So, tomorrow at 7:30am (if only, if only I had pre-oriented myself online... oh, to report at 9am like the smart people,) I'm reporting for jury duty. At the Stanley Mosk Courthouse. For the second time in my life. It may surprise you to hear, but I'm actually really excited about it. Not only because one of my best friends is called for service at the same time (almost, she's one of the smart people who actually did the pre-orientation online... dammit!) and location, but because last time I served, I learned something surprising about myself. Which of course I'm going to share with you.
The case in 2005 was silly. It was Denny's franchise, it was at will employment, it was a whole lot of he said he said. There was a corporate lawyer on our jury (strange, right?,) I took copious notes which I never looked at again, at lunch everyday I ate a Starbucks egg sandwich by the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion fountain... it was a good life. I was content.
Until I learned I am Juror #8. You know, from 12 Angry Men? The juror that alllllllll the other jurors want to slap? To clarify: If I'm forced into a jury deliberation with 11 other people, I can now safely say that I'll be the one with the strongest convictions, the one who railroads the discussions, and the one, potentially, who keeps the deliberations (read: screaming matches?) going for hours longer than they really should. And you know what? I was proud of myself. I didn't believe any of the testimonies on either side, and I said so. I thought that our decision should be made from documentation, and only documentation, and I said so. I thought that Juror #5 was a raging moron whose mouth should be sewn shut with baling wire, but only after his mother was tarred, feathered, and ridden out on the rails for allowing her son to live past the age of 7, and I said so. I was a good juror.
And now the county of Los Angeles is privileged to have me on their judicial team again. I hope this time I get a murder trial.
