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Trials and tribulations

The Lord may work in mysterious ways, but he ain’t the only one: The commissioner of jurors can give him a good run for his money any old day.

Jury duty is every citizen’s obligation, and as such, it’s supposed to be assigned equably, with each citizen getting summoned every two or three years. But it doesn’t shake out like that.

Among potential jurors there are three groups. One bunch never gets called. Another bunch gets called every decade or so. The third are luckless shmendricks who get called every second or third year, as per the official plan.

I am one of the luckless shmendricks.

For the past 40-plus years, I’ve been summoned a lot of times. But I’ve served on only two juries: a grand jury and a trial jury. Each was a fascinating experience in itself.

Grand jury, not-so-grand job

If you don’t know, the grand jury’s job is not to establish guilt or innocence, but to decide if criminal charges or an indictment will be brought against someone. The district attorney runs it and it’s composed of 21 people. And unlike a trial jury, they don’t need a unanimous vote, only a majority. The defendant isn’t there, but witnesses for the prosecution are.

It’s a tedious process that can become downright depressing because you have to listen to every imaginable act of rascality, too often told by every imaginable kind of rascal. But what most bummed me out was when the DA and some deadbeat joined forces to dance The Immunity Waltz.

Here’s the backstory: Two or more nitwits commit a crime. (Please note: Calling them nitwits is neither mislabeling nor insulting, by dint of the fact they got caught.) So after they’re busted, one of the miscreants, making a mockery of the old adage, “There’s honor among thieves,” immediately rats out the others. Of course he did it for a reason, namely to cut a deal with the DA – usually for immunity so he could testify about the others without getting punished himself.

All that was just bizness as yoo-jool, and I was fine with it. But what really bugged me was the sham show the DA and the rat would put on about it.

After the rat recounted the crime in seemingly endless detail, the DA would say, “Now, you’re testifying here of your own free will, right? No one coerced you, and no one promised you any special treatment or anything, right?”

And of course the answer (as repeatedly rehearsed) was a resounding, “Right!”

That was bad enough, but what was worse were the looks on both those goniffs’ faces.

The DA looked positively angelic, a living tribute to his alma mater, Our Lady of Eternal Love.

Meanwhile, the crook, mugger or arsonist affected a look of child-like innocence that he’d perfected walking around with his shank hidden up his sleeve at his alma mater – the County Home for the Criminally Insane.

They’re both paskudnyaks. The only difference is, for creds, one had a law degree, while the other had a rap sheets.

I’d look at that and if it was during the morning session I already knew what I’d have for lunch – three Extra-Strength Excedrin with a Pepto chaser.

A trial – in more ways than one

The trial jury was a whole ‘nother ball of wax.

The trial I sat on was for medical malpractice. A surgeon had performed a procedure on a woman, and as a result of a mistake he made, she’d had pain and other discomforts for six months. She recovered completely, but was suing for pain, suffering, mental anguish, hives, split ends and so on.

The essential issue here wasn’t that the doctor had made a mistake – making a mistake is not malpractice. Making a colossally stupid mistake is.

The lawyers were as different as night and day.

The insurance company’s lawyer was rational, precise and deliberate very cerebral and thorough.

The plaintiff’s lawyer was a blustering drama queen. To me it seemed he learned everything he knew about law by watching “Judge Judy” and endless reruns of “Shark.”

Anyhow, for five eight-hour days we watched each lawyer take turns presenting his case. It seemed the insurance company guy had it all wrapped up till the second-to-last day, when the expert witnesses did their thing.

Expert witnesses, by the way, are not there because they’re experts. They’re there because they’re hired guns whose job is to make each lawyer prove his point, and get paid handsomely for it.

The expert witnesses, like the lawyers, were polar opposites.

The plaintiff’s expert witness was a North Country surgeon, about as down home as could be. Laid back and loose as a goose, he explained the surgery using a styrofoam cup, a pencil, and a string. If he could’ve been any more folksy and “one of us,” he would’ve plaid “Old Dog Blue Ever Faithful” on his banjo.

The defendant’s witness was a wired-to-the-eyeballs high-risk surgeon from New York City. He spoke loudly, a mile a minute, and in a thick city accent that made my teeth ache. Beyond that, he was as condescending and vitriolic as could be: He ranted and raved, interrupting the lawyers and even the judge. And for all that, he made a huge gaffe.

At one point, since the operation had taken place in Saranac Lake, the plaintiff’s lawyer asked the witness if he thought the defendant’s skills were on par with other Saranac Lake surgeons. The witness barked something to the effect that that doctor’s skills weren’t on par with the surgeons in medieval Bulgaria. Then the lawyer asked if he knew where Saranac Lake even was. The doctor paused a bit, as if taken aback, and then said he did.

“OK,” said the lawyer. “Where is Saranac Lake?”

The doctor paused some more and then said, “Uh … somewhere north of here.”

“Somewhere north of here, eh?” said the lawyer.

Then he looked over at the jury and winked. That’s all he had to do.

There was more testimony and lawyering for the rest of the day; then we adjourned.

Deadlocks and deadheads

The next morning both lawyers made their summations, and the judge directed us to the jury room to render our decision.

We all talked about how we felt and took a vote. It came out 10 for acquittal; two for a guilty verdict. And there we stayed, deadlocked.

One of the pro-guilty peeps was a woman who kept wringing her hands and saying, “But if we don’t find him guilty, that poor woman won’t get any money.”

“Right,” someone would say. “But that’s not the point. The point is, is there a reasonable doubt that he’s guilty? If so, he should be acquitted.”

“Yeah,” she’d say. “But if we don’t find him guilty, that poor woman won’t …”

Over and over and over.

The other pro-guilty advocate was some bulvon from the hinterlands who just said the doctor was guilty and that was it. When asked why he thought the doc was guilty, he’d just cross his arms on his chest, stare at us with his piggy little eyes and say, “Cuz he is,” as if he’d gotten the word directly from God Almighty Hisself.

One hour went by … then another … then another ….

Finally, still deadlocked, there was a knock on the door. It was the bailiff, who asked us to go back to the courtroom. When we got in there, the whole aura was different from when we’d left. Before, it was grim. Now everyone was grinning ear-to-ear, like jackasses eating prickly pears.

Of course – they’d settled.

It was a perfect ending. The insurance company saved a bunch of moolah, the plaintiff got a bunch of moolah, and I got the hell out of there.

So was the doctor a good surgeon who just made a human error? Or was he a bungling incompetent who should never be allowed in an operating room again, except to mop the floor?

I didn’t know … and I didn’t care.

All I knew was the trial was over and I’d done my civic duty for the next few years. In the meantime the Wheels of Justice would turn and turn – and they’d do it without any input from li’l ole Dopey me.

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