Jury duty

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I have been a registered voter since 1976. I have lived in Rhode Island most of that time. And, in all that time, I have never been called for jury duty.

 

 

Until now.

 

 

The Providence County Courthouse is a 1930s pile that literally climbs up the side of College Hill; you can enter on the South Main Street side right across from the Providence River, get in the elevator, ride up five floors, and leave the building on the Benefit Street side, halfway up the hill. The elevators are ancient and full of fancy brass fixtures, and I expected to find little elevator operators with funny caps inside.

 

 

We straggled in, all 135 of us, and presented our summonses, and were given little JUROR nametags.

 

 

And they put us in a room and let us sit.

 

 

Luckily I have been alive for over fifty years and have learned a few things, so I brought lots of reading material. I felt dreadful for the guy next to me, who just kept turning his Juror Manual over and over again forlornly.

 

 

The jury-control people (or whatever they call themselves) talked at us for a while, and took us into a courtroom, which looked for all the world like an old New England church, with pews and reading-stands and everything, and the Rhode Island state seal instead of a crucifix. We were shown a video called “JURY DUTY: WHY ME?”, which reassured us that we would not be asked embarrassing questions, and that we would be released again as soon as possible, and that we would not serve on more than one trial, and that we might not have to do anything at all.

 

 

Then a judge popped out, very cheerful, to jolly us on. “Listen,” she said. “This is Rhode Island. If you get on a, let's say, trial about an automobile accident, and you find out where it happened, it will probably occur to you, 'I could just drive by there and take a look at it!' Don't do it. You're not an investigator. Don't research anything. Don't ask around. Don't Google anything.”

 

 

We got sworn in, and we went back to our room. By now we were all old friends.

 

 

But it was still horribly dull.

 

 

They gave us a mid-morning field trip to the downstairs coffee shop, run by a cheerful balding man who made the food and his blind wife who ran the cash register. “Golden toast!” he'd sing out. “Hot and delicious, from the Providence Superior Court, straight to you!” It took forever to get served, but believe me, it was a diversion, and we all badly needed diversion.

 

 

They sent us home at noontime; four cases were pending, but all were on the verge of settlement.

 

 

Second day: more of the same. I did my Financial Times crossword puzzle, and listened to another guy's really dull stories (well, actually, a few of his stories were okay).

 

 

And then, at noon the second day, they released us.

 

 

And now I'm done, for three years.

 

 

Such fun!

 

 

I'm a little sorry we didn't get to serve, though.

 

 

I heard there's a really neat murder trial coming up soon.

 

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The Casey Anthony verdict: or, What will Nancy Grace do in her spare time now?

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I didn't really pay attention to the Casey Anthony case from the beginning. I overheard bits and pieces on the TV: child found dead, mother didn't report her missing, grandma called 911 to report (frantically) that her granddaughter was missing and her daughter's car smelled like a dead body.

 

 

Then the trial erupted.

 

 

Partner watches “Good Morning America” most workday mornings, and I overhear it from the next room. During the trial, they had the most peculiar commentary, coming from their very reliable legal reporter Dan Abrams, who was teamed with Nancy Grace.

 

 

Nancy Grace?

 

 

I only really knew her from Joel McHale's takedowns of her on “The Soup.” She is an attack dog. She believes in “victims' rights.” (Or so she says.)

 

 

She is incredibly self-righteous, and thinks of herself as a human lie-detector. And her philosophy seems to be: if someone looks guilty, he/she is guilty.

 

 

Well, obviously, right?

 

 

Well, um, no.

 

 

Nancy dubbed Casey “Totmom.” She decided early on that Casey Anthony killed her daughter. She shouts down – no, screams down – anyone who disagrees with her.

 

 

Her GMA appearances with Dan Abrams were painful. When he tried to make points about the law, or about how the case was being presented, she brayed him into silence. She often plays the cornpone card – for example: “Well, maybe you folks up on Park Avenue in your fancy cars can live with that . . ”

 

 

Oh, Nancy. You have a TV show. Maybe you were cornpone once, but you're not anymore. You should know better than saying something as stupid as that.

 

 

And, frankly, Casey Anthony is probably guilty. She certainly knows more than she's telling. And I would guess that there are others – either in the Anthony family or elsewhere – who know all about it too.

 

 

But they're not talking.

 

 

And the evidence in the case was all circumstantial. The child died – horribly – but until someone confesses, we'll never know what happened to that poor little girl.

 

 

But Nancy knows.

 

 

And now Nancy is mad

 

 

She's mad at the “kooky” jury, which found – in record time! - that the evidence was insufficient to put Casey to death for a capital crime.

 

 

She's mad at – are you ready? - the media!, for making the legal process so much more complex than it needs to be. (I mean, really: reasonable doubt?)

 

 

One after another, legal authorities (even my boyfriend Harvey Levin!) are coming forward to talk about the case. With few exceptions, they praise the members of the jury, who listened to the testimony, looked at the evidence, and listened to the judge's instructions, and for once – and in very speedy fashion – followed them. They found Casey Anthony guilty of the crimes she was indisputably guilty of (such as lying to the police), and found that there was reasonable doubt that she'd committed murder.

 

 

As – let's face it – they really had to do.  Because there was no concrete evidence.

 

 

According to Nancy, on the night of the verdict: “Somewhere out there, the devil is dancing tonight.”

 

 

Please go read Nancy's Wikipedia entry. It will entrance you, as it did me.

 

 

Oh, Nancy: go to hell.  The devil needs a dancing partner.

 

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