..:: Jury Duty ::..

It's time once again to serve the public, to join the ranks of those special people who call themselves "useful parts of society". Jury Duty. That was my calling years ago, when I registered to vote, then signed that magic donor card, bringing me out of the darkness and into the world of legally judging the fate of one of "my peers". Peeking through the veil of a young man misunderstood, with my razor-sharp cunning and wit in tow I managed to make it out of there in a total of 15 minutes, excused for the next four years. Did I win? Did I manage to pull one over on the system?

Not quite. Today's act of civic responsibility finds me at Chelsea Piers once again. I'm going to that familiar set of the longest running prime time drama in television history: Law & Order. I happen to be (along with my Mom and plenty of old people) a huge fan of the show. While the rest of my contemporaries are preoccupied by keeping up with the Kardashians (Kourtney is actually my favorite) and things like the fate of the latest American Idol, I'm interested in more substantial fare. By that I mean PBS in HD. Frontline, Great Performances at the Met, shit like that. And of course, my good old L&O on the always reliable National Broadcasting Company.

After watching this show for many years (the finale of their 18th season recently aired), I've become a big fan of the gripping court room scenes that come along in the second "Order" half of any episode. I always sympathized with the jury. Intently watching testimony with stern faces and deep in thought, I didn't envy the difficult decision they would have to make. I mean, this is serious business after all. The fate of a fake TV character is in their hands.

I always wanted to be a part of that. The heavens heard must have heard my plea because one day not too long ago, while at the DMV clearing up a small violation following a minor "hit and run" incident, I get a phone call. It was literally straight out of Central Casting. It was good news, and just like Jesus 40 days after that crucifixion thing, it was finally my day to ascend. My services were needed for the next episode, the woman on the phone says. I was to be in the jury. My friend and I decide to celebrate by taking a trip (he's driving of course) to Wendy's so we can tear through their dollar menu like nobody's business. I felt so free, without a care in the world. I thought the stars had finally aligned and nothing could have possibly stopped me now. My jubilation had just begun to erupt (you know what I mean ladies), and that's when the phone rang again. It was a lovely young lady from Central calling me back, only to inform me she had made an unfortunate mistake, and that I was not to be in the jury, only the gallery. "No need to bring the suit now", she says. Damn you GALLERY!!, I thought to myself. "Ok, I'll do it" I say, and hang up to cry into my frosty. Little does she know I'm still bringing the suit (unfortunately I have a limited wardrobe, so you get what I bring, NBC).

I have plenty of experience working on the storied franchise. My last, maybe brightest spot was an episode of Criminal Intent ("Senseless") where I actually got a waiver upgrade for portraying a Mexican immigrant living in a basement somewhere with 5 or 6 other day laborers. Ah, the fun I had that day. The SWAT team breaks the door down to raid the house and Chris Noth yells in my direction "Where's your Green Card?". That Mr. Big is a dream to work with, I'll tell ya. Pleasure to be around on the set (he's a loud dick). At least his partner Falacci was a vision of beauty (who made the one Mexican with lines quite nervous). I didn't know I was going to have to take my shoes off (construction boots), so I think my Argyle socks added an air of sophistication to the scene as I was lying face down in a mattress. None of us were actually Mexican, come to think of it. It was a few Dominicans and Puerto Ricans with maybe a random South American thrown in. Actually, now that I think of it all my background upgrades were because whatever I was working on needed a Mexican! Sacrifice, it's the name of the game I guess.

Anyway........
Back to the story at hand. T'was a long fucking day, a morning on which I struggled to overcome the pitfalls of the night before. I got a little too wasted at the local shithole bar and gave myself only a few hours to sleep. Today's call time was very motherfucking early, as important things like this usually are. I walked into the familiar holding area, unzipped my garment bag for wardrobe inspection ("people in the gallery don't dress as well as jurors, blah blah, blah") and assumed my usual spot in the corner, far far away from the rest of the herd. Hours pass, like they always do before they use you. Ray-Ray, the portly and amusing PA finally enters the room and asks us to go into the hallway and line up. He walks up and down the line, carefully looking over all of our faces. At that moment, I felt like the Golden Retriever at the Westminster Dog Show. You know what I mean, so goddamn beautiful that the judge passes you over sometimes just to be fair to the other breeds once in a while. He's pointing at random people on the line. "You....you...and you" he says, "Step out of the line". My mind begins to race at a frantic speed. "Do I want to be someone who gets pointed at in this kind of situation?"- I think to myself. "Or is it one of those trick selections, where everyone who's not picked actually wins?". Maybe they're picking a new jury at the last second? The only way to know for sure is if he stops counting at 12. Of course if I'm not picked by then, that would obviously be too late. Aye, so many questions, such a short menial life.

Lucky for me (and as it turns out, your eyeballs), I was pointed at. Given the proverbial finger so to speak. I was lucky number 7 to boot, so maybe things were turning around for me! I had never been asked, invited, or considered for sitting in the jury, as this is a spot usually reserved for those of the SAG variety (more on that in my next exciting post, it's a real nail biter). So take that, flaky casting lady! Now I do get to wear the suit, because the story will take place over two days and a wardrobe change is required. Turns out that celebratory junior cheeseburger and chili were not eaten in vain after all. I wasn't aware at the time (because it was the court half of the show), but this episode, entitled "Bogeyman" was the first show of the season co-starring Anthony Anderson as the new detective partner to Jeremy Sisto. Sadly, Jesse L. Martin had already left the series after nine years in what turned out to be a pretty weak way to get written off. We'll miss him, and funny man Anthony Anderson seems like an odd replacement. I mean, did you see Kangaroo Jack? What's up with dat? Anyway, maybe it was time to move on and Jesse Martin, also a talented Broadway performer is slated to star in an upcoming biopic about Marvin Gaye (spoiler alert: I think his dad shoots him in the end).

Again, like Jesus (the parallels are truly amazing), I was tested at that final moment before showtime. If the first person in the jury box was chosen to be number 1, she would obviously be sitting in the first row, first seat (left to right). Being juror number seven, that puts me all the way on the left, second row. Closest to the testifying witness, that puts me in prime camera real estate. We're then told to walk into the jury box the proper way, numbers six and twelve entering their respective rows first and so on, allowing everyone to get into their seats quickly and efficiently. Juror number 8 is a curly wild haired redhead seated next to me. She's attractive, appears smart in a way. She has that look, and sadly, I've seen it before. Her eyes ask that eternal question: "Where does he get that weirdo, oddly silent vibe he voodoos so well?". Alas, yet another deal broken before it was brokered. Cameras are about to roll, and now I think it's appropriate that I mention I'm suddenly afflicted by severe sinus, eyeball and face redness allergies. Not quite snot, but a fast unstoppable stream of saline liquid begins to pore from both duct, nostril, and pore. It happens at, as we say in the business, "The absolute worst Fucking time". I'm using the last balled up combo of tissue and toilet paper I was able to salvage to wipe my now irritated and red nose and.... "ACTION!". The show is on, and there is no more time to wipe away the dignity now dripping out of my cavernous nostrils. Ok, first take done. One of a seeming 6,000 chances to embarrass myself. After a while, I begin to notice something I've never experienced before. That lovely young lady sitting next to me, juror number 8, was apparently giving me the "peripheral" stink eye. Her technique was amazing, I'll tell ya. She had mastered the art of expressing dissatisfaction without an ounce of direct eye contact. "Hey..." was my first nervous word uttered after 3 hours of ignoring her, "I must be having some kind of reaction to the dust in the air or something". Needless to say, she's not impressed. I was probably better off not having said anything at all, considering I would have to sit next to her for the next 8-10 hours. Better to let someone think you're weird or foreign and don't speak English than to embarrass yourself, I say.

Lunch break over, I'm having a horrible time. My face is permanently semi-red. The nasal drip has not stopped. Take after take, I'm in disbelief as to how bad this is going to look in it's final presentation. I'm convinced I'll never be pointed at in a lineup again (at least not for a good reason). The episode revolves around some kind of cult group murder type of thing, called ‘Systemotics’ (read:Scientology). The episode is chock full of jury intimidation and near mistrials. We're basically watching two people testify for the scenes. One of them is a hot, puffy-eyed petite blond (Nicki Aycox). The other one is this guy who is the author of some book, developer of the system (read:L.RonHubbard), or something like that. The actor portraying this guy's real name is Bill Irwin. Thanks to another wild curly-haired redhead vixen I know personally, she told me he's actually a well known clown performer whom she's been very well aware of due to her own history in showbiz and clown acts. Small world, huh?




The magic of television is awesome, I'll tell ya. Although I've been in this particular courtroom set before, during the premiere of last year's season (as a reporter), I've never noticed up close how everything in the front the room (judge area, witness stand, jury box, etc..) is on wheels. I learned this the hard way, when I came back to the set too early to sit in the box. Upon stepping onto the platform with the chairs, I managed to do some kind of Tony Hawk skateboard-type slide that almost ended up with me breaking my ass on the floor. "Oh, that's not ready yet, sorry" says Mr. Union set-building carpenter guy having a bad day and who I know is laughing inside. Cool thing is, the wall behind the jury is completely portable too, and later on in the day they removed it to shoot the closing arguments with that classic "behind the jury's head" panning shot we've all come to love. As if I didn't feel awkward enough yet, the court officer / bailiff chick on my right at some point tapped me on the shoulder and said (what I thought was) "What up?". I figured she's speaking in the slang the kids are crazy about these days. "Not much, just chillin" I say. "What up?!" she says again. Looking at me like I'm retarded. "NOT MUCH" I say again (geez louise, what's going on with this girl? ) ...Turns out she's asking me for "Water", which I now notice is on the floor of the jury box behind my seat. I want to die now. "Oh yeah, of course" I say, and I reach back to hand her one of the cool "movie star" size Poland Spring 6 oz bottles. They're handy because you can bring them on a set with you and just stick them in your pocket without getting yelled at.

At least the scenery was nice during this mind numbing stretch of hours sitting in one spot. We're right next to the prosecutor's table, where the alluring Alana de la Garza is sitting silently (she has no lines in this scene). Her giant gorgeous eyeballs dare you to stare at her for just a second too long (you may turn to stone). Surprisingly, Linus Roache (who plays A.D.A. Michael Cutter) is an English guy. I have this uncanny knack of figuring out people who are putting on American accents in TV and film, so I always suspected him as a Brit. No doubt, overall they do a much better job at it than American actors taking awful stabs at English accents (re:Bridget Jones' Diary). After the camera stopped rolling between takes, he went into his normal dialect. It's funny, because he seems to have kind of a posh accent, like he grew up in a nice home in a fancy part of England. Not like the typical chimney-sweep drawl we're accustomed to in the US.

Through horribly amateurish video editing, I managed to make a little clip of the excitement that after hearing me describe, I know you are all now dying to see for yourself. To make the length of this video longer than the four to five seconds you might actually be able to pick me out, I've included the opening credits (Mike Post is a GOD!) and another clip I happened to find of a previous episode from the same season, something I referenced earlier in the perhaps prematurely titled post "Checking the Gate-A Retrospective". It's at Brooklyn College (Hudson University for the purposes of the show). Check me out walking by quickly with my backpack and hoodie - just like a real life college student!



The song is a classic tune from the great PJ Harvey, "Sheela-Na-Gig"