Jury duty
I caught the shuttle bus from Willowbrook down to Paterson this morning for grand jury duty, hoping there was some way in heck I'd be able to get out of it. Still on the high from the events of less than 12 hours ago (it was really that recent?), I hadn't e-mailed them back yet and say, "I can start Monday" (or whenever) if I'd have to be in court then. But it sort of made me a little nervous not to accept rightaway.
They had maybe about 140 people or so sitting in a room for two panels of 23 or 24 people; if you didn't get chosen for a panel you'd fulfilled your obligation for three years; if they didn't even call your name to screen you, you'd fulfilled your obligation for three years. The judge came in and briefed us that he'd heard "all the flimsy excuses in the world" for why people couldn't serve "one of the most important duties of being a citizen", that if we claimed "financial hardship" he'd request three years of tax returns to prove that we couldn't withstand the $5/day for missing work (which makes me wonder, why bother compensating at all?), and that people who worked for large corporations were hardly "indispensible" because no one would notice they were gone. Naturally, I was hoping I just wouldn't get called so I didn't have to hope my own "flimsy excuse" held up to exclude me from the Lucky 46 (or 48).
But of course, my luck, I did get called. I stood in the middle of the room in front of the judge at his desk, a court reporter (with a ticker!), an officer, and the clerk, who swore me in: "Do you swear that the testimony you are about to give is the truth --"
"Yes," I said through her split-second pause.
"--the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"
Oops. "Yes," I said again, sheepishly.
The judge, an elderly man with white hair and glasses (stereotype much?), looked down at my record from his desk. "So, Miss Krieger, you're a writer. What kind of writing do you do?"
"Freelance," I said, then realizing that might be hurting me altogether, I stammered, "Actually I just got hired full-time as an editor. Um, I cover sports."
"Very nice," he said dismissively. He asked me if there was any reason I would not be able to serve.
"Yes," I began, my voice quaking a bit, "I'm actually in the midst of apartment-hunting, and will likely be moving out of state by the end of the month."
"By the end of this month?"
"Yes. So I probably wouldn't be able to serve the full time obligation."
"What state?"
"New York."
"Okay," he said almost reluctantly, "I'll excuse you."
Thank god. It occurred to me as I left that, although I considered March "the end of this month", he might've been referring to February, which, of course, is today. Whatever. I'm out of it, and I feel like I won the lottery twice now in half a day.
I accepted the job as soon as I got home. (More about that later when I have time to digest everything.)
Now if I could make good on what I swore to tell the truth about and actually move out by the end of March, that would be amazing.
They had maybe about 140 people or so sitting in a room for two panels of 23 or 24 people; if you didn't get chosen for a panel you'd fulfilled your obligation for three years; if they didn't even call your name to screen you, you'd fulfilled your obligation for three years. The judge came in and briefed us that he'd heard "all the flimsy excuses in the world" for why people couldn't serve "one of the most important duties of being a citizen", that if we claimed "financial hardship" he'd request three years of tax returns to prove that we couldn't withstand the $5/day for missing work (which makes me wonder, why bother compensating at all?), and that people who worked for large corporations were hardly "indispensible" because no one would notice they were gone. Naturally, I was hoping I just wouldn't get called so I didn't have to hope my own "flimsy excuse" held up to exclude me from the Lucky 46 (or 48).
But of course, my luck, I did get called. I stood in the middle of the room in front of the judge at his desk, a court reporter (with a ticker!), an officer, and the clerk, who swore me in: "Do you swear that the testimony you are about to give is the truth --"
"Yes," I said through her split-second pause.
"--the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"
Oops. "Yes," I said again, sheepishly.
The judge, an elderly man with white hair and glasses (stereotype much?), looked down at my record from his desk. "So, Miss Krieger, you're a writer. What kind of writing do you do?"
"Freelance," I said, then realizing that might be hurting me altogether, I stammered, "Actually I just got hired full-time as an editor. Um, I cover sports."
"Very nice," he said dismissively. He asked me if there was any reason I would not be able to serve.
"Yes," I began, my voice quaking a bit, "I'm actually in the midst of apartment-hunting, and will likely be moving out of state by the end of the month."
"By the end of this month?"
"Yes. So I probably wouldn't be able to serve the full time obligation."
"What state?"
"New York."
"Okay," he said almost reluctantly, "I'll excuse you."
Thank god. It occurred to me as I left that, although I considered March "the end of this month", he might've been referring to February, which, of course, is today. Whatever. I'm out of it, and I feel like I won the lottery twice now in half a day.
I accepted the job as soon as I got home. (More about that later when I have time to digest everything.)
Now if I could make good on what I swore to tell the truth about and actually move out by the end of March, that would be amazing.