Those Eyes That the Cherubim Drew

2:27:45 PM EST
Feeling Surprised

Baltimore, Md 2/11-

   That left possession. We took a vote on possession, and it was eight hands voting guilty. The three not-guilty hands were Ponytail Girl, Marlboro Man, and Amish Beard Boy.

     First, Ponytail girl said it wasn't possession because he didn't have it on him. We asked for a tape of the judge's instructions, because he had adressed that point specifically. He'd gone out of his way. Must've known it would come up. His instructions were clear. It could be his possession, even if it's not on his person. But it had to be in his direct control. He had to be the one who decided what would happen with the drugs. This is where the law got very foggy for a lot of people in the room.

     Because the judge had stated that the "proximity" of the drugs to Roosevelt had to be taken into consideration, the not-guilty-crowd argued that he wasn't in close proximity, but we, the guilty-crowd, explained it ad nauseam and finally had them understanding what exactly that meant. It really came down to whether or not he was in control of the things within that room when the police raided the house.

     We listened to the judge's words repeatedly. Finally, I asked Amish Beard Boy (I selected him first, because I figured he would be the first to break) whether he thought it was reasonable that the drugs didn't belong to Roosevelt. Was it reasonable that the cop had made it up about the other mail being there on the nightstand? Was it reasonable that he'd never been there like his sister said? No. Amish Beard Boy changed his vote to guilty.

     Using that line of argument, we convinced the Ponytail girl that it wasn't reasonable to assume that the drugs weren't his. It was strange to be trying to think of angles to present the evidence, essentially in ways the prosecution had never presented. For every argument she made, the guilty-crowd had a counter argument. She voted in favor of a guilty verdict.

     But it didn't matter. Marlboro Man wouldn't budge. I respect his decision. He understood everything that had been presented. he didn't try to claim that Roosevelt hadn't lived there. He conceded that point. He didn't try to pretend there was any evidence planting going on. He simply believed that it was reasonable to assume that, in a drug dealer's house, drugs could turn up in a basement bedroom, and nobody would know who they belonged to.

     We instructed the judge that we had a verdict on three counts and that we were hung on the other six. When the black lady read the verdict, Roosevelt mouthed a, "Thank you." to her. He should have mouthed it to the Marlboro Man.

     We exited back through the jury room, and judge said he would stop by to answer any questions we had. I stayed behind, so did the black lady and the mother of seven. We asked him several questions, but he essentially confirmed that we had understood the law when we were deliberating. He did mention that he is opposed to mandatory sentences. He gave a hypothetical that may have been in reference to this case. He said, "What if a young man is arrested for possession of a small amount of weed (his words), and then a few years later he's arrested for possession of a small amount of drugs, and the jury finds him guilty of intent to distribute, and the minimum sentence is ten years? Does that seem fair? (I'm assuming he was telling us this was the case)

     It's my opinion that ol' Roosevelt got away with possession, and may have even been selling a bit to his friends. I'm comfortable letting him walk on the intent to distribute charges. I think the system failed on the possession charges. Only because I didn't get my way though.

     Our system works, and the system's broken.

Written by ravenjuiced Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 6 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

2:26:13 PM EST
Feeling Surprised
Hearing Squeaky heater and the repair man

<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Baltimore, Md 2/11-<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

     The first thing we had to do when we got in the jury room was to select a foreman. The mother of seven immediately looked at me and said, "I think you should do it." Uh, yeah, must be my natural leadership aura. I replied that I didn't want to do it. I really didn't. I would love to be the person to stand up and tell a defendant that the jury has found him innocent, but I don't want to be the one that stands up and tells a guy he's going away for a long time. (same reflex that makes me swerve when there's a cat in the middle of the road)

     I said that it seemed a good idea to ask who actually wants the job, and narrow it down from there. The overbearing redhead was the first to throw her hat into the ring. There was a moment of silence, and I was about to change my mind, because I didn't want her running the thing, and I was pretty sure I could get more votes. The black lady must've been thinking the same thing. She'd been looking around, and she finally indicated that she wanted the position as well.

     I blurted out that we could either take a vote, or we could flip a coin, but the young girl in the ponytail just asked them to pick a number between one and ten. They did and the girl indicated that the black lady had won. Now, since it went the way I had wanted it to go, I didn't say anything, but, had it gone the other way, I would have objected and insisted either on a vote or a coin flip, since "guess a number" can be manipulated by the person who's thinking of the number so the outcome comes out the way they want. I don't doubt that's what happened in this case. I believe that was the first time, and not the last, that we were guilty of slanting the verdict. I am guilty as charged.

     So then we started in on the trial. Ponytail girl wanted an immediate vote. Many of us objected to that, and the discussion began in earnest. Mother of seven made the first move. "Does everyone agree that either he's guilty of both, possession and possession with intent to distribute, or he's innocent of both?"

     Heads around the room nodded, and, at the time, I really hadn't thought much of anything through yet (my mind works a lot slower than most), so, for the time being, I went along with it with an, "It appears that way."

     I asked if anyone believed the sister. There was some back and forth, but when it came down to it, nobody believed that she wasn't still living there. Nobody believed that Roosevelt had never lived there. And nobody liked the fact that apparently, this girl was upstairs snorting coke while she was pregnant. We surmised that, either she turned state's evidence in case they ever do catch L.A., or her trial is still upcoming. However, after about an hour of discussing her testimony, we decided that she was irrelevant to the case. She had nothing to say that made any difference. Regardless of whether she lied or told the truth.

     Then we went over the cop's testimony. Mother of seven, who seemed to have taken over the foreman's spot (I don't know why the hell she didn't just come out and ask for it in the first place, she would have had our support over the redhead.) asked whether everyone believed the cop. Ponytail girl, Marlboro Man, and Amish beard boy all indicated that they didn't automatically accept his testimony. I asked whether they thought he had planted the evidence, and after an awkward moment, they indicated that they didn't think so. It was interesting that they seemed to look at the black lady for permission to concede the point. (no, it's not my imagination)

     We discussed the cop’s testimony, and it started to become evident that Ponytail girl and Marlboro Man were dead set on acquittal. Redhead and a woman, a law student who had been quiet up to this point began to express their opinions and it was evident they were dead set on convicting. There was a push and flow to the conversation that makes it unmistakable as to who is walking into the thing without weighing the evidence on both sides.

     The cop’s testimony created the first tension in the room. In my mind, he hadn't come across as manufacturing anything, and seemed believable.

     When the tension rose to the point where people were telling personal stories about the police committing injustices and personal stories of police heroics, our foreman, the real foreman, put an end to it and asked that we take a vote to "see where we are".

     There's a bit of a stage fright that goes along with raising your hand one way or the other in a jury room. It's a parting of the seas. Once that first vote is taken, there are "sides". So, we took our first vote, and I was one of seven hands to raise in favor of convicting. Mother of seven, law student girl, and four women that, at this point, I considered little more than sheep, had voted to convict. Marlboro Man, black lady, Amish beard boy, Ponytail girl, and, surprisingly, redhead all voted to acquit.

     Ponytail girl immediately declared that she thought we'd never agree on a verdict and that we should declare ourselves a hung jury. No way, not before we'd even said word one about the evidence itself. I said we needed to discuss the evidence. Not what the witnesses had said, but the physical evidence in front of us.

     The most obvious evidence in the room was the bag of drugs and paraphinaliea. At this point, the not-guilty crowd made the contention that there weren't enough drugs present to constitute "intent to distribute". It really didn't look like a lot. I told them that I knew for a fact that it was enough to constitute that, because I had known plenty of drug dealers in my day. They don't all have a closet of bales to distribute. Marlboro Man then made the next intuitive leap and asked me if I had been a drug user. I told that I had, and he indicated that, in the army, he'd been in charge of discipline, including the type of discipline resulting from a soldier's possession of drugs.

      He said that, in hismind, it was a quantity for personal use. The mother of seven pointed out what the cop had pointed out, that there was nothing to smoke the weed with. If there is no device, no pipe, no rolling papers, no bong, then how can we assume it's for personal consumption.

     Then the conversation turned to whether the stuff was his or not, the gist of the argument. The acquit-crowd made the claim that is was plausible that the drugs belonged to the drug dealer. It was his house. But why would he keep it downstairs in a basement bedroom? The convict-crowd effectively fought the case that, it was very likely that Roosevelt was staying there, his mail was there. Why wouldn't he or his sister have had it mailed to their mother's house, if they were living there? I asked to have the mail evidence be brought in. It turned out that two of the letters were opened, and one wasn't.

     One of the opened ones was from a storage place, probably where he had some of his things while he was between homes. I have no doubt the cop picked that one up so they could search it, and, had they found anything, we would have known about it. The second piece of mail was from some on-line poker place, reminding him to swing by. This was pretty incriminating. There was a hand-written note inside along with the itinerary, and the envelope was addressed by hand. It was dated after the date his sister had said she had moved out. Why would he be giving out that address after his sister had moved out? This wasn't a case of mail being forwarded from the post office like the other two pieces of mail. Someone had gone out of their way to address an envelope to Roosevelt, after his sister was supposedly moved out.

     He had been there. He had lived there. Maybe not all the time, but at least for a period of time. The redhead changed her vote. Amish beard boy, seeing she had, started to waffle and said that he could see that the drugs probably belonged to Roosevelt.  At this point, the black lady shook her head and muttered, "No. No. No. I don't believe this." She asked if we were all aware of what the penalty was for intent to distribute. Mother of seven said we couldn't take that into consideration. We were thereonly to deliver a verdict.

     I said that I figured he'd get probation. If it was his first offense. If it wasn't...

     Ponytail girl, cheeks red and not knowing what to do with her eyes, stammered, "This-you can't do this to a black guy. The punishment doesn't fit the crime. Has anyone heard of the Jena 8? This is racial."

     At that, there was a wave of indignation fired off at her from about three or four of the white people in the room who let her know they were offended that she would imply that they were making their decision based on race. She denied that, and backed off, saying she didn't know exactly what she meant, but that she would stand her ground. She Wasn't about to let him be convicted.

     The black lady then said she could see convicting him on posession, but she didn't think they'd proven intent to distribute. Marlboro Man chimed in and said that he didn't think there was enough evidence for either. He said there had to be more.

     I looked at the black lady and wondered how the case could be made for posession and not intent to distribute.  I thought about my days of drug use, and wondered what they would have found if they had busted into my placewhile I wasn't there; and I realized I had to change one of my verdicts. While they were still bickering, I announced that I had changed my verdict on the intent to distribute. The pro-conviction crowd looked at me as though I'd betrayed them, a look I'm pretty certain everyone who ever changed his verdict in a jury room got. I explained that, when I was using drugs, I used to roll my own pipes out of aluminum foil or carve them out of apples. When I had enough money to go out and buy a pipe, I'd carry it with me. And, believe me, when I was as poor as Roosevelt, I never had enough money to go out and buy two pipes.

     Mother of seven then asked me how I would explain away the little jewelry bags. Yeah, again, I drew on my experience and told her that I used to go to the store to buy little Glad baggies so that, if I had a stash at home, I wouldn't have to carry the whole stash around on me.

     Now, I could have added that, I also bought the baggies in case one of my friends ever wanted a little and I had enough on me to share, I could give them some. But that was irrelevant at this point.

     That's when Jean-Jacket Lady spoke up. She tried to make the case that it was unlikely, and that, had he had his pipe on him, that would have come out in the trial, but within a minute, she realized she was the only one in the room still clinging to convicting on the intent to distribute. I asked Madame Foreman to take a vote on the three counts of intent to distribute, and, though her hand was the last one to rise, Jean-Jacket Lady weighed in with a not guilty verdict. Three of the counts were decided.

  

Written by ravenjuiced Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 0 comments: Add your own

10:30:37 AM EST
Feeling Surprised

Baltimore, Md 2/8/08 -

     The police raided the house at 11pm in the hopes of catching L.A. and some of his posse. Unfortunately, their timing was bad and they only found the defendant, Roosevelt's sister and her 4 year-old child at home. They did, however, have a warrant to search the premises and found in a basement bedroom, 21 pills of ecstasy, approximately a quarter pound of marijuana, and 19 grams of cocaine. In addition to that, there were plastic jewelry bags which are sometimes used by drug dealers to package the drugs in small quantities for resale. The link to Roosevelt was that, in that bedroom, there was "evidence" that someone was living there and "many" envelopes addressed to Roosevelt were found on the nightstand, three of which were collected by the police.

     The prosecution's contention was that, even though Roosevelt wasn't present, his mail in the same room with the drugs constituted enough evidence to convict him of possession, and the bags constituted evidence that he had the intent to distribute.

     The defense attorney gave a much shorter opening statement. He said the defendant did not live in the house, never had lived in the house, and that he was between jobs and without a home, living with his mother. The only reason his mail was coming to this particular address was because his sister was "the responsible one" in the family, and that she'd had his mail forwarded there until such time as he could find a place of his own to live.

     The prosecution then called their one and only witness, the officer who'd collected the evidence. A man approximately thirty years-old, six foot-two, two hundred twenty pounds took the stand. He had a pock-marked face, black hair back in a pony-tail (a style I suspect he selected from watching too many Steven Segal movies). He indicated that he was the officer responsible for collecting evidence in the basement room where the drugs were found.

     He gave his version of the sting operation and the surveillance. Then he began to tell us what he saw in that basement room. He said there was no closet, so there had been a clothes rack made out of pipes set up in one corner. On that rack, there was what appeared to be a male wardrobe, shirts, slacks, shoes. There was a bed with sheets, pillows and linens. And there was a nightstand. He'd found the mail on top of the nightstand and had opened the drawers. The drugs had been inside the top drawer behind some "personal" items. He couldn't recall what specifically there was besides the drugs.

     The prosecutor asked him why he didn't collect more than the three envelopes he'd submitted into evidence, and he indicated that the other things appeared to be mail of a "personal" nature, bills, things the defendant was likely to need. He said that, since evidence would be unavailable to the defendant, the police try to select only those items that wouldn't inconvenience the defendant by their absence. In short, he could still pay his bills.

     Then the prosecutor asked him about the Roosevelt's sister. In what condition had she been found? The officer indicated that she had been in "sleepwear", a tee shirt and pajama type bottoms, and that she was barefoot. She and her child had been in the upstairs bedroom. Lo and behold, in that bedroom, another officer had found a rolled up joint and several lines of cocaine on that nightstand.

     Apparently, she had told the officers that she had moved out weeks ago, and that, she too, was living with their mother. She'd indicated that "she'd only come back for some of her things" because she'd known that her "bad news" boyfriend, a vile and terrible man who'd abused her, wouldn't be there that night. Oh, and her child was asleep upstairs in his pajamas.

    The prosecution rested.

     The defense attorney took his turn. He asked the officer how long the house had been under surveillance, and the officer replied that it had been approximately two weeks. Had the defendant ever been spotted coming in or out in all that time? No. But, the officer added, the house wasn't under 24 hour surveillance, it was only periodical.

     The attorney then asked whether Roosevelt was a target of that sting operation. No. Had the officer ever heard of Roosevelt before that day? Yes, but only because they knew the drug dealer's girlfriend had a brother. Had any of the clothes in that basement room been collected? No. Had the sizes of the shoes been noted? Or the sizes of the pants? No. Were there any other items throughout the townhouse that could be linked to Roosevelt? No. Only the envelopes in that room. Isn't it true that the Frederick County police still haven't found the drug dealer they were after in the first place, L.A., and wanted to arrest someone, anyone? Objection. Sustained. Were there any finger prints lifted off the bags that the drugs were in? No.

     Then the defense attorney asked that the "chain of custody" documents be produced. There was a brief line of questioning about who had handled the evidence, and why the officer had only initialed the document where it asked for a signature. This kind of minutia makes my skin crawl, and I'm sure I'm not the only one. The defense attorney took a look over at the jurors, and quickly dropped that line of questioning. Wisely.

     The defense then called Roosevelt's sister to the stand. A pretty girl, looked to be a year or two older than Roosevelt. She told the story the defense attorney had given us in the opening statement. She was just there at eleven o'clock at night with her four year-old. Oh, by the way, she was seven months pregnant at the time as well. The attorney asked why the defendant's mail was downstairs. Once again, she indicated that, because Roosevelt had been between jobs at the time, and didn't have a permanent residence, she'd taken it upon herself to have his mail forwarded to her. When she'd receive it, she'd "take it downstairs and throw it in a drawer".  Did Roosevelt ever live there? No. Not only did he not live there, he wouldn't live there because he didn't get along with L.A. because of the way L.A. treated her. Again, why was she there at the residence? To collect some things. She'd only had enough time to throw some things in a couple boxes before the police had arrived.

     The defense rested.

     Roosevelt never took the stand.

    The prosecutor's closing comments were predictable. She told the story of a drug dealer's girlfriend, a brother with no place to go, no job, and an opportunity to make some money. The sister wasn't believable. Would she really be there with her child, both in their pajamas on a cold February night to pick up some things?

     The defense said, "Three envelopes. That's all that links the defendant to the house. Three old envelopes."

     The judge gave us instructions to choose a foreman and have at it.

To be cont'd

Written by ravenjuiced Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 5 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

9:54:48 AM EST
Feeling Surprised
Hearing Cell phone jingles

Baltimore, Md 2/7/08 10am-

     So much for long, drawn-out trials; one day is all it took. I can now say with equal conviction that our system of justice works and our system of justice doesn't work.

     I showed up yesterday in my customary attire, a blue and white striped shirt, dark blue slacks, and wingtips. The hair was combed. As the thirteen of us waited around (twelve jurors and one alternate), I played a game. I tried to predict what type of personality each of the jurors would have. I started with the black lady; she was the only one who got there before I did.

     She was well dressed, well spoken, and we greeted each other warmly. Normally, I'd look at her and see a lady, but add a black defendant and I can't help but see a black lady. We talked about nothing in particular for five minutes and I could see she had a strong personality, but not overbearing. She didn't strike me as the kind to acquit, based simply on the color of the defendant's skin.

     The two youngest girls came in (one was the alternate) and they chatted about makeup and where they could go to "get more hours", waitresses maybe. Neither of them appeared to be the type to have an opinion about much of anything.

     The older lady in the jean jacket wore her best jean jacket for court again. She chattered non-stop and I got the sense that she wanted to take over. She did strike me as possibly being the type to convict based solely on skin color. Her speech had redneck written all over it.

     The chubby young man with the Amish beard was shy; he mumbled and lowered his eyes when spoken to, never started up any of the conversation.

     The old Marlboro Man and two of the women sat a little too far away from me to get any sense of who they were.

     Behind me, two of the women were discussing their children. They spoke about the joys and agony of motherhood. It seemed like pretty typical stuff until one of them declared that she was home-schooling seven of HER children. Just pushing out seven kids is quite a feat, but home-schooling them on top of that downright is heroic.

     And the last one I noticed was a redhead. She joined the black lady and me at our table. She wore busy red clothes that clashed for the second day in a row. She didn't seem to have much of an education and seemed to be trying to make up for it with a dose of bravado.

     They came and got us, and we went up to take our seats. The prosecutor looked at me and smiled, probably liked the conservative attire. The defense attorney smiled as well, but not quite as enthusiastically.

     The prosecutor made her opening statement. The police had been looking for a "big time" drug dealer in the Frederick area named Brandon Sanders or "L.A." as he went by. They'd had surveillance on several houses on which his name appeared on the lease. The defendant's sister was dating this drug dealer. They'd rented a townhouse together, one of the places the police were watching.

     Undercover policemen bought drugs from the drug dealer at this residence only two weeks prior to the defendant's arrest.

(to be cont'd)  

Written by ravenjuiced Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 3 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

10:06:23 AM EST
Feeling Chillin'
Hearing Elevator music

Frederick, Md 2/6/08 9:05am -

     Some time back, I got a summons in the mail. I was a "prospective" juror, and this week is my week to do my civic duty. Every night I was to call in; and, if my juror group was called, I had to report the following day. This had happened to me once before in another county, but my group number was never called that time. I am in group 26, a fairly high number, and since the groups called for Monday were 1 through 5, I never dreamed I'd even have to come to the courthouse. Monday night I called, and my group was one of the ones asked to serve.

     Now, most people feign disinterest in jury duty, particularly at work. They act like it's some sort of grand inconvenience, and they'd rather be at the dentist. I did the same thing Monday, telling my boss, my friend, that I hoped I wasn't called. "I have too much work to do," I said.

     My buddy nodded in an odd way and joked about it, but he probably knew me better than I knew myself at the time.

     When I heard that I had go, I immediately did a dance. I suddenly realized that I wanted to see what this was all about. I wanted to see the inside of a courthouse, and our system of justice at work. After all, 250 days a week, I see the same walls, pass the same offices in the hallway, pour coffee at the same time, and do whatever else it is that goes into my routine. Why the hell wouldn't I want a break? A chance to witness something interesting?

     I don't even know enough about our system to know what kinds of trials require juries, but some of them were obvious. The violent crime trials came to mind first. Understand something, I am a card carrying member of the National Republican Party, I don't have many clothes in my closet that don't scream "conviction": pin stripe suits;  blue, gray, and black slacks, tightly pressed; white and blue shirts that require cufflinks. I wasn't about to walk into the courtroom in jeans, that just seems too disrespectful to what I consider a process worthy of my utmost respect. But I couldn't show up in my regular garb, or I'd never get selected. One glance from the defense attorney, and I'd be gone. So I dug into the back of my closet to pull out these mustard slacks my wife bought me, back when she was still buying me clothes, and a yellow shirt. A look I figured a defense attorney would like.

     Tuesday morning, I left the gold watch at home, mussed up my hair slightly, and went to the courthouse. The Frederick County Courthouse is made up of a lot of red brick. Brick sidewalks, a large brick courtyard in the front, brick floors and walls inside the main foyer. Lots of red oak too. Oak railings paneling and doors. It's only when you get into the back rooms that you see drywall.

     I was directed to go to the prospective juror's room, lots of those cheesy chrome chairs with the gray burlap seat and crescent back. A couple of oak tables in the back and a TV at the head of the room. I signed in and they gave me $20 for my troubles, lunch money. I was one of the last people to show up, I guess nobody else had problems following the idiotic directions as to where to park -- yeah, the directions that reference a sign that's no longer there -- removed two years ago, according to the overly friendly..."juror greeter?" Whatever they called her.

     There were about a hundred of us in the room, and around 9am the greeter stood in front of us and explained how things worked. Pretty simple. The juror groups were made up of ten people, judges would call for "several" groups for the attorneys to choose from, and we'd parade our way up to the courtroom where we'd be "voir dired", a term that means "to seek the truth". Think Joe Pesci in My Cousin Vinny, "Now, if the prosecution wishes to voir dire the witness, I'm sure he'd be more than.."

     Miss Cheerful told us that, apparently, there's a lot more crime going on in Frederick that I had imagined, and that we should expect to be called. I got very excited and watched the door, expecting the court fetcher (don't know the person's actual title, but they don't use a bailiff at this point, this person just fetches jurors). Two hours later, my ass was killing me from the shitty seats, and I was pretty disgruntled with the whole system.

     Finally, around eleven o'clock, they came and got us, full of apologies for the waste of our time up to that point. The apologies didn't settle the score, but it's hard to stay pissed off when Miss Cheerful smears on the "we're sooo sorry."

     When we got to the courtroom there were already a hundred jurors in there. I couldn't help but wonder why the hell it takes two hundred prospective jurors to come up with twelve. The room was lined in white oak paneling and had church pews on either side of an aisle that led to the "arena." To the right, there was woman in a dark blue skirt and vest, thick thighs, dark hair, something like a five foot ten Rachel Ray might look if she put on a forty pound mix of muscle and fat. To the left with their backs to us, looking over their shoulders, were a tiny man with a thick head of hair and beak of a nose in a custom tailored suit I imagine cost more than a grand; and next to him was a black man in Dockers and a golf shirt.

     The defendant looked to be in his mid-twenties, his legs were trembling, and he didn't know what to do with his hands. There were no scars on his face, there was no arrogance in his big brown eyes, and he licked his thin mustache, apparently trying to look friendly and harmless, looking as many of us in the eye as he could. Our eyes didn't meet.

     The judge looked like Harry Anderson from People's Court; I mean, this guy was a spitting image, graying, thin, wire rim glasses, even down to his manerisms. He greeted us and thanked us for coming.

     "Ladies and gentlemen, the defendant, Roosevelt "Red" Smith (not his real last name) has been charged with possession and possession with intent to distribute, nine counts all together," he said. Then they started in with the voir dire, and I saw why they needed two hundred of us.

     A couple people knew the defendant or the arresting officer, maybe ten others had been convicted of drug possession or trafficking, twenty had some relative who'd been arrested on drug charges, and another ten were related to police officers. Each time someone spoke up, I could see the attorneys jotting down the juror number. You can bet your ass, the defense wasn't about to allow a juror who was a cop's relative, and the prosecution wasn't about to allow a juror who'd been busted.

     As they were standing up, one-by-one, I realized that, out of the two hundred of us, there were three blacks, two Hispanics, and the rest of us were snow white. Now, Frederick is predominantly white, but the ratio isn't that dramatic. I believe the population is 25% black. But, Frederick still selects prospective jurors from registered voters. Only 20% of the blacks who are eligible to vote in Frederick, register. I wondered if they realized how their apathy toward the political system was shaping juries.

     The judge began to call jurors in alphabetical order up to the jury box twelve at a time. The jurors stood up and said their name, if either of the attorneys had an issue with the prospective juror, they were dismissed. Since my last name begins with P, I figured there was no way this would get all the way around to me. Wrong. Every white male in conservative attire was excused by the defense attourney. Every young guy or girl who was shabbily dressed was excused by the prosecution. By the time I got up there, ten jurors had been selected: a little fireplug of a lady in a jean jacket, an obese young guy with an Amish beard (no mustache), a thin old man who could have been a Marlboro Man in his youth, a thin black lady that looked very much like a mother, and six women ranging from early twenties to their late thirties.

     I stood and gave my name. The defense attorney had sized me up on my walk up to the juror box, but this was the first time the defendant had looked at me. They conferred, and they kept conferring. They huddled over me ten times longer than they had over anyone else. It looked to me like the defendant didn't like the looks of me.

     Finally, the defense attorney looked up and said, "We have no objections to Mr. Pasek."

     I am juror number eleven.

     We were dismissed and asked to return today. Here I sit, waiting for my chance to impact someone's life. My ass is killing me from these damn seats. The attorneys are apparently getting some "routine" matters out of the way before we go up and the trial starts.

Written by ravenjuiced Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 7 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

9:55:59 AM EST
Feeling Embarrassed

Baltimore, Md 11/8/07 9 am-

     I was on my way to work this morning, wiping the scalding cheese off my chin that had shot out of my ham and cheese Hot Pocket, when I decided I'd stop into J-land and post an entry. But it seems, my drunk-ass self beat me to it last night. Either that or, judging by the writing, one of the dogs snuck down and pounded on the keys a while. Apparently, the spell check key doesn't work when I'm drunk. I wonder what's up with the fear of being judged. Seems like a problematic symptom for someone who intends to send out queries that are sure to bring a bunch of rejection letters. Oh well. I'll worry about that some other time.

     It's no coincidence that I have J-land on the mind. One of the ladies in my critique group asked me yesterday whether I have a blog up yet. Being the man that I am, I stammered a bit and denied that I do. They all have their little blogs, web sites on which they sell any books they've written. I've checked some of them out, even some of the web sites of professional writers, and I've found them to be pretty trite and extremely shallow. You know, put on the best face for the readers, because the readers couldn't possibly want to buy books from someone who's not perky and well balanced.

     I suppose I'll put one up at some point, and it'll be just as ridiculous as theirs are. Maybe we'll have a picture of Barbara and me in the kitchen, she'll throw some flour in my face and the caption'll be "Fred and his wife Barbara get silly in the kitchen". Can't very well have put in there that "Fred and Barbara like to get wasted and cook. Occasionally, they even slap the pots off the island in the kitchen and have wild monkey sex under the pot rack. In this picture, Fred goes doggie." Maybe another picture of me in cheesy cardigan sweater, walking the dogs. Couldn't have the reality shot of Cowboy greeting me like he does by ramming his snout in my crotch, "Cowboy greets daddy in his own, special way."

     If I do put one of those up, I'll be terrified that I'll sneak down like I did last night and write something. I wonder what it would do for book sales if I wrote in a blog about the groovy acid trip I took at Pitt when I ended up bowing to the Penguin God that stood atop Soldiers and Sailors Hall. Or if I told about the time I climbed on the roof to peek over and get a glimpse of my sister's boobs. I bet the kids would love that one.

     This sneaking down at night to write has become a routine of sorts. I get home, walk the dogs, we eat, then Barbara wants to spend some time together. She feels I owe it to her, and I suppose I do. Do I resent it a bit? Sure, after all, nothing hinders a man's pursuit of his lifelong dream like a wife. It's not that I don't enjoy her company; I enjoy it very much; it's just that, after a few drinks - and we're drinking pretty much every night again - she just wants to watch TV. That would be fine, but she wants to watch it with me. It's almost like some kind of quest she's on, find the show that'll be "our show" that we can watch together and we'll have something to talk about besides work.

     So I sit with her and watch, then, once she falls asleep, I go downstairs to the computer like a man sneaking out of the house to go see his mistress. It's perverse on some level, but it works for us for now.

     My last entry made it sound like I hate everything about work. That's not the case. I enjoy the people I work with. They're my friends. We stay after work on Fridays and have a few beers together. We're all about the same age, and are a product of the seventies. We eat lunch together and laugh every day. What I hate is the fact that I have to think about something other than what I want to think about. I think I've probably touched on this before. I wonder if the fact that I resent having to make a living makes me lazy.

     Went over to my parents house last weekend to "help" them. Dad's back is really bothering him, as well as other ailments, so he can't do a lot of heavy work. They had the builder run cable to their living room, but mom wanted it on a different wall because she bought a wall unit that she would stick against the wall where the TV was. The TV was to be moved to the wall that was lined with three dressers my dad had made in his shop. He'd spent a year on these things, waist high, white oak, made with the care of someone from the old country who took pride in his work.

     On the other side of that wall, is my mother's bedroom. She has cable in there, so it seemed like a pretty simple operation to drill through the junction box in her room, through the wall to the other side. Then, the plan was, that we'd put a splitter on the cable and run it through the wall. So I brought my drill and other tools and dad and I started. We measured from the wall to the junction box and then measured from the wall in the living room to see where the hole would be, and it looked like the cable would come out just in the right spot, right where mom wanted the TV.

We moved the middle dresser out and I went in her bedroom and started to drill. I got about four inches in and hit something soft. It didn't feel like wood or drywall. Even with a flashlight, I couldn't see what it was. We worried that it might be a chase wall and that I had drilled through the vent for the dryer, so we ran the dryer, but no air came out. So, we figured we must not be all the way through. We drove to Home Depot and bought a twelve inch-long drill bit. I drilled farther and farther until the bit was about ten inches in. Still I was hitting something soft, but it was giving way. Then we realized that the living room wall wasn't on the same plane with the bedroom wall because they have a little balcony on that side with their HVAC unit at the end. For a minute we thought we'd drilled into their heating unit, but it turned out that I was drilling into the back of one of those hand-made dressers and through their critical documents like tax returns and birth certificates. I drilled through so many things that, had we been drilling down, we probably would have struck oil. I don't claim to be much of a handyman.    

     To answer Paul's question, I'm not writing anywhere else. This is more than enough. One of the hardest things I had to do in freeing up time to write was to give up J-land, ESPN, and all the other sites I used to visit every day. They're like crack to me. Anyway, nice to see some familiar voices are still around. Take care guys.

      

Written by ravenjuiced Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 10 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

10:45:55 PM EST
Feeling Loopy
Hearing silence

Frederick, Md

Odd. I'm in an environment in which I enjoy the hell out of certain things such as the NaNoWriMo challenge I've entered into, but dread other things such as the real-life work situation I'm supposed to be yearning to display my prowess in every day. I love talkoing to those people in my critique group every day, and my skin crawls at the thought of my co-workers judging me.

     You, those of you who might be left, are sitting in judgement now wondering what point I can possibly be making. After all, people who leave AOL for other lands like I have usually have a good reason. I don't. I have delighted in the last few moths (how many has it been?) during which I have made incredible progress on my novel (it's two novels at this point, by the way) I remember the people of AOL as though I had taslked to them yesterday. I guess this is the new internet friendship net that people have, which I've been reading about. But the people I am most closely related to right now are those who can help me the most right now. That woukld be the people who are doing the research in writing that I'm doing. They're digging through the thesaurus, they're suffering through nights of wasted writing, they're living the life I am and so I pay them homage.

     But you were here first. You, those of you who might be left, were here to tell me that the words I displayed gave you some sort of comfort or entertainment, and that's all the heart of a writer needs to go ahead and pour it all out on the page for the world to see. There's a lot of procrastinatiopn going on, but I am moving ahead. This month, I'm plowing ahead with the NaNoWriMo 50,000 words, and as soon as that's over with, I'll be back to the first work in progress I was working on.

      There are other things going on in my life, but they are of the mundane reality. I have bills to pay. I have a wife now with whom I get along with at times and with whom I fight with at other times (usually over my family-funny, I thought it would be over money or sex, but I guess when you get to be almost 50 years old, those things don't matter)

 

     I still love life just as much as I always have. I watch some of you through updates. (R, that means you mostly) and I love the notion that I can write my thoughts down for posterity and not really give a crap about the style or subtance in some silly enviroment in which I'll be judged.

     I miss the people of AOL and I wish them all well. J-land is a little more barren than I remember it, but then, I'm sure I'm more barren than it remebers me. Yeah, I sense some success on the horizon with my writing. It's not boasting, it's due to feedback I've gotten from critique groups who have been a bit harsh on other writers in the group. I don't say it in celebration of some egotistical need I feed with praise from others, I just say it because I want to share it with someone who might appreciate it for what it is. A person they have known has had some success in a field they have yearned to excell in since childhood.

     I know we have lost many of you, and the fact that I'm quite drunk right now might lose many more. In fact, I'm not sure I'll get a single response whatsoever. But I liked conversing with the people of J-Land while I was doing it, so I pay you a visit now. Good luck, and godspeed.

 

Fred

 

Written by ravenjuiced Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 9 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

9:16:30 AM EDT
Feeling Chillin'
Hearing Bob Dylan (Modern Times)

Baltimore, Md 4/20/07 9:00 am-

     The new job has been delightful so far. I'm thrilled that I've been able to recruit several good people from the last company I worked for, including their best salesman. It feels like some sort of vindication and the evil man in my head is cackling at his revenge.

     Wedding plans are moving along nicely and I'm happy that Barbara isn't going overboard on spending money; although, we are opening up the wallets for the party. Happy to see we're still both tight fisted though. Something about a spender living with a miser that just seems to cause more battles in relationships than anything this side of infidelity.

     But most of my time lately has been taken up by writing and reviewing the work of the critique group I joined. I was lucky enough to land the last spot in a local group of 14 (don't ask me why they picked the number 14, seems odd to me, but it appears to work well). The group includes several published authors and some very smart people whose talents I envy.

     It's time consuming because, essentially, not only am I still working on my own book, I'm now reading, reviewing, and making suggestions on how to improve 13 books, all at the same time. So, while I stop by to keep tabs on J-Landers, time's at a premium.

     Submitting my work for the first time was nerve wracking, and, while I had daydreams of submitting the work and momentarily seeing everyone in the room with jaws dropped, tears in their eyes, dropping to their knees, proclaiming, "This is the greatest piece of literature I've ever read," the sensible part of me was thrilled that nobody laughed, threw up, or told me to get out.

     The response has been interesting. While I have received a lot of praise for mood setting, plot, unique descriptions and phrases, strong dialogue, and strong antagonists, I've consistently fallen short in probably the most critical aspect. They've all said I left the protagonists, the people the reader is supposed to like, hollow.

     So, after I threw a private tantrum, and suspected them of being secretly jealous of my talents, I cooled off and went back to see if maybe they were right. After all, I'd broken out in a rash of comma errors in the first two chapters and they'd picked that up, so maybe they were right about this as well. Sure enough, when I read their comments and re-read the paragraphs where I depict the "good guys", it was as though I'd abandoned them. There was dialogue, there were facial reactions, movement and physical description, but I hadn't climbed into their heads to convey motives and emotions. How strange.

     I was thinking about it on the way into work this morning and realized it was the same phenomenon that had reduced me to playing the "strong silent type" when I was young. I wasn't bearing the characters' souls because, if I showed the character's soul, showed the reader the true nature of the character, warts and all-and they have to have warts to be believable-and the reader still didn't like the character, it was rejection. I don't handle rejection well. The strong silent type doesn't open up, doesn't say, "This is what I like, this is what moves me, this frightens me, this is beautiful, these are my faults." It leaves the people in the room guessing at the nature of the man. Well, the old saying "It's better not to say anything and be thought a fool than to open one's mouth and prove it" may or may not work in day-to-day relationships, but it certainly doesn't work in writing.

     So, I'll have to undress the characters for the reader and show all their faults and dreams. I suspect there will be people that like the characters as well as those that don't. Getting rejected by readers will be just like getting rejected in a bar. It's going to suck. But I guess I'll swallow my pride, flip them the bird, and get on with the next story.

Written by ravenjuiced Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 7 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

3:59:36 PM EST
Feeling Loopy

Rockville, Md 3/2/07 4:00pm-

     I was on my way to work yesterday, minding my own business, singing along with The Lion Sleeps Tonight, shredding my vocal chords. There are back roads I take to get gown to Rockville which becomes an impenetrable fortress of traffic at rush hour. The road noodles through some of the remaining wooded areas that are still waiting for the owner to sell them for millions so they can me developed. My ride was rudely interrupted by cat, a gray Cheshire, that crossed the road right in front of my Jeep. I swerved to the right and the wheel caught the shoulder that dropped away at a very steep angle away from the road into the woods. There was a telephone pole directly in front of me, cutting the wheels to the left to get back on the road would have sent me into an immediate roll, so I headed for the thinnest trees and hoped I could keep the Jeep from rolling. No such luck.

     So I have now totaled two vehicles in a span of a few months (see previous entry in which I describe how I rolled my truck). It's quite surreal.

     Once again, I walked away with only minor wounds. A couple of stitches to the right hand, a nicely colored bruise on the left shin, and a deeply bruised ego. I'm not a bad driver. I'm certain of that. Okay, maybe I have to concede some point to the contrary here since a truly good driver wouldn't be in this mess, but I anticipate traffic, I use turn signals, I don't speed (much), I don't use the cell, I do the things that you would think would keep one from staring down the barrel of possibly being dropped by the insurance company. They haven't said so yet, but I can't imagine they're thrilled right now.

     It's odd in a way. I don't dislike cats, I pet them when they come over to me, I let them rub their heads against my fingers and hopefully give them some sort of comfort. My mom's cats and I were on the best of terms, I tossed them food now and then, petted them when they asked and they allowed me to do so without the cool, remote attitude they give most other people. But I have never owned a cat, I own dogs and will always own dogs. 

     If I sat here and planned analytically what I would do in that moment if I had it to do all over again, I might even say that I'd run that sucker down. But I think I'd be lying. There's something in that micro second when you're forced to make the decision that compels you, or at least, compels me, to swerve and avoid killing the critter. I've added it up, the accident will certainly cost me at least $8,000 in the value of the new Jeep versus what the insurance company will pay out. And, add to that any consequential increase in rates or possibly even having to take some state sponsored insurance and it's a good ten grand and probably more. My body is stiff and achy as I sit here and lick my wounds. But I think if it happens again tomorrow, I'll swerve again.

     I'm probably deluding myself. There are ferile cats all over those woods and it's a good possibility that one didn't have a home. But on the off chance that it belongs to some little boy or some old lady, I have to say I feel pretty good about missing it. Actually, who the hell am I kidding, even if it didn't have a home, I wouldn't run it over. I wonder if there are people out there who would. And I wonder what is in my dealings with animals that illuminates that which is dark in me, because, if I knew that the person crossing the street in front of me was a pedophile, I'd hit the gas.

     So, at this rate, I'll be on a scooter soon. It's been a heck of a year. I don't remember ever longing for a spring with the desperation I feel this year. Spring, baseball mitts popping, my daffodils and hyacinths poking their heads out of the dirt, the geese coming back north, flocks of birds on the distant horizon. I can't wait.

       

Written by ravenjuiced Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 15 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

9:05:17 AM EST
Feeling Angry

Rockville, Md 2/20/07 9:00am-

     There was a time before antibiotics, before inoculation, before all the modern medical marvels came along that we enjoy today that people were respectful enough and prudent enough not to let loved ones near them when they were ill to protect them. It seems that courtesy has gotten lost somewhere along the way.

     My sister had an "event" at her house Friday night. My cousin came home from her second tour of Iraq, my mom and dad were already staying with my sister for the week (they move into their own place the first of March), my uncle and aunt came down from Rochester and everyone was invited for the festivities. Everyone had a grand time, but halfway through the night, my dad told me that the household was getting over a "bug". He said it was a bug that had him throwing up for a few days. Hmmm.

     Well, I have a pretty high tolerance for that sort of thing, I go out in flip-flops in the winter with the dogs and engage in all sorts of other ludicrous activities that build up my immune system. Sunday I felt a little ill, had the runs and I was queasy, but it wasn't too bad. The thing is, for me, that's bad. I don't very rarely get sick. If that was the extent of it, it would be no big deal, but I brought it home. Barbara didn't go Friday because someone has to go home to take care of the dogs.

     Yesterday morning, she didn't feel well so she stayed home from work. A quick check of my own time line told me that last night it would hit her full force, and boy did it ever. She doesn't have the same tolerance I do, and by nine o'clock she was running for the bathroom to throw up. At one point, it was coming out both ends at the same time, so she was sitting on the toilet while throwing up on her own feet.

     For most people it's just getting sick. Yea