Not found in contempt of jury duty

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    We used to dread it like the plague, get out of it any way we could, and in truth, it used to be fairly easy to avoid. No longer. Now when the summons arrives stating, “You have been randomly selected to serve as a trial juror in Superior Court, for one day or one trial, beginning the week of …,” you may as well revise your calendar and cancel your appointments for the entire week.

    The summons gives the date, time and the group number to which you’ve been assigned, and the number to call for a recorded message for instructions the weekend prior to your appearance date. I received my summons in time to cancel my doctor’s appointment for that Monday, and then didn’t have to go until the following day.

    At 5 p.m. Monday, I learn that my presence is required at 8:15 a.m. Tuesday. The phone message describes the dress code: no tank tops, halter tops, shorts, skorts, etc. (on a nippy December morning, are they kidding?) They don’t care if you arrive in grungy jeans or bib overalls (this is Bakersfield, after all), as long as you’re not showing too much skin. We are also advised not to bring weapons, defined loosely as anything that fires a projectile or with a blade longer than about an inch. Nail files, eyebrow tweezers, scissors and, of course, box cutters will be confiscated.

    There are three parking lots open to jurors, all on the opposite side of the railroad tracks from the court buildings. “Please take the pedestrian underpass. Do not try to crawl underneath the train (which is often parked there all day).” Anyone who would try this hasn’t the brains to be a juror, I hope.

    I set my alarm for 5:30 a.m., dress warmly, showing skin only on face and hands, put the latest issue of Zyzzyva, a power bar and a banana (none of which could be construed as weapons) in my bag. No Swiss army knife, no slingshot.

    My employer had been getting me out of this all these years. Now that I’m on my own, I want to see what I’ve been missing. One of my sisters actually served on the L.A. Grand Jury for a year and got positively addicted to it. Besides, I’ve been watching “Law and Order.” And on the last episode of “The Practice,” a fed-up jury finds the judge in contempt for a disgracefully conducted trial. The judge declared a mistrial, found all 12 jurors in contempt, and they were led away by the bailiff.

    I was sure nothing that exciting would happen on my watch. It didn’t.

    At 9 a.m. the woman who herds jurors addressed all 181 of us. Our names were to be drawn by lottery. About 36 names were called, not mine, and they were told to follow the bailiff to the court building where three trials were scheduled for the morning.

    The rest of us were told to wait.

    I had completed three crossword puzzles, four poems and two short stories at 11:15, when our docent announced that we may adjourn for lunch and return at 1:30. There’s a list of 37 restaurants, some with bizarre names, within walking distance. At 6 blocks, Too Fat Sandwiches wouldn’t be far enough to walk off the calories. Fishlips was 5 blocks the other direction, Buckboard BBQ seemed much too Bakersfield, Bite Me Cookies sounded intriguing but not nourishing enough to last me through the afternoon. I have no idea what they serve at Goose Loonies, and the Five and Dime Luncheonette (in the Woolworth’s Bldg., of course) seemed just too retro.

    I set off on foot in search of something more civilized. The neighborhood of attorneys’ offices and bail bondsmen gave way to a block of pawnshops, pubs, a shuttered gun store and an X-rated theater. Oops. I retreat and wind up at the Sequoia Sandwich Company. The furnishings are Spartan, the menu magnificent and two tables are full of uniformed deputies. Must be good, I thought, then remembered these are the guys who nominated the opening of Krispy Kreme for the major cultural event of the year.

    Roast turkey on rye with Swiss, tomato and lettuce, cole slaw on the side, was fab and a bargain at $5.45, but no designer coffee. Oh, well.

    Back in the jury holding pen, I’m reading the other newspaper and, you guessed it, nodding off. Must be the turkey. Oh boy. What if I get picked and doze off in the jury box. Would they declare a mistrial?

    At 3:15 we are notified that the civil case settled and the criminal defendants all pled out. Just like TV. Our services would not be required. To be reimbursed for our mileage (15 cents, one way only), we must fill out a request. Mine would be $7.50, so I do.

    Back in my car (I didn’t crawl under the train), Bakersfield seemed to be having a gas war, just like the days when stations gave away trading stamps and toasters. At 87 cents a gallon, I fill my tank for $9 and head for the hills. If I’d been picked for a case that actually went to trial, I’d have gotten $15 a day (after the first).

    Well, I’m off the hook until next year. Actually, it was a little disappointing. I could have been on a jury that convicted a serial killer, or one that was found in contempt and led off to jail.