Before the Law

BACK IN 1997, after squeezing every bit of cleverness available to me to evade it, I was finally forced into jury duty. I sat in that cavernous Brooklyn Supreme Court waiting room for two days, trying to decipher the names that were being mangled over the crackling loudspeaker. As far as I could tell, I was never called.

Then, a little before 12 on the third day, something sounding as close to my name as I could've hoped for was announced, so I gathered my things together and took a seat in "Empanelling Room One," where I was surrounded by 17 bigmouths, all of them jabbering jury talk. I slipped the previous day's Times out of my bag and laid it across my lap. I'd always heard that if you carry the Times, they won't pick you.

The lot of us were led to a sterile, sickly green courtroom on the fourth floor. It turns out that we were being asked to sit on a case involving a 50-year-old Polish immigrant who broke his leg while walking through a construction site at night. He was now suing eight corporations, including Brooklyn Union Gas, the City of New York and several construction companies. If you ask me, and nobody did, I thought he should be sued for wasting everyone's time.

Though there were 18 of us chosen, they only needed six for the case. I became juror #4 of those unlucky six, which meant that I was to take part in the first round of questioning from the lawyers. That was good, I figured. One pass through, and I should be dancing through the doors. Problem was, there were nine lawyers to contend with, and no decisions would be made until all of them had a chance to grill me.

By this time, I had given up all hope. It was Friday afternoon, I was missing my third- straight day of work, the situation was completely out of my hands.

So there I sat with five dopey loudmouths, keeping silent until I was asked something. And the first time I did open my mouth, all nine lawyers agreed that they needed to have a conference with me, "out in the hallway."

Thing is, it was a simple question: "Have you, or anyone close to you, ever been involved in a personal injury case?"

"Yeah, couple people, actually," I'd replied. It was true.

Out into the hall we went. There I stood, backed into a corner in a three-foot-wide hallway, surrounded by nine lawyers.

"What could be worse than a journalist being surrounded by nine lawyers?" one of them quipped.

"Maybe a lawyer surrounded by nine journalists," I shot back.

I detailed the two cases I was familiar with, then added, "Though I consider both of these guys friends, I gotta tell you-I've always felt that their lawsuits were a bit frivolous." I wasn't trying to say the wrong thing in order to get out of the situation; over-litigiousness bugs me, and I was just being honest. Being honest always gets me into trouble.

"Well," the plaintiff's attorney asked, "will you be able to keep those two cases out of your mind while you're listening to the facts of this one?" He was a fresh-faced young go-getter without a chance in the world.

"That's a silly question. I mean, I'll try, but I certainly can't make any promises."

Then we all went back into the courtroom, where my questioning continued.

"Now, Mr. Knipfel," the plaintiff's attorney went on (and I don't know how this came up), "do you have any questions or problems with the American legal system?"

My mouth opened automatically before I knew I was speaking. "Well, yeah, I have serious problems with the whole justice system."

Out we went into the hall again. I should learn to give them the happy, non-committal, monosyllabic answers all the other potential jurors were spitting out.

Surrounded by them again, I tried to explain why I thought the American judicial system had become a bit of a sham, but stopped myself before declaring that I was all in favor of willy-nilly public hangings, and that vigilante justice was all right by me.

"Well, maybe by working within the system," one of the lawyers offered, "you could help prevent such miscarriages."

"Yeah, maybe." I shrugged. Back in we went. Three more questions, three more trips to the hallway. I was actually starting to feel kind of chummy with this group, though that may have simply been out of desperation.

The second lawyer who was working his way down the jury line asked me if I, or any family members, had ever been injured in an accident. All the other jurors, it turns out, had led beautifully charmed lives.

"Well, yes, Jesus-I'm extremely accident prone."

The lawyers and the other jurors alike groaned. I wasn't trying to cause trouble. I caught the annoyed look on the lawyer's face.

"Well, you asked."

"Is this something we're gonna have to go out into the hallway about?" he sighed.

"Oh, let's not," I said. "I never bothered suing anybody about anything."

"Well, you were never hospitalized for any of these accidents, were you?"

"Yeah, several times. I have the scars and the pocket full of pills to prove it."

"Anything specific we should know about?"

"Oh, let's not bother."

The day ended with seven attorneys to go.

The following Monday morning, I sat in the juror's lounge, weary, listening to the same introductory spiel I'd heard three times already.

"And your very presence here allows us to settle cases and get justice done..."

Monday morning was the first day of "Jury Appreciation Week." All 1400 of us who showed up that morning had been handed a big, bulky shopping bag which held, among its many surprises, a coffee mug with the Kings County Seal on it, a "Certificate of Appreciation" (suitable for framing!), a coupon for 10 percent off anything at Macy's and five other pieces of paper, each one, in slightly different wording, explaining our role as jurors.

When the lot of us was finally called together again, about 11:30, we were led back up to the same nauseating green courtroom where we'd ended on Friday. The hallway we had to walk down was lined on both sides with desperate-looking young men. As we ran the gauntlet, they all started chanting the same thing at us: "Not guilty, not guilty, not guilty..."

This whole scene was beginning to take on the character of one of those less clever nightmares.

Back in the courtroom, the original six of us back in our seats, the lawyers began the day by telling number six he could go. I thought better of making a Patrick McGoohan joke. Number six, a big old guy in his 60s, had confessed that his father had worked for Brooklyn Union Gas for 45 years, and when he died the company treated his family very well. As a result, he told them, he'd feel a little funny about bringing a decision against them.

Then they let the woman next to him, number five, go. She told them that she falls down all the time, and doesn't feel that she's responsible. Seeing that someone else who'd fallen had found eight people to sue, well, at least one of them must be guilty.

I was left sitting there, and they stopped asking me questions.

So that was their little scheme-I'd told them I don't believe in the jury system, so they were going to bury me in it until I thought differently. Their plan was to break me.

After calling us together at 11:30, they sent us to lunch at 12:05, telling us to return again at 2. I headed straight for the bar I'd found over on Montague. I was drinking more and more during my lunch breaks. On Thursday, it'd just been a couple beers. On Friday, a couple, plus a couple more. Now on Monday, with the prospect of spending the next month listening to an incredibly boring case, I started throwing back the boilermakers.

I am no friend of big corporations, lord knows. But neither am I a friend of litigious bastards. I had to find a way out. Monday afternoon, maybe two hours of questioning before I'd have to come back again on Tuesday, a mighty, surly buzz working at my brain stem, I had to act rashly. No two ways about it. Rashly, but not too obviously.

I went back to the courtroom at about 1:30, to find one of the other jurors sitting in there already.

"H'lo," I said.

"Fascinating reading, the New York Times," he replied.

"Didn't help me any," I said. We didn't talk after that.

At 2:00, the rest of the jury showed up. We all sat there, waiting for some lawyers to materialize.

Before long, jury chatter turned to recipes, and soon everyone around me was sharing their favorite chocolate chip cookie recipes. That degenerated into simply announcing the names of their favorite pies.

"I like chocolate cream pie!"

"I like banana cream pie!"

"I like banana chocolate pie! I had two pieces once, and asked for a third!"

I slowly doubled over, hands on my forehead, trying to make the noise stop, trying to make myself wake up. Just one more drink, I thought.

Half an hour later, the nine lawyers finally appeared, fumbled about with their papers for another five minutes, then told me I was excused. That caught me off-guard.

"Thank you for your time, and your service," one of the lawyers said to me.

"Nossir, thank you."

"Y'see?" another one said as I passed him, "the jury system really does work." o