Jury Duty, Part V: The Judgening

Now that I'm a non-alternate juror, given (I assume) the power of life and death over every other human in the courtroom, I'm at the brink of exercising the full awesome weight of my decision-making authority. I've got the other 11 people with me, all my adorable and plucky Assistant Jurors, to offer me probably moral support and tension-breaking comic relief as I contemplate the fates of the litigant parties, but in the end, as in all things, it's all going to come down to the capricious, insistent force-of-will of a lone white man. That's how government works. That's how international diplomacy works. That's how justice works. It's a lot to bear, but I take it upon myself even though nobody has asked me to or even indicated that it's appropriate. I'm pretty sure that's the definition of altruism.

The only downside to approaching the end of the court proceeding is that I'm an anxiety-riddle security-junkie, meaning I don't like transitions. It takes me a long time to get used to a new set of circumstances, but when I do, emphatically, those are now my circumstances, changes to which will not be welcomed, thank you. How granular is this? Am I avoidant of any alteration of schedule? Well, let's test it: hey, would I like to come with you to an event I would definitely like but occurs on the day I usually watch back episodes of Elementary on DVR? NO I WOULD NOT. And believe me, I'm aware of how DVRs work, wherein I can watch my show at any time. And I'm also aware it's Elementary, the most formulaic of formula shows in a format formulated by formulae, the spiritual successor to the departed and lamented* House. My children know whodunit by the first commercial break. I like to pretend it's not obviously the one credited guest star character actor I recognize from that other thing they were in. It's always the guy from the commercial you saw. It's possible I'll warm to your plans given enough lead time (four to eight months typically), but otherwise, no, it's me and Jonny Lee and you can please fuck all the way off.

When I got selected as a juror in a monthlong trial, my entire world collapsed into a swirling maelstrom of razor-sharp anxiety shards. You with your compassionate heart are probably thinking: "wow, I didn't realize you were such a drama queen." To which I can only reply: yes you fucking did.

But over the course of a month, the new becomes the normal and the former becomes just another threat to upend the new normal. Only in this case, unlike all the other threats,** this one looms the way only a once-and-future status quo can loom.

Let it loom. In the meantime, I'm all in on my current state of being: avatar of Lady Justice. It sounds odd, but the toga is pretty unisex and roomy as garments go. It's the blindfold that's a problem. It's murder on a marble staircase.

I'm sure the case has all kinds of ins and outs and he-said-who-said something, whatever. It wouldn't make much sense to suddenly start worrying about that stuff now. I'm not sure what sort of precedent exists for death sentences being meted out in civil cases, but look, all precedents were not precedents until they became precedents. You can't argue with that logic. If they'e going to give me all this responsibility, there's almost no way all of this doesn't end in the ultimate sanction, ideally death by smiting. Watch your news tickers.


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*Lamented by Hugh Laurie's kids since he's home all the time. No dad, we don't want to hear more improvised jazz piano. Nobody does. Ever.

**Armed robbers. Earthquake. Bees. An actual maelstrom. Anything really.