I’ve been called for jury duty a number of times and in several states. The last time I was notified of my opportunity to enjoy one of the fruits of living in this great republic, I was in San Diego County, California, in the summer of 2000. The system couldn’t care less about personal or professional commitments and threatened all manner of mayhem and inconvenience, including fines and jail time, for refusal to drop everything and come to the courthouse and play nice. Accordingly, I was refused an excusal.
At that time, I was constructing a large manufacturing plant in Mexico (the real one south of California, Arizona, New Mexico and Texas, not Maine’s Oxford County wannabe). The 155,000-square-foot plant was on schedule and under budget about halfway through the yearlong construction, and I was not willing to risk the project’s failure by taking my eye off the ball for what could be weeks if I were chosen for a jury trial.
But, also unwilling to risk jail food, I showed up at the appointed time and place downtown. I was assigned a number by a sour matron with a badge and directed to the waiting room, where I joined a couple hundred others praying for a reprieve.
In the big waiting room were women with bags full of knitting projects, paperbacks, crossword puzzles, Girl Scout cookies, Twinkies and nail paint. Smiling and chatting with the other ladies, they all seemed happy to be somewhere new and different for a change. Most of the men were less delighted with their forced vacation from their normal routine and spent much of the time pacing, fidgeting with watches and rattling newspapers.
That very morning, my number was among those called to report to the courtroom for the voir dire process. In this session, lawyers were present, the defendant was brought in and seated, and we were read the list of charges. One by one we were made to state our name, address and occupation before being asked a short list of questions designed to uncover biases. The last was whether the prospective juror considered himself able to render a fair and impartial decision of guilt or innocence in the case. The longer I had to look at the accused and the closer it got to my turn for questioning, the less sure of my impartiality I became.
The charges were related to drug dealing, and I initially thought I could be fair and impartial in this kind of complaint. However, the defendant’s appearance and behavior made me admit otherwise in this case. I have a picture in my head of a successful drug dealer. It looks just like this guy.
He was smug, smirking at us and joking with his counsel. He was slender, wearing a perfectly tailored sharkskin, double-breasted suit, silk shirt and tie. He wore a gold-appearing watch, several gold bracelets, shoes with a parade shine and no socks. Immaculate. But the detail that struck me was the slick, black hair pulled into a perfect bun the size of a tangerine. What lawyer wants his client in a drug-dealing case coming into the courtroom looking like a drug dealer? This one, apparently.
One at a time, we prospective jurors were asked our name, address, occupation, familiarity with the case, relationships with any of the principals, history of involvement with similar drug or law enforcement events, and, finally, whether we felt we could render an impartial decision in the matter before the court. I struggled with how to answer the last question right up to the moment I was asked.
“Are you able to fairly and impartially render a decision in this case based on the facts presented?” asked one of the defense team.
With a straight face I responded, “I can fairly and impartially find this gentleman guilty just on account of that stupid topknot!”
“EXCUSED!” shouted a chorus of voices on the other side of the jury box. But two faces, those belonging to the judge and the prosecutor, just quietly smiled while the defense attorney repeated, “Excused, No. 26. You are EXCUSED! Please leave the courtroom now.”
Squeezing down the row of snickering prospective jurors toward the exit, I got high-fives from a few of them. As I looked back, the now-sputtering, red-faced defense attorney was pointing to those folks and shouting, “EXCUSED! EXCUSED!”
As I left the building and stepped out into San Diego’s morning sun, I felt I had done the right thing and actually helped point out others who would have the same trouble as I. Yeah, I know it wasn’t very PC of me, but I don’t care; he didn’t dress like that so as to go unnoticed. My answer was an honest one, and anyway, I have never had the pleasure of political correctness training, as you probably guessed long ago. To me, the important result of my honesty was excusal from jury duty, enabling me to ensure the successful completion of the plant construction — on time and under budget — and a promotion to vice president and general manager.
So the two takeaways here are something you ought to know and something we should remember. First, it’s clear that the governor on my tongue is quite out of order, and second, honesty is the best policy.
