Always an alternate, never a juror

[muckefuck]

Why, yes, I can be the world's biggest whinerbaby at times. To my credit, I realised this even as I was writing up last night's entry. (To my discredit, I wrote and posted it anyway. Sue me.) So just in case those of you from countries where the duties of a citizen include a year or more in the armed forces were lining up to smack me upside the head, I'm here to let you know it isn't necessary. Nevertheless, you'll wish to skip the next several minutes of whingeing.

In the end, it was only as sucky as I thought it would be and no more so. I made it to the Forest Park station in an hour-and-a-half, which was less than I'd budgeted. Unfortunately, the bus to the courthouse was twenty minutes late, so that left me with more than a half hour to kill in an unheated terminal. I tried my best to think about the poor zhlubs who have to do that every day and stop feeling sorry for my privileged ass.

The map gives you an idea how badly sited the courthouse is--at the end of a long drive with no amenities for a half-mile--but it doesn't prepare you for the forlornness of that stretch of industrial road. The court seems to be tucked behind a granite works and a parking lot for defunct school busses. As for the building itself, it's every bit as stultifying institutional as you'd expect. Not only does the jury room lack the soaring views of the Daley Center, it lacks views of any kind, being a windowless lounge tucked into the basement. For all that, it wasn't that uncomfortable. I was pleasantly surprised that the number of douchebags yelling into their cellphones was limited to two--and almost unheard of ratio in this sick modern age.

What I really couldn't understand about the whole process, however, was the timing. The clerk explained to us that it's not until 11 a.m. that they even know if they need any juries, and that no trials begin before 1 p.m. So then why the hell does my summons say "8:30 a.m."? 8:30 is the time the doors open, so of course I arrived to find a massive line. At least the guard who searched was a really friendly lady who didn't get the least bent out of shape to find, of all things, two dead batteries in my pocket even after we'd been told like twenty times to take everything out of our pockets.

(After we were through, a fellow juror remarked that he hoped they were at least as thorough with the perps as with the jurors. It did occur to me on the way down that one of the pleasures of visiting a courthouse is that everyone gets treated like a potential offender. Very levelling places, they are.)

That one bright side to being assigned Maywood, according to the clerk, is that the trials there rarely take longer than a day. In fact, most are apparently over in less than two hours. So at least the awful trek out there is not one you'll have to make more than once. As it turned out, there were no jury trials at all there that day. Of the three candidates, one ended in a settlement, one became a bench trial, and one became a full-blown criminal trial to be conducted at a later date in a different location.

After we were dismissed, I briefly considered attempting to cadge a ride from someone (particularly the smokin' hot black-bearded baby bear). One thing I knew was that I wasn't standing another goddamn half hour in the freezing cold waiting for a Pace bus that might or might not show up, so I walked the couple miles back to the terminal. Besides, it gave me a chance to better acquaint myself with the lovely burg of Maywood (from the Celto-Saxon for "ass end of nowhere"); I can now state with some authority that it has all the charm of a severed limb.

This isn't to say that there were no compensations to the experience, but those are best left to a punchier subsequent post.

Comments

[lhn.livejournal.com]

I was pleasantly surprised that the number of douchebags yelling into their cellphones was limited to two--and almost unheard of ratio in this sick modern age.

That may have been an inadvertent blessing of the windowless basement setting-- I'd bet that some fraction of the jury pool was getting zero bars on their phones.

[muckefuck.livejournal.com]

I considered that, but the people nearest me seemed to have no trouble getting reception; they just weren't especially interested in taking advantage of it.

[lhn.livejournal.com]

I know nothing of the specific situation, of course. But it's not uncommon for one provider's signals to penetrate while another's doesn't, or for that matter for two phones on the same network to deal differently with a weak signal. (I can use my phone in the middle of our building. My assistant, also on Verizon, gets no bars on his smartphone.)

But it also may be that they weren't interested, or even that the long-awaited social norm against subjecting captive audiences to one's conversations is beginning to coalesce. (Though it hasn't reached the L yet. :-) )

[muckefuck.livejournal.com]

You have to admit that the resemblance of an el car to an old-school phone booth really is uncanny.

[jhvilas.livejournal.com]

I've been called three times, and gotten as far as voir dire twice, and still never actually been a juror. I think I'm going to beg off next time and tell them that even with assistance, I can't hear what the hell they're saying.

[richardthinks.livejournal.com]

the duties of a citizen

This one always bothers me, because all such duties are always coerced, never elective. Perhaps a well-socialized person understands that these things are for the greater good, but their understanding is unnecessary to the machinery of the State. I realise other countries require more from their herds as standing resources, but a great imposition elsewhere does not excuse a smaller imposition here. So (atypically) I support your whining, and have hearty expletives for anyone who comes up with pious noises about the virtues of democracy or the freedom to move elsewhere. It's all bollocks, and they'd know that if they'd ever tried.

[muckefuck.livejournal.com]

I was actually surprised that there was no mention of the penalties for non-compliance on my summons. This came up because someone in line asked, "What do they do if you don't show?" I figured you'd be held in contempt and charged a fine (because cash-strapped Cook County is all about the fines for anything they can class as "illegal"), but there's no mention of it there. They simply expect us to come because they say "Come".

[richardthinks.livejournal.com]

This is even more whiney on my part, but I find it incredible that I get summoned and am required to account for my own ineligibility, all via mail. It's happened 4 times so far, and on every occasion I've had no more than a few days to get back to them with the news that I am not a citizen.

I worry, actually, that if they can't figure this part out, how do we know the jurors they end up with are valid/eligible?

[muckefuck.livejournal.com]

I wonder if it's an artifact of a cobbled-together system. In Illinois, at any rate, they used to draw lists from the voter rolls. But that was missing a lot of citizens (and perhaps creating a perverse incentive to go unregistered) and so they added in lists of licensed drivers as well. I imagine you're on the latter list, and--this being the Land of the Free--there's no almighty central register they can go to determine which of these are non-citizens.

Personally, I can't understand how, in an age of cheap computing, they haven't figured out a more equitable way to distribute the summons. As I mentioned, this was my second one this year; monshu hasn't been called up in at least twelve years and I know people who have been registered here longer than that and have never been summoned.