Moby's Courthouse Adventure

Going to the mailbox is always an adventure. No matter how many weeks in a row it spits out nothing but bills and junk-mail you find yourself hoping that something special will be waiting for you today. So with baited breath I opened the door to my tiny little house of snail-mail, hoping to spy the corner of a colored envelope, the signifier of a greeting card, or the bulging hello of manilla carefully cradling an unexpected gift. What I found was, indeed, unexpected. That cringe-inducing green logo from the State of Oregon. Anything from the state is never a good thing, unless it's a tax rebate check, but I owed this year, so I was unable to discern any good from this arrival.

Frowning with a deep consternation I carried it inside, set it on the counter, and stared at it trying to guess it's contents. Imagining the worst would make whatever was inside seem not so bad. Did I have a warrant out for my arrest? Was there an error in my taxes? Problem with my license? The sweat of fear began dripping from my furrowed brow. Just open it, I told myself, and get it over with.

I groaned. I cursed. I threw the damned thing across the kitchen. I cursed again.

Jury duty. I was being called for jury duty.

Being eligible for jury duty for the last twenty years, I had never once been summoned. Finally, it was my arch-enemy, Boregon, that caught up to me. Damned tree-hugging-granola-eating-Birkenstock-wearing-bleeding-heart-liberal-hippies. Oh, wait, that's me....

So being the out-spoken cultural critic that I am, I figured, hey , no big deal. No lawyer worth his salt would want my opinionated and jaded self on a jury. I'd be home by noon.
Luckily for me the courthouse is only a few blocks away. I dressed rather sloppy, hoping to give a cavalier impression. Through the metal detector, down into the limestone depths of the basement. Taking my seat in a crowded waiting room, I filled out a stack of information sheets. This was when I began to realize that should I ever be convicted of a crime, I never want a jury of my peers to decide my fate.

The night before I was instructed to call an information line that would give instructions as to what is expected at the courthouse. Certain things were not allowed: shorts, sweats, hats, and newspapers. Simple and straight-forward, or so I thought.

Did I magically get transported to Mississippi or did Oregon just become the most uneducated and bassackwards state in the Union? (And, yes, I just insulted Mississippi). Looking around me, I spied five people with newspapers, two baseball hats, and one plasticene soccer-mom flaunting her bought-and-paid-for assets in Juicy Couture. Violating the guidelines wasn't going to get anyone out of serving, as it was made clear that those who did would have to return in two weeks to complete a full jury service. All of this was in the informational bulletin we were instructed to call in for the night before. The summons itself was to be brought with as it had your juror number posted on it.

Six people did not bring their summons and did not know their juror number. Within the first fifteen minutes of my being there, seven people were asked to go home and report back in two weeks per their new summons that would be sent to them. The newspapers were confiscated, the baseball hats held until their owners were dismissed for the day. And then it got even better.

Upon entering the holding area everyone was given a clipboard with a series of forms to fill out. The top form instructed which we kept and which we turned in. There was a counter with baskets and above the baskets were examples of which sheet was to go in which basket. No less than fifteen people either had to ask which sheets to turn in or put the wrong sheets in the wrong baskets. So by this time I had counted thirty idiots out of the sixty five who had originally been there. Almost half of the jurors summoned that day were too stupid to make it past the sign-in.
I pray to whatever God or gods may hear me that I never ever ever have to go to court in Oregon.

My number is called and I am whisked away upstairs with about twenty others to a stuffy courtroom that looks like Mike Brady decorated it. We are all sworn in and asked to answer the questions both counsels will ask us. Getting wise to athiests, we are not asked to swear to God nor is a Bible anywhere in sight. Instead we are asked to tell the truth under penalty of purjury.

There went my loophole.

We spend two hours being told about the nature of the case, answering elementary questions about prior experiences that might relate to the case. A car accident is involved (this is a civil case) and anyone who knows me knows that I wreck cars on a fairly consistent basis. I figure that admitting I've been in over ten accidents in the last five years would surely disqualify me and get me excused (meaning I would not face another jury summons for another two years). Counsels excuse themselves to the judge's chamber to pick the unlucky twelve who would be their prisoners for the duration of the day.

The first number called to serve on this jury is mine.

After seating us, the judge begins to dismiss the remining jurors until she is interrupted by a shrill voice to my right. "I've decided that I can't be fair and partial in this case after all." Damn, why hadn't I thought of this? But on the flip side, why the hell didn't you say something before?

Idiot count: 31.

After randomly chosing one of the remaining candidates the case begins. A car, a bike, blah blah blah. Noting how Oregon, like Mississippi, is never in a hurry to do anything, I note that this case was filed in 2005.

Both lawyers sound like Ben Stein. The air conditioning is not working. The woman to my left smells like a nursing home and the fella directly behind me has the habit of clearing his throat every thirty seconds. By five o'clock we are nowhere near completion as the judge astutely points out and orders us to return the following morning. Had we not taken a recess every twenty minutes, being forced into a stale conference room, we might have finished in a day. Instead I was treated to regular intervals of Christian self-help book reviews by two probable 700 Club members and the ramblings of an unemployed machinist soliciting parenting advice for his meth-addicted teenaged step-daughter.

Waking up the next day I debated whether I should have coffee. Did I want to be awake enough to pay attention or drowsy enough to tune-out my fellow peanut gallery goobers?
It was even hotter in the courtroom than the day before. The woman to my left now smells like moldy nursing home.

Thankfully we cruised through closing arguments. I was hopeful we would reach a quick decision and be on our way. The verdict was clear in my mind.

But leave it to Oregon to make things complicated
.
If we found the defendant to not be 100% not at fault, then we simply signed the verdict form and that was it. But if we found any shared responsibility then we had to decide what percentage was each party at fault. If the defendant was over 51% responsible then we had to determine exactly what % responsible he was and order him to pay that % of the awardable damages. If the plaintiff was over 51% responsible we had to allow the judge to determine the % payout.

Confusion and mayhem ensued.

Our elected fore-woman, she of the Pat Robertson Fan Club, could not understand the rules of the verdict sheet if God appeared before her and inscribed them on a stone tablet. Not wanting lose another day to the idiocracy, I jumped from the back of the bus and did my best Sandra Bullock impression. We needed to keep things speeding along or we were going to blow ourselves up.

"Let's make this easy on ourselves. Raise your hand if you think the defendant is 100% at fault and that the plaintif did absolutely nothing wrong to cause this accident."

No one raised their hands.

"Is the defendant 100% innocent?"

Eleven hands. We only needed nine. I pressed the button summoning the bailiff and put an X next to our ruling. Shoving the sheet at the fore-woman I told her to sign it. Before anyone could raise an argument we had reached a verdict.

And I had reached my own: The right to a jury trial as preserved by the Constitution is the single worst idea in the history of our republic, after Prohibition, that is. Speaking of which, boy do I need a drink....



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