Ok. All of the Burbank jury pool contestants make it to Glendale. We park in the structure (did I mention, this becomes as issue?) and walk the 4 blocks to the courthouse. By the way, Glendale is lovely. I even walk past the YMCA where Isabella does her flip-flop gymnastics stuff.
The bailiff calls us into the courtroom. We all stand up, raise our right hands, and solemnly swear. The last time I did that, I ended up married. I look around, no one is wearing white. No one says “speak now or forever hold your peace.” Whew.
Wait, this is the Juror pool. Back to the narrative (and I love my wife.):
The judge gives us a 20 second discourse on the trial. A massage parlor. Undercover police. “Services” are offered, allegedly.
The trial will run 7 to 10 days.
Wait. What? 7-10 days? All of these people? For this? A Happy Ending?
But, the judge says kindly: We won’t start until 1:30 each day. Because, it is more convenient to mess up 7-10 days in the afternoon than to mess up half that time all day. (Again, he didn’t actually say that, but he had very expressive eyebrows.)
Crap. (Did I say Crap yet. Probably.)
The judge reads the list of witnesses. It has three names. All police officers. Who’s the victim of this crime? No home owner’s association. No pearl-clutching Church members. No human trafficking victim (a very, very important issue). No innocent bystanders. Nothing.
The State, says the judge.
Judge: Jury selection is often the most time consuming part of a trial.
Hence, 7-10 days.
They call the first 18 people to the jury selection box. I’m number 15. Voir Dire, (a French term meaning: tell us if you think the defendant is guilty so the liberal lawyers can object.)
They ask everyone a bunch of questions. Turns out, my uncle worked in law enforcement for the county of Los Angeles as a Probation Officer. The prosecutor seems pleased. I’m from a family of law enforcement. (She also seems straight out of Central Casting: tall, pretty, thin, blonde.)
Then I open my big fat mouth: Yeah, at family get-togethers tales were told, fables unfurled, bullshit was shared. Cops and FBI agents. Welcome to mi familia. (Did I tell you about the time….)
I mention the “dark side” of police work. Rules get bent, rights are questionable without a lawyer present. You know, friendly, upbeat topics.
The prosecutor seems less enthused than I expected. I thought I was cute and charming, what with my disarming demeanor and story of life as I know it.
Apparently, how the world sees me is different than how I see myself. I am shocked.
The judge declares that today’s session is over. Take your validated parking ticket to the structure and you’ll get away. Oh, and come back tomorrow it 1:45. Because we want to screw your whole day.
(I did mention this becomes an issue, right?)