I might as well stand up during voir dire and shout “he damn well looks guilty to me!” and save everyone time, since I’m about as likely to get on a jury as PETA is likely to endorse a line of slaughterhouse implements called Krule-Kil Pig-Stickers. What is it? My vitae? My spouse’s profession as a lawyer? My tie? The little American flag I clutch in my hand? My Judge Judy mask? It has to be something. Let’s recount.
So begins James Lileks latest installment regarding his stint in the jury pool. I'm coming into this one a bit late, but it's better than never...as they say.
Lileks, of course, is an institution in this part of the country, which is a quality that does not get one very far in the world of criminal and civil juries. And, true to form, every time Lileks even gets a chance to interview for the jury, he is aquainted with someone involved with the trial.
The result?
I am released.
Poor James. Sentenced to jury duty for a week and the only possible excitement-a chance to actually serve on a jury-is denied because he is just too well connected. It appears that his whole week is destined to look quite a bit like Tuesday morning.
Sit; wait. I am sitting in the same place I sat on Monday; it is now My Place. Others seem fluid in their choice of seats; others have staked out domains. A card game starts up at Grinny’s table; others drift off to the TV room for sedation. A retired fellow who looks destined to reluctantly assume the Foreman job eventually is discussing 1960s computer coding with a younger guy. Tape, punch cards, drums. One of those ancient unsung engineers, perhaps. Old school nerd. The fellow next to me tilts his head back and softly snores. It’s 10:15 AM.
It reminds me of in-school suspension, without the card game or the television.
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