Don’t Tell A Soul

Jury duty. Superior Court. Downtown Los Angeles. First, let me say that I called months ago and tried to get moved to Santa Monica. I told the lady that I just learned how to drive, didn’t take the freeways, and had never been to downtown L.A. in my life- a slight exaggeration- but she said that wasn’t a good enough excuse! So now here I am, arriving at the ungodly time of 7:45 am, standing in a huge line, and thinking two things:

Please don’t let me get picked for a trial, because I just can’t get up this early again tomorrow.

and

Are there any cute boys here?

One possibility, and I almost sit next to him when we’re herded into the gigantic waiting room (I’m singing the Fugazi song in my head now), but I chicken out in favor of moving to the back of the class. Back here there are more comfortable seats, and a TV. Later, the World Cup will be on, and the back of the room periodically erupts in cheers while everyone else looks annoyed. I eavesdrop on some guy telling a lady about how he did sound work on The West Wing, and has a motorcycle. I had seen him checking me out when we were walking to the courthouse, but I didn’t let on.

Someone finally comes out and gives a big speech about excuses and postponements. Boy, she must get tired of this. But Announcer Lady doesn’t even seem fazed when Retarded Stay At Home Mom Lady asks a question that was answered 30 seconds ago. Independent Contractor Guy thinks he’s special too, and shouldn’t have to be here, but she informs him otherwise without a hint of impatience. “Please don’t write down ’911′, or ‘Kaiser Permanente’ as your emergency contact,” she reminds us.

Judge Mintz talks next, and he’s really quite personable and entertaining. A small history lesson ensues, we learn the origins of the jury trial system. “Has anyone here seen Kingdom of Heaven?”. Poor Orlando Bloom, I don’t see any hands go up. I was totally daydreaming, but I pretend to be rapt and attentive- I’m good at that. The girl sitting next to me, who is literally wearing a grey sack for a dress, keeps nodding her head at the Judge, and I’m expecting her to burst out with an exuberant ”Amen!” any minute now. Thrift Store Blazer Dude is actually reading the phone book, sitting at what used to be a pay phone, but now is just a broken part of wall.

After the speeches, most people are pretty quiet while we wait, but one girl is conspicuously loud on her cellphone, despite everyone glaring at her. I can tell from her conversation that she’s a complete moron. But, god, it was hard not to laugh when I heard her exclaim, in reference to her clever idea of bringing a laptop loaded with a rip of Transamerica, “I’m a thinker!” OMG. After lunch, we all learn she’s getting married in February, and that she makes $350 to $400 a week at a vending machine company.

Real-time analog blogging- could someone else be doing this to me? What would they be saying? That striking girl in the green blouse and expensive bracelet, furiously scribbling into a Hello Kitty notepad…

90 minutes for lunch, but it takes 20 just to get onto the elevator downstairs. Outside, there’s no designated smoking area or ashtray, so you’re just standing there littering like an asshole. A guy and a girl hand out little folded white cards to everyone going into the court house but, for some reason, not to me. Another guy waits patiently in front of the row of model cars, sealed in clear plastic boxes, he has carefully set up along a ledge. The homeless people are scary around here too, even more sick and fucked up looking than the Santa Monica homeless people, it’s like a whole new level of craziness.

Everyone knows no one in L.A. ever goes downtown. They even show us a video that says, “We know jury service may be the first time you’ve been downtown in many years”. There actually is interesting stuff down here; there’s an underground mall, and a courtyard of water fountains, and a jewelry district. But everything is too damn hot to walk to. The Disney Concert Hall is like a giant mirror reflecting onto my car, and when I walk to the parking lot to get my cellphone, I notice several people just sitting in their cars there. What are they doing, getting high?

Sleep deprivation is getting to me. There are guilty looking defendants all over the place, I can just tell. Don’t people make an effort anymore? Like, maybe try not to look like a gangster for your court date. The afternoon is endless candy breaks, and clock-watching. Did you see that episode of The Sopranos, when Vito runs away to New Hampshire? He’s working on a farm, and telling himself that it must be almost lunchtime, which is almost the halfway point of the day, but when he looks at his watch, it’s 9:45. It was like that. Not a single person gets called to be on a jury, I never see the inside of a courtroom. I thought it was going to be like L.A. Law, and I’d meet a young Harry Hamlin, but instead I have the guy behind me, who sees an article over my shoulder and asks if I’m interested in “living green, and environmental causes”. “Um… Not really,” I sigh apologetically. Cute Guy #2 sits in front of me. I think he sat there on purpose, but he never makes a move. I suppose I could have easily started a conversation about something lame, like how we have the same cellphone (except mine is pink), but why bother? I’ll spare myself the awkwardness, and just check Craigslist’s Missed Connections for the next few days.

They let us out at 4, and everyone cheers. “It’s very rare that no one gets called”, says Announcer Lady, ”So if you were hoping not to serve, today was your lucky day”. Yay.

Since I live only blocks from the office, and I need the practice driving, I am in the unique position of having to invent a morning commute for myself. I bet you never met anyone who did that. Usually I drive up into West L.A. or Brentwood, and back down to the ocean. Sometimes I mix it up and go down to Venice instead. It sounds weird, I know, but after about a month of doing it I went from being too timid to leave my zip code, to honking at people and hating pedestrians just like any other L.A. driver.

Learning how to drive in Los Angeles isn’t easy. Learning how to drive when you’re old enough to be acutely aware of how much someone could sue you for if you fuck up driving is no picnic either. Especially when you’re a person who has a history of breaking things. I got my first parking ticket today. I was so excited to find easy street parking in West L.A., that I didn’t even bother looking for the street cleaning sign (”So that’s why no one was parked there…”). But you know what, I don’t even care, because I drove all the way downtown today, and stopped at my friends’ house on the way back, and there were no buses involved except for the ones I was passing.