgot that horrible color – and those horrible shoulder pads – were that prevalent.  Almost all the women in the film were wearing that “burn your retinas” royal blue, and had shoulders better than any NFL player.)  Then it was go through questions by the judge. 

By this time, it’s 10.  I haven’t had my coffee, I haven’t had a smoke, and I’m decidedly tired and cranky.  We are within meters of the jury assembly room with its tantalizing aroma of caffeine, and then no.  We are herded (and I do mean herded – seriously, by trip number three to the courtroom, I was suggesting a group “MOO” to the other panelists) into a conference room.  Where the Jury Nazi informs us that if we’re not called for the next panel, we can go smoke.

Guess who was on the next panel? 

So after another hour, I finally obtain some coffee.  Shitty and painful coffee, but coffee, nonetheless.  Still no smoke. 

The next trip to the courtroom is where I get tagged for actual service.  Maybe the defendant will take a plea bargain.  We do have a number to call tomorrow after 5, just to check. 

Super. 

I go back to get my car.  The lot where it was parked is one of those “Step 2: put your junk in that box” kind of lots without an attendant.  I actually ALMOST forgot to pay (but I FUCKING WELL DID), but I come back to a yellow envelope telling me I didn’t.  I look at the number on the parking space more closely (and with benefit of caffeine and bright sunlight, neither of which I had at 7:15 this morning) and I put my junk in the wrong box. 

 That will involve phone calls.

I go back to the office to a bunch of bitching and dealing with the Big Boss, he of the ADD and inexplicable moods. 

At least the attorneys trying the case will be sucking up to the jurors instead of bitching at them.