this, I can’t be this close to people! I can’t! I’m losing my breath! This is too much! There’s too many of you in here! I’m claustrophobic! I can’t breathe! Oh no, oh no! I’m going to be sick!”
This is not happening, I told myself, this is not real. This old stinky-denture woman is not going to throw up on me. What did she have to complain about, I thought, she’s the one that smells like a rest home.
“You must be a lot of fun on road trips,” I mumbled to her.
With the imminent threat of all twenty of us, especially me, being doused with a firehose spray of vomit, the crowd in the elevator split in two, and with help from my not-so-gentle hand, Dottie was shoved to the front. She then placed her head up against the wall and took deep breaths in between trying to jump off the elevator every time it stopped, forcing the bailiff to drag her back in.
Unbelievably, we made it to the courtroom without bearing witness to the terrifying apparition of any type of bodily fluids. We took our seats, and I got stuck in the jury box. I could tell right away that the prosecutor hated me; I looked far too, well, homeless. The public defender, however, looked at me and just smiled a smile that said, “Oh, yeah, you look like the kind of girl whose man has done time. Let me see your tattoos. I’ve got Bart Simpson on my back. You’re my kinda juror, sister woman.”
Then the bailiff stood up. Her job was similar to that of Paul Shaffer’s—a sidekick or straight guy of sorts—and introduced the judge. Dottie burst forth with a hearty round of applause. The judge strutted in, sat down, and then started asking us questions, just like David Letterman. It was like a talk show, but we didn’t have any lesbians on that I knew of. Did I have a problem with prosecutors? Had any of them treated me unfairly? Was a member of my family a police officer, sheriff, deputy, or security guard at K mart? Had I ever been on a jury before? Did my husband work for the county attorney’s office? Boring, boring, boring.
Then from out of nowhere, the judge belted out, “This case concerns a DUI. Do you know anyone that has a drinking problem?”
I don’t know anyone that
doesn’t
have a drinking problem.
“Do you know anyone that has been involved in Alcoholics Anonymous or an addiction recovery program?”
That’s how I met my second-to-last boyfriend.
“Do you know anyone that has been involved in a DUI?”
Uh-oh.
The college-aged, clean-cut law student in the back row raised his hand.
“I was involved with a DUI several years ago, but the charges were reduced, and I did community service.”
What a nice boy, the rest of the jurors thought, community service. Now that’s respectable, he’s paid for his sin by mowing church lawns. He’s all right with us.
The slightly older, thirtyish-looking man in the button-down, pressed, and starched white oxford raised his hand.
“I was involved with a DUI approximately ten years ago, but I’d rather discuss that in private.”
A little suspicious, the jury considered to themselves, but he’s obviously ashamed of what he’s done, since he doesn’t want to talk about it. It was probably all a mistake, anyway, he looks so upstanding. He’s probably a good person.
The girl in the front row raised her hand. She’s wearing all black, her pants are ripped, her hair isn’t brushed, and she smells like cigarettes. She looks like a bag lady.
“Um, I was pulled over for a DUI three weeks ago, I failed the Field Sobriety test, but they let me go anyway. Oh, and I wasn’t drunk.”
All seventy-eight eyes of the jury turn to the girl in black, the DRUNK GIRL, she’s the reason society is crumbling, she’s the epitome of our decaying morals, we want to know where she slept last night. Sure, she wasn’t drunk. Wonder what she had to do to get out of that DUI. We know. WE know it all, DRUNK GIRL. And you think you can come in here and be on a jury with us regular folk?
This is not happening, I told myself, this is not real. This old stinky-denture woman is not going to throw up on me. What did she have to complain about, I thought, she’s the one that smells like a rest home.
“You must be a lot of fun on road trips,” I mumbled to her.
With the imminent threat of all twenty of us, especially me, being doused with a firehose spray of vomit, the crowd in the elevator split in two, and with help from my not-so-gentle hand, Dottie was shoved to the front. She then placed her head up against the wall and took deep breaths in between trying to jump off the elevator every time it stopped, forcing the bailiff to drag her back in.
Unbelievably, we made it to the courtroom without bearing witness to the terrifying apparition of any type of bodily fluids. We took our seats, and I got stuck in the jury box. I could tell right away that the prosecutor hated me; I looked far too, well, homeless. The public defender, however, looked at me and just smiled a smile that said, “Oh, yeah, you look like the kind of girl whose man has done time. Let me see your tattoos. I’ve got Bart Simpson on my back. You’re my kinda juror, sister woman.”
Then the bailiff stood up. Her job was similar to that of Paul Shaffer’s—a sidekick or straight guy of sorts—and introduced the judge. Dottie burst forth with a hearty round of applause. The judge strutted in, sat down, and then started asking us questions, just like David Letterman. It was like a talk show, but we didn’t have any lesbians on that I knew of. Did I have a problem with prosecutors? Had any of them treated me unfairly? Was a member of my family a police officer, sheriff, deputy, or security guard at K mart? Had I ever been on a jury before? Did my husband work for the county attorney’s office? Boring, boring, boring.
Then from out of nowhere, the judge belted out, “This case concerns a DUI. Do you know anyone that has a drinking problem?”
I don’t know anyone that
doesn’t
have a drinking problem.
“Do you know anyone that has been involved in Alcoholics Anonymous or an addiction recovery program?”
That’s how I met my second-to-last boyfriend.
“Do you know anyone that has been involved in a DUI?”
Uh-oh.
The college-aged, clean-cut law student in the back row raised his hand.
“I was involved with a DUI several years ago, but the charges were reduced, and I did community service.”
What a nice boy, the rest of the jurors thought, community service. Now that’s respectable, he’s paid for his sin by mowing church lawns. He’s all right with us.
The slightly older, thirtyish-looking man in the button-down, pressed, and starched white oxford raised his hand.
“I was involved with a DUI approximately ten years ago, but I’d rather discuss that in private.”
A little suspicious, the jury considered to themselves, but he’s obviously ashamed of what he’s done, since he doesn’t want to talk about it. It was probably all a mistake, anyway, he looks so upstanding. He’s probably a good person.
The girl in the front row raised her hand. She’s wearing all black, her pants are ripped, her hair isn’t brushed, and she smells like cigarettes. She looks like a bag lady.
“Um, I was pulled over for a DUI three weeks ago, I failed the Field Sobriety test, but they let me go anyway. Oh, and I wasn’t drunk.”
All seventy-eight eyes of the jury turn to the girl in black, the DRUNK GIRL, she’s the reason society is crumbling, she’s the epitome of our decaying morals, we want to know where she slept last night. Sure, she wasn’t drunk. Wonder what she had to do to get out of that DUI. We know. WE know it all, DRUNK GIRL. And you think you can come in here and be on a jury with us regular folk?
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