The Jury Experience

by Roving Reporter Randoid

The Jury Waiting Room

Every year around springtime I get the call: report to the Ventura County Hall of Justice for jury duty. And every year I spend the day reading a novel, working a crossword puzzle, or just staring at the wall waiting to be called upon to perform my jury service. And the call never comes. Every year it’s the same, except for this year.

I was spending my time chatting with a woman from Simi Valley when the call came for a group of jurors to report to a courtroom. Her name was called and off she went. As I waited for the day to pass I couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for her as Simi Valley is on the eastern side of the county, 40 miles away. I live in Oak View, which is on the western side of the county, and, if she was selected to be on a jury, I know the drive she was facing. Years ago, I used to make the 50-mile commute to work in Simi Valley.

A short while later there was another call for jurors. Except this time the jurors were to report to the courthouse in Simi Valley, “a very unusual occurrence, one that hardly ever happens,” if the jury clerk can be believed. There were about 150 prospective jurors remaining in the jury pool and they needed 60 people. I figured that my odds were roughly 5 to 2 against that I would be selected but as I heard my name called, suddenly I didn’t feel all that lucky.

The Jury Selection Process

I’ve always wanted to be on a jury. I had never been in a courtroom let alone taken part in the judicial process. I wasn’t looking forward to my daily 100-mile round trip but I was eager for my first jury experience. Twelve prospective jurors were called along with eight alternates. My name was the last one called. Once again I assessed my chances of making it on the jury. I did the math – 12 jurors, plus 2 alternates, that’s 14 jurors. As juror number 20, I thought my chances of getting on the jury were slim. I needn’t have worried.

The judge gave us a brief overview of the case. A woman drove her SUV into the path of a motorcycle rider. The woman was unhurt but the motorcycle rider received various head, neck, and shoulder injuries. Guilt for the accident was already established, as the driver of the SUV was found to be totally responsible for the accident. The motorcycle rider (plaintiff) was suing the driver of the SUV for damages. I was disappointed that I was going to serve on a civil case and not a case that involved a verdict of guilty or not guilty. But, no matter, here I was.

Over the next two days the court labored through the jury selection process. Each juror was asked probing questions regarding their job, finances, and their personal life. Perhaps answers to all of these questions are important, but in front of 60 other strangers plus at least 12 court personnel? I couldn’t help but cringe at hearing some of the personal revelations that were offered up to the court. Putting all of that aside, the excuses that people offered to get off the jury were shocking.

This was a civil case and our task was to decide how much, if any, compensation was due to the victim. One of the jurors was a mountain bike rider and he made it obvious that he had an axe to grind with anyone that sat behind the wheel of a car. Without hearing any testimony he offered up his opinion that the plaintiff should get maximum compensation. (Uh, not exactly the open mind we’re looking for on the jury. However, if it was your intention to avoid jury duty, then it was very well-played sir. You’re excused.) Another guy said he didn’t care what evidence was presented he wasn’t going to give “this jerk” any money. (Huh? Don’t you want to hear any evidence, any evidence at all? No? Well, thank you for your service. Please crawl away.)

Well, after hearing two days worth of excruciatingly painful courtroom declarations detailing financial, physical, and emotional hardships we had a jury. Also, it came as no surprise to me that I went from prospective juror number 20 to juror number 7.

The Case

As previously mentioned, this case involved an SUV driving into the path of a motorcycle rider. Upon impact, the motorcycle rider was thrown face-first into the SUV. It was not difficult to imagine that the rider received head, neck, and shoulder injuries resulting from this accident. To that end, the plaintiff’s attorney produced several expert witnesses in the form of accident investigators and doctors to support the injury claims. As it happens, the motorcycle rider was a Vietnam veteran. And, as a result of the accident, his Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) re-surfaced. Professional care providers from the Veterans Administration testified to this also. The expert witness testimony was very convincing and the plaintiff’s attorney did an excellent job in presenting their argument.

Now it was time for the defense to present their side of the case. The first thing the defense attorney did was to try and deceive the jury. On the day of the accident there were two different people with the same last name treated for their injuries at the local hospital. One of the treated parties, the plaintiff, complained of head, neck, and shoulder injuries that were consistent with the claimed injuries. The other party, the one with the same last name as the plaintiff, had minor complaints that were not consistent with the claimed injuries. The defense attorney tried to convince us, the jury, that the plaintiff was the person with the minor complaints. The plaintiff’s attorney made short work of exposing this shameful tactic and letting the truth be known.

Besides this ruse, the defense called only one expert witness. A doctor, who examined the plaintiff for less than 10 minutes, testified that the plaintiff’s injuries were minor. Under cross-examination, the plaintiff’s attorney attacked this doctor’s credibility and competence and, in the process, ripped his testimony to shreds. After this fiasco the defense rested their case.

In short, the testimony in this case was so overwhelming in favor of the plaintiff that, if this had been a prize fight, they would have stopped it. After a week of testimony, the judge gave us his instructions, emphasizing that we should consider this case based only on what we heard in the courtroom. Based on what I heard, I thought this case was a “slam dunk” in favor of the plaintiff. Jeez, was I in for a surprise!

The Jury Deliberation Room

The jury had several issues to decide upon. The issues were prior pain and suffering, future pain and suffering, an aggravation of the PTSD issue, and medical expenses. Each issue carried a price tag of monetary damages. This was a civil case, and unlike a criminal case, a unanimous verdict was not necessary. Our jury needed a majority decision of 9-3 for each issue. Simple enough, I thought, we’ll be out of here in an hour or two. After all, the plaintiff’s attorney made mincemeat out of the defense attorney – to the winners go the spoils!

We took a vote on each issue and I received a shock. We were split completely down the middle – four jurors in favor of the plaintiff, four jurors in favor of the defense, and four jurors that couldn’t make a rational decision if their life depended upon it. The four jurors that favored the defense were adamant in their refusal to award any monetary damages. The four “no opinion” jurors were much closer to the “no monetary award” position, presumably because taking that position involved little or no thinking their part.

Over the next three days discussions became arguments, coaxing became coercing, and constructive criticism gave way to outright insults. The four “no opinion” jurors participated less and less as the discussions became more heated. The longer things dragged on, the four “no monetary award” jurors became more unified and intractable in their position. We called for court testimony to be read back in the jury room in hopes of changing some minds but it made no difference. It became obvious that court testimony was no match against a prejudiced position.

On the third day, one of the fervent “no monetary award” jurors announced that she had an important appointment and that she would be willing to change her position in order to bring the deliberations to a close. So we decided on a monetary award that I considered was still too low. For a brief time I considered changing my vote so that a decision could not be reached, thereby creating a hung jury. In the end I relented and went along with the negotiated award. The plaintiff’s medical expenses were being met so I figured that was as good as it was going to get.

Conclusion

So after reading novels and working crossword puzzles for years I finally got what I had hoped for – to be on a jury. The old saying, “Be careful what you wish for, it may come true” comes to mind. I must say that I did enjoy the trial portion of being on a jury, although that was far outweighed by the sour taste of the jury deliberation experience. Initially, I was a bit dubious at the prospect of twelve people trying to come to a decision regarding money, which required some talent for negotiation and compromise. Now, I am no longer a “bit dubious,” but I am completely dubious of a jury being competent enough to make these types of decisions. As for being on a jury, I’ve done it and I am no longer curious about being on another.

Randoid is a Robbinsense staff writer

The Fightin' 81st

The Fightin’ 81st



by Randoid


I was a nineteen-year old airman stationed at Keesler Air Force Base in Biloxi, Mississippi. Keesler was a training base for new recruits, and I was attending a technical school to become a microwave radio technician. There were thousands of new airmen on the base and most were like me, attending a technical school of one sort or another. The base was cut in two by an airstrip. The main base was located east of the airstrip and represented about 80% of the base acreage. The main base housed all the technical schools. The remaining part of the base was a triangular-shaped area to the west which was known as the Triangle. The Triangle was devoted to student housing and consisted of 12 or more large complexes or squadrons. Each squadron complex contained administrative offices, a chow hall, and a barracks for approximately 700-1,000 students. I was assigned to the 3381st Student Squadron, which just happened to be the squadron closest to the airstrip.


My job, as a student, was to attend my designated technical school 6 hours a day from 6 AM to noon, 5 days a week. However, with the Vietnam War in full bloom the wartime demand for qualified technicians was high. In order to fill that technical manpower gap, the powers-that-be wanted to speed up the graduation process so that we could make our contribution to the war effort as soon as possible. To that end, they came up two solutions. First, the students will attend classes in three shifts. A shift, will attend class from 6 AM to noon, B shift from noon to 6 PM, and C shift from 6 PM to midnight. Second, all students will now attend class 6 days a week. I was assigned to C shift. So now my job, as student, was to attend my designated technical school 6 hours a day from 6 PM to midnight, 6 days a week.


Most of the students in the 3381st were on the A shift and the B shift so the chow hall in my squadron was designated as an A and B shift chow hall. C shift students couldn’t eat there. I had to attend a C shift chow hall in another squadron about 500-600 yards down the road.
Every school day, which also happened to be most days, began at 5 PM as C shift students lined up for an inspection by our Squadron Commander and our Red Rope. The Red Rope, who was a student just like the rest of us, was sort of like a “prison trustee” in that he was responsible for our overall welfare when the Squadron Commander and First Sergeant were not around. In keeping with military tradition, he also had complete authority over us. Our Red Rope was named Richardson and he was a pretty good guy.


With the inspection completed, it was time to march to school. The 3381st had the “honor” of leading all the other Triangle squadrons across the flight line, past the reviewing stand, and on to our main base schools. Along the way, our squadron would sing marching songs and, in doing so, try to drown out the other squadrons who were trying to do the same thing.


After six hours of learning about electronics, it was midnight and school was finished for the day. Although it was midnight, it had also been at least eight hours since our last meal and most of us were too hungry to be tired. Now it was time to march back across the flight line, past our barracks, and onto a C shift chow hall.


A long time ago back in the afternoon, we were the first squadron to march across the flight line in going to school. But now, at midnight, the order is reversed and we are the last squadron to march back across the flight line. This resulted in the 3381st being the last squadron to be fed, which was bad enough, but wait! It gets worse! Occasionally, the chow hall would run out of food, or to be more exact, the designated meal. For example, every other squadron would dine on roast beef and mashed potatoes but that would be long gone by the time the 3381st showed up at a quarter to one in the morning. The cooks, being basically unimaginative and pissed off to be working that late, would boil potatoes and canned hot dogs for us. To make matters worse we usually had to wait for that.


Well, what started off as an occasional chow hall problem soon became a frequent chow hall problem. We were eating boiled canned hot dogs 2 to 3 days a week. I remember that the hot dogs were a grayish color! Gray! Complaints to the chow hall supervisor and our Squadron Commander fell on deaf ears.


Each day around 10 AM all C shift students would gather for PT or physical training led by our Red Rope. One day, after another canned hot dog dinner, the PT session became a forum for complaints about the food. The complaints grew louder and louder and finally Richardson, in exasperation, asked, “What the hell can I do? We’ve talked to our commander and the chow hall supervisor and it doesn’t seem to matter.” The crowd fell silent for a moment but that was just long enough for one unidentified voice to say, “Let’s go down there this afternoon and wreck that fucking chow hall.”


The C shift students let out a huge cheer of approval as they looked to their Red Rope for guidance. Richardson, the right man for the right time shouted, “Let’s do it!” Now, drunk with power, he whipped the mob into a frenzy. “Assemble at 3 PM for the afternoon meal,” he screamed, “and we’ll go down there and wreck that fucking chow hall!”


3 PM rolled around and we marched down to the chow hall. We entered the building in single file to collect our trays, plates, and silverware on our way to the steam tables. It’s tough for a couple of hundred guys to keep a secret for 5 hours and you could see it in the cook’s faces. They knew something was up and eyed us warily as we shuffled through the serving line. I was with my good friends Greg Bonzer and Chuck Corne, and there were about 20 guys in front of us in the line. Much to our surprise the guys moved through the serving line without incident. There was plenty of tension in the air but so far no one had started anything. Corne picked up a plate, stared at it for a second or two, and then hurled it to the tile floor where it shattered into smithereens. Thanks to Corne the game was now on. Bonzer and I smashed our plates too!



Then we got new plates and headed through the serving line. The cooks, dumbfounded at this display, didn’t know what to do so they did the only thing they knew how to do – they gave us our food. Guys continued to pass through the serving line as the stunned cooks served up more and more food. Meanwhile, the sound of breaking plates could be heard in the background. Soon a full-fledged food fight was on, except everyone was throwing their food at walls, under tables, on top of tables, all over the chairs, etc. In only a few minutes the chow hall was in shambles. Our mission completed, we marched back to our squadron to get ready for school.


With another open rank inspection completed we took our usual position leading the other squadrons across the flight line. We began to march but were soon surrounded by several trucks full of Air Police. They diverted us from the flight line to a nearby grassy area. Our squadron commander was there to greet us and he wasn’t happy. There were several other officers there as well, presumably on hand to get in on the ass-chewing that were about to receive. Our immediate punishment was that there would be no school for us this night. What, this is punishment!? We had to return to our barracks where we were under house arrest! Wow, I thought! I’m under arrest!


The next day we found what else they had in store for us. Richardson, of course, lost his rope. He was about to graduate so I don’t think he gave a damn. As for the rest of us, we were under house arrest for the next 10 days. We could leave the barracks only to attend school and to go to the chow hall, but only under the watchful eye of the police. Once at the chow hall we had to revert to basic training rules where we stood at attention, even through the serving line, and were forbidden to talk. News of our uprising soon spread and as were marched to and from the chow hall under guard, students from neighboring squadrons waved and cheered us from their windows.


With our arrest period was over, we lost our police guard and were now free to speak and move about in the Triangle. We soon discovered that our food rebellion turned us into instant celebrities. Someone in the group came up with this song which we sang lustily on our way to school, and more importantly, to the chow hall.


“Everywhere we go-oh,
People want to know-oh,
Who-o we are,
So-o we tell them,
We are the 81st,
The chow hall bustin’ 81st,
We go to school to read our books,
And all we do is fight with cooks.”



Randoid is a Robbinsense staff writier and a Carpinteria Taler

Memorable Songs Are Life Stories

by Randoid

Nearly everyone I know has an appreciation for music. And, as we travel through life, music, primarily popular music, can be a bookmark in time for us. I know it is for me. Sometimes, when I hear a song on “classic rock” radio or through a random play list on a home stereo system I am instantly transported to another time and place. I can think of many songs that are stamped with memories associated with people, places, and events of the day. It seems as though this is true for most people. In a way, music can become our life story. Here’s a story that comes to mind whenever I hear a certain song.
I had just turned 20 years old when I was assigned to an Air Force base located on the outskirts of London. It was my first trip outside the US and I absolutely loved it. I was fascinated with London and I spent a great deal of time exploring the city on my own. The extensive Underground train system allowed me to go practically anywhere in the city in a matter of minutes. In these days however, it did have its drawbacks – the trains shut down around midnight and resumed running about 5 or 6 AM.


On Friday or Saturday night, I would go pubbing and, on occasion, I’d miss the last train home to my base on purpose. I hung out at a German bierkeller located in the Bayswater area of London and I made a lot of friends there. Sometimes I would “crash” at a friend’s flat. And other times I’d prefer to simply walk the streets of London until the trains ran again in the early morning. Bayswater was a particular hangout for me but I also spent a great deal of time in the Piccadilly and Soho area. I knew some people who ran a nightclub in the Soho area, mainly through my activities in a low-level black market operation, but that’s another story. Most of the London clubs would close to the general public at closing time, around 11 PM, at which time you could join the club for a few bob and continue partying behind closed doors. As a result, I joined several clubs in Soho.
One night as I wandered in Soho I passed a dark alley, and noticed a lighted doorway. Ah, I thought, another club! At this point in my life I was totally fearless. Of course, my total lack of fear was based on the fact that I was too young and too stupid to be afraid. Here I was, comfortably drunk in a strange dark alleyway at 1 AM in a foreign city, but I was 20 years old and couldn’t imagine anything bad (or bizarre) happening to me. So, without hesitation, I went in the door.
Most of the clubs that I was familiar with were open, well-lighted places. Not this one. This club was dimly lit with heavy, dark fabric on the walls. Small tables sat next to plush loveseats scattered in nooks and crannies. An attractive looking gal wearing too much makeup greeted me at the door and soon we were snuggled closely together on one of the loveseats. I ordered a beer and, out of nowhere, a glass of champagne magically appeared for her. Her hand slid to my crotch as she ordered another glass of champagne. As we were getting real cozy the bar bill arrived and damn! It was just about all the money I had! I got up abruptly and beat a hasty retreat to the door. My girl protested but I explained that I had no more money. I guess she understood because she lost complete interest in me.
Sometime later I heard the Kinks “Lola” for the first time. As I heard Ray Davies sing about “a club in old Soho” where he met a gal “who drank champagne that taste just like cherry cola” and “her name was Lola” and that “I’m a man and so is Lola,” I couldn’t help but wonder. Was the gal who grabbed my crotch in that alleyway club in Soho a, a, a . . . . . . guy!? Who knows! Anyway, every time I hear “Lola” (and I’ve sung it a couple of times in Karaoke, too) I think of that club in the Soho alley and a naïve 20-year old.
Are there any songs that you associate with memorable moments in your life? Care to share?
Randoid is a staff writer for Robbinsense