When I got my first ever Jury Summons recently, I was surprisingly excited. I was out of work at the time and despite my near supernatural ability to be unproductive, I had grown tired of my routine. Having never served on a jury, the prospect of participating in our legal system seemed like the right thing to do, and at the very least it would get me out of the house. So I arrived at the Brooklyn courthouse on a rainy Monday optimistic about doing my part. It took me less than an hour to realize that, as usual, I am an idiot.

There are certain situations that you see in movies that seem so comically awful that they can’t be that bad in real life, namely the DMV and Jury Duty. When I worked in casting I once had the job of finding actors to be in a jury duty scene on a popular television show. I was instructed to find the most disgusting, creepy, scary looking actors in the city. I hired some real horror shows, and to illustrate my point, several of these same actors appeared again on the show in the background when we shot scenes in a mental hospital. It’s the idea in scenes like such to be hyperbolic, so I didn’t think I’d find anything like that in real life. I was wrong. If anything, the jury pools you see onscreen are flattering compared to what it’s really like. I consider myself at best an average looking guy, and when I’m easily the most attractive person in a room of 400 people, something is seriously wrong. They say that only idiots don’t get out of jury duty, and looking around the room I’d say that also applies to the morbidly obese, people with severe respiratory conditions, and the toothless.

After 45 minutes of checking the room for a carbon monoxide leak, my name was called and I was moved to the civil court across the street. I had hoped to get on a criminal trial, but my spirits were raised somewhat by the new crop of jurors that I was placed with. Along with several non-psychotics, there was one semi-hipster and the real prize, two Hassidic Jews. As I sat waiting for the lawyers I quietly fantasized about deliberating with the Hassids in the case of a man suing a restaurant for getting sick from a ham and clam and cheese sandwich. Alas, I didn’t get my wish and was placed on a jury with the mouth-breathers I had met earlier.

Unlike its criminal counterpart, a civil jury has only 6 members, with 2 alternates. Of our 8, I was the youngest by at least 15 years. We were diverse racially, sexually and economically. All we had in common was that none of us could get out of this (and one idiot thought it would be fun). Whether it was because I was the first juror chosen, or because I was the only one without a drool cup, I was appointed the foreman. I’m not sure I can go into the details of the case here, but I’ll say that it involved a violent incident in prison, and if you’ve ever seen an episode of Oz, you have some idea of what might have happened.

While there was nothing even remotely funny about the case, the jury was always good for entertainment. Everyone had little quirks, but no one compared to Carol (not her real name). Try to imagine someone who looks like a 58 year old female Louie Anderson. Now imagine that person talks like a dockworker that smokes 6 packs a day. Add a walking stick, a hacking cough and the distinct odor of canned meat and you’ve got Carol. I had the distinct displeasure of being seated next to Carol and was treated to her opinions on everything – and she had opinions on everything. Whether the other jurors were buying her nonsense or just trying to ignore her, no one seemed to mind what she would say. Even when she was discussing her favorite Italian food and praised the fried dough dish “zeppoles,” our resident Italian Vinnie said nothing. I didn’t expect him to argue with her taste, but I did expect him to correct her when she repeatedly pronounced the word (ZEH-po-leez) as a person with a strong French accent would say “the poles.” The one topic that she did seem knowledgeable in was gambling in Atlantic City. At the first possible opportunity, she polled us to see who had gone to Atlantic City and where they stayed. This of course turned into a competition for biggest winnings, biggest losses, most comps, etc. Carol finally dispatched all challengers by bragging that she once played penny slots for 14 hours straight at one machine and urinated into her empty drink glasses. As she told us this with the kind of pride usually reserved for announcing the birth of a grandchild, she reached into her purse and removed a stack of at least 20 comp cards from various hotels and casinos in AC.
After the gambling discussion, Carol turned most conversations into a game of one upsmanship, with her always winning. By far my favorite of these discussions was the one about who had met more famous people. It started calmly enough with people describing running into various celebrities on the street and whether they were nice or not. It started to get out of hand when Carol would interrupt people and disagree with their opinions. Unless I’m hitting on a girl, I don’t usually talk about the celebrities I’ve met through work. I think it’s boring and stupid and annoying, and it’s also hard to talk like that without sounding like a complete prick. But for some reason I decided I was going to put Carol in her place by trumping her story. Someone mentioned seeing Tom Cruise on the street and I launched into a story about working on one of his movies where he did something that cemented him in my mind as completely crazy, and kind of a jerk. Carol shook her head, “No, he was nice to me and took a picture.” Then she just kept on rolling, “You know who’s a jerk, Robert DeNiro, but Joe Pesci’s nice-I got my picture wit him and Tony Soprano hanging over my fish tank. And that Helen Hunt is a real B-I-T-C-H, we were in an elevator together.”

By now I was annoyed with Carol and disgusted with myself for trying to top her. I was getting ready to put on my headphones and ignore her when someone asked her who was the meanest celeb she ever met. Her response, and the anger that she expressed it with, made the whole previous discussion worthwhile. Without a moment’s hesitation she yelled, “I’ll tell ya who it was, and it’s sad ‘cause he was my favorite actor and now I hate him…Joe Don Baker. I saw him crossing the street and I grabbed my camera and ran at him screaming Joe Don, Joe Don, take a picture wit me! Well that sonofabitch looked at me like I was a freak and ran away so I yelled at him, ‘That’s the last time I evah watch you in anything!’”

There are a few reasons why I find that story so hysterical, and easily the biggest is that anyone’s favorite actor would be Joe Don Baker. How does that happen? It reminded me of a 10 year old I babysat for in junior high who would comb through movie credits, desperately hoping to find something with his favorite actor, Powers Boothe. Anyway, the fact that anyone could be that excited about seeing Joe Don Baker makes me laugh because I think of what must have been going through his mind at the time. I imagine him weighing the options of taking a picture with maybe his only fan, versus possibly getting murdered by a buffalo of a woman deranged enough to actually be his fan. The final thing that really gets me about this is that Carol may have actually put some kind of a hex on him when she said she’d never see him in anything again. Unless this encounter happened right before the premiere of Mitchell, it worked. Really, when was the last time anyone saw Joe Don Baker in anything?
Having clearly established herself as the leader of the group, Carol ran the show from then on. My title of foreman was merely a formality, and my authority was never recognized again. The trial lasted several days before we began deliberating. I made a feeble attempt at reviewing evidence and keeping my mind open, but it was a waste of time. During deliberations, if a statement didn’t start with, “My cousin told me” or “I saw on the TV,” it was dismissed by the group. Under Carol’s leadership, arguments like, “Well you know how they are,” easily trumped those based on testimony or facts of law. When we cast our votes it was 5-1, with myself in the minority. Since in a civil trial you only need 5 for a verdict, my vote was essentially meaningless. Though I was disappointed at the jury’s ruling, I still had to smile at how it ended. We had reached a decision by the end of the day on Tuesday, but Carol convinced everyone that if we pretended to keep deliberating into the afternoon on Wednesday we would get an extra day’s pay ($40) as well as another free lunch. And they say the system doesn’t work anymore.

By Jay Shapiro in Columns |

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