Chopped Liver

In my late thirties 12 hours spent in jury duty motivated me to change careers. I had redirected several times before this event, but not to get distracted I will stick with the above. 

 

On the designated day, I closed the office and reported to the Cook County Courthouse at the Richard J. Daley Center in downtown Chicago. The prospective juror’s waiting room was a large drab room with musty speckled brown carpet, and grey walls. The aluminum furniture had a comfort quotation of zero. Large windows looked out onto one of Mies Van der Rohe’s gloomy buildings.

 

Life was suspended in that room, controlled by forces so large that it was better not to dwell on it. I searched for a quiet space and settled into the scholarly task I had assigned myself. Maybe it was Ulysses or Moby Dick, or maybe I was more practical and began to study for upcoming relicensing exams. I deemed it futile, and began to contemplate my navel.

 

Fate was surrendered to a lottery. As groups were called to duty or dismissed, there was an audible sigh. Too quiet to echo off the windows, the hushed tone faded as quickly as it began. Make or break it time approached. I forced any optimism of leaving into the background not wanting my hopes dashed. They were.

 

My group lost the lottery in mid afternoon. We dutifully followed our guide and were corralled in a stately courtroom. The walls were covered floor to ceiling in richly finished walnut. The chairs were cushioned in black leather. The jury’s bleachers were to the port, and the attorneys and their clients to the starboard. The clerical staff was at the bow and the muscle was aft. There were the usual symbols of government: country, state, county, city, and departmental flags, along with their corresponding seals. 

 

We awaited the judge and stood when he finally landed on the plinth. He did not hesitate to begin a lengthy explanation of our duties. He reformatted them for multiple grade levels. He thanked us for our service and explained our compensation. And then he summed up his remarks as a stern father (unlike my dad) would when describing the “real” world to his coming of age children. 

 

Of course, we knew this was coming. Before he was allowed in the courtroom, his weary bailiff prepared us for the worse. She explained in stark terms what we were in for. She was not wrong. I thought, lambs-to-the-slaughter, and restrained myself from running to the exit. There is a reason that an armed guard is posted at the backdoor.

 

The roll call commenced. Groups of ten were seated in the juror’s seats and questioning began. One by one, jurors were sent home. Most of them had a script prepared. At various times the judge interceded with the admonishment that no one was going home until a jury was selected. The sun began to set.

 

I began this tale by telling myself not to get distracted, so I need to backtrack. After the judge delivered his opening remarks, he reverentially acknowledged two of the juror applicants. 

 

The first was a pillar-of-the-community executive dressed in full Brooks Brother’s pin stripes. He had contributed to several of the judge’s causes. Then he followed with a glowing portrayal of a youngish, not quite so well dressed, newly minted Northwestern Hospital cardiologist. We were informed that the good doctor’s wife was also a physician and that a stork had recently delivered them a son.

 

I pride myself on being egoless, but when he deemed them too vital to waste their time – not in those words – with this superfluous personal injury case, and sent them out the very doors I had contemplated my escape through, I thought, what am I chopped liver!

 

Not chosen, I limped home physically and emotionally exhausted. I never imagined that a day of jury duty would leave me in such a state. It was too late for dinner, so I had a snack and went to bed. In the morning, I awoke with my future course decided. The timeline is now lost to me. It is safe to say it occupied the next fifteen years.

 

When summoned to jury duty in my late fifties, and seated in the dock, a woman with a striking Chicago accent lean over and asked, “What do you do for a living?" I told her, and she nonchalantly said that they would never pick me because I was too smart. She was correct.