Death to Smoochie

I'm about four weeks away from getting my annual summons to the county court system here in the prosaic, dusty, inland corner of what is otherwise the world center of poesy, sparkle and gleeful hedonic indifference to the proletarian concerns of ledgers and dockets. Yes, the great, grinding gears of American justice will soon again demand to be greased with the sweat and blood of Regular Americans like myself...

...only not that much like myself because even though I get the summons and I dutifully call in as instructed, I have never once been asked to physically show up at the courthouse. I think there's something about my overeducated white male-ness that makes me a low priority for people who have to ask questions for a living. Just looking at my demographic curriculum vitae, it's probably blatantly obvious that I'm the type who would try to have an answer for all of them. From what people who have served have told me, that's sort of the last thing a trial lawyer wants, the wicked combination of birthright arrogance and academic pretension that would absolutely obligate me to say stuff like "hmm, well, maybe if we consider it from yet another perspective..." It would be a lot more work for everyone involved as a) all my knee-jerk mansplaining alone would add a minimum two days to any deliberation process and b) it would be so much more paperwork once my fellow jurors banded together to beat me to death with a busted-off chair leg as a last resort to finally shut me the fuck up.

So what happens is I get the envelope, I call the number printed inside, I enter my juror number when the robot voice tells me to and then the robot voice tells me I don't have to come in, but to call back in the next day at the same time to check in again. Repeat times seven, the end, wait for next September.

Usually I'm not great at rejection, but I've found a way to take this in stride every year. I've obviously had friends and co-workers serve and, as intellectually stimulating as seeing the process from the inside, without the Law and Order bass notes or professional lighting to glam it all up for 42 easily digestible minutes, I know what I'd be seeing is the darkest side of humanity at an inevitable low point. There are really only two outcomes: some human monster getting what they deserve or a mostly innocent person being pulped by a system built to have all the innate compassion of an avalanche.

I was about to tag that last paragraph with a joke line that started with "If I wanted that kind of existential despair..." but you all watch the news, man. Despair is no longer a emotional outlier that needs reaching for, it's a national baseline.

Bringing it all together, as much as I like having been allowed to go on my merry way, getting credit for jury service without actually having to do any, I can't help but be fascinated by what it must be like to be on a federal grand jury regarding the Trump-Russia investigation.

On the plus side, you get to see the evidence laid out by the special counsel that they feel strong enough to present for possible indictment. Imagine having all the dots connected, at least according to Mr. Mueller's office, in the spaces between the dots of light in the scattered constellation of information we've gotten so far through pinprick leaks here and there.

Also imagine, though, that given the lack of security for any information related to the Trump White House in any capacity, that it's assumed your name will be leaked to the public at some point, meaning the chances approach 100% that an enthusiastic and well-meaning* Trump supporter will find and kill one or more of your pets.

So yeah, downside. I know, it's not fair to paint Trump supporters with so broad a brush and in so ugly a shade. But come on, these are the Stephen Millers of the world. Try to tell me that guy has never suffocated anyone's hamster, go on.


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*Points of view are a hell of a thing. Everyone's a hero of their own story, man.