My friends all gave me advice on how to get out of it - "say he looks guilty", said one. "Say you're a full-time advocate for gay rights", said another. But I knew that it was part of being lucky enough to be an American, so I knew that I would speak only the truth.
We had to be there at 8 am. There were 600 of us, all packed like sardines in the room, patiently waiting for our assignments. The Clerk of Court had a sense of humor at least, interjecting funny personal stories along the way, like the lady that just decided to leave one day and got sentenced to 8 hours of community service - in that very room. And since she wasn't a potential juror nor was she a government official, she had to be introduced as a lady serving her sentence of community service.
Finally my name was called along with 60 others, and we shuffled over to one side of the room to fill out questionnaires. What was my religious affiliation, what were my hobbies, what TV shows did I watch...easy enough questions. The final question gave me pause though - "do you believe that a child's testimony can be trusted as much as an adult's"? I'm paraphrasing, but that was the gist. I answered as best I could, and when we were finished we were given orders to appear the next morning at the 213th District Court.
The next morning I arrived on time, and sat in the hallway with the other 60 jurors for an hour. Actually, I stood, since there was only room for about 6 people to actually sit. The bailiff called us in and we had to sit in the order of our juror number - I was number 18.
Juror 19 to my left was an older man, who I immediately nicknamed "Old Man Denture Breath". I could actually hear the clicking noise as he occasionally adjusted his teeth. Even when he breathed through his mouth all I could smell was rotting stomach contents. I turned to my right, and juror number 17, although more middle-aged, was almost as bad, just from poor dental hygiene I guess.
Voir Dire - pronounced in Texas as Vore Dyer, means to speak the truth. First the prosecution gets to ask us questions for an hour, then the defense gets the same opportunity. The defendant was there too, and looked to be about 18 or 19 (which at my age means he could be 35), and although he was dressed in a suit, seemed by his posture to be a gang-banger. There goes my presumption of innocence, huh.
We were told what the case was, but no details. As I suspected from the questionnaire, this was a molestation case, involving a child under 14. At least 5 people said that they were biased towards the defendant and thought him guilty right off the bat. At least 4 of those people just didn't want to serve and hadn't really thought out their answers very well. Some of the potential jurors had molestation in their family, some had multiple cases. At least two women and one man were brave enough to say that they themselves were molested and didn't think they could be impartial. One incredible man said he had been molested, but felt that he COULD be impartial, and that he felt it was his duty to do so.
The majority of the potential jurors were native Texans, and when the lawyer would ask them a direct yes or no question, quite often answered "probably" (pronounced as 'probly'). Or "maybe", as in "maybe so, maybe yes, maybe, probly". The poor defense lawyer being a yankee, finally had to confess to being frustrated with the answers, and begged for these people to give a yes or no answer. Didn't work - the habit is too ingrained.
Voire dire finished around 12:30 pm, and we were given 30 minutes to grab a bite downstairs from the snack machines. My back ached from the hard wooden bench we had been sitting on for hours, and my heart ached for the child concerned, as well as the jurors who had gone through the same thing.
We got back, and with no ceremony, the judge called out names of 12 people who would serve on this trial. Old Man Denture Breath was called, but I wasn't. I wasn't really sure how I felt about that. On one hand, I was relieved that I didn't have to experience the raw pain that would surely come from this trial. On the other hand, I felt like I could have been a good juror.
I was shuffled down to the jury dismissal area to get my check for service. They're quite generous here. The first day is $6.00. Every day after that is $40.00, which is a huge increase from days gone by. I took my check and walked a few blocks to bus station, which took me back to my car. Back to my world, which doesn't include child molesters, old men with bad dentures, and hard wooden benches seemed designed to punish even the innocent. Sometimes you have to peek behind the curtain just a little bit to see the dirty side of life to make you happy to go back to your ho-hum, boring, existence.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Clean Your Plate - Adventures in Ethiopia
Most people my age remember their parents saying to them as children, "clean your plate - there are starving people in Ethiopia". As we got older, the smart asses among us would offer to package up the leftovers and send it to them if they were that hungry.
So a week ago Friday, when I got a frantic e-mail asking me if I could go to Ethiopia for a 2-day meeting, that's all I could think about. I've been to Addis Ababa twice before - it's nothing to write home about, but the starving children are kept well out of sight. Maybe they're in the countryside?
I'm not trying to make light of the plight in Africa - it's real. When I was having lunch with the team there, I got into a discussion about chicken. My new friend from Ethiopia explained that the chicken found there is all organic. I laughed, because I thought he was trying to impress me. But he followed it up by saying, "no really, it's organic because we can't afford fertilizer."
The next day, he brought in an egg from an Ethiopian chicken to show me. Much smaller than the eggs we're used to, the yolks are much darker than the "European chickens". Showing me the egg caused quite a debate amongst the Ethiopians in the room, saying that the European chickens were not as tough as the Ethiopian chickens (probably because of the chemicals and hormones they're fed).
My hotel, the only one available at the time, seemed okay on paper. It had "high-speed internet", was newly built (2008), and was close to the airport. I knew that I was in a high-class hotel when I arrived, because there was an ATM in the lobby. ATM's are almost unheard of in Addis. There was no check-in counter, but instead 2 desks, where I was asked to sit and fill out a form. They didn't take American Express, and the card key machine wasn't working, but they showed me to my room. I actually upgraded to a Queen room, so they led me to the 2nd floor, through the restaurant, to room 105. The door was opened, and I saw a bed so close to the floor I knew if I rolled off of it I wouldn't wake up. The locks on the door were broken, but then so was the door to the bathroom.
The overhead light was burned out, but there was a mini-bar. The bathroom had a tiny sink, and a rather large bathtub, with no shower, hence no shower curtain.
The room itself had a desk. One (and I mean one) outlet with only one plug-in was available in the room, but there were three lamps and a bedside clock. If I wanted to power up my laptop, the lamps had to be unplugged. If I needed light, I had to unplug the clock and the laptop. And since there were no plug-in's in the bathroom, you can imagine the sacrifice when I wanted to straighten my hair.
The next morning, I went outside to the front of the hotel to await my pickup. As I looked around, I thought to myself, "this isn't so bad - it looks like any area near an airport in the world except for the skyscrapers with the bamboo scaffolds surrounding them and the strange crow-like black and white birds hanging around."
I thought that until the donkeys walked by, loaded down with bundles of fabric, followed 3 paces behind by two boys deep in conversation. The donkeys certainly seemed to know where they were going, lucky for the boys.
Then a man walked by with huge open cartons of Ethiopian eggs (or were they European - I wasn't close enough to tell) on his shoulder. Children in dirty school uniforms, really old cars spewing exhaust fumes, and a hooker. I could tell she was a hooker because she didn't go anywhere. She was dressed in what looked like a rayon or polyester dress from the 80's, quite modest actually, and she walked back and forth across the street from me.
I spent my 50th birthday in this place. The CIO of Ethiopian Airlines took me out to dinner to celebrate with a roasted lamb dinner. It too must have been organic, because I could barely cut into it. But it's the thought that counts. The people I have met there have been generous, good, and kind, as airline employees around the world tend to be once you get past their tough exteriors. A new adventure to tell, a new story to remember.
So a week ago Friday, when I got a frantic e-mail asking me if I could go to Ethiopia for a 2-day meeting, that's all I could think about. I've been to Addis Ababa twice before - it's nothing to write home about, but the starving children are kept well out of sight. Maybe they're in the countryside?
I'm not trying to make light of the plight in Africa - it's real. When I was having lunch with the team there, I got into a discussion about chicken. My new friend from Ethiopia explained that the chicken found there is all organic. I laughed, because I thought he was trying to impress me. But he followed it up by saying, "no really, it's organic because we can't afford fertilizer."
The next day, he brought in an egg from an Ethiopian chicken to show me. Much smaller than the eggs we're used to, the yolks are much darker than the "European chickens". Showing me the egg caused quite a debate amongst the Ethiopians in the room, saying that the European chickens were not as tough as the Ethiopian chickens (probably because of the chemicals and hormones they're fed).
My hotel, the only one available at the time, seemed okay on paper. It had "high-speed internet", was newly built (2008), and was close to the airport. I knew that I was in a high-class hotel when I arrived, because there was an ATM in the lobby. ATM's are almost unheard of in Addis. There was no check-in counter, but instead 2 desks, where I was asked to sit and fill out a form. They didn't take American Express, and the card key machine wasn't working, but they showed me to my room. I actually upgraded to a Queen room, so they led me to the 2nd floor, through the restaurant, to room 105. The door was opened, and I saw a bed so close to the floor I knew if I rolled off of it I wouldn't wake up. The locks on the door were broken, but then so was the door to the bathroom.
The overhead light was burned out, but there was a mini-bar. The bathroom had a tiny sink, and a rather large bathtub, with no shower, hence no shower curtain.
The room itself had a desk. One (and I mean one) outlet with only one plug-in was available in the room, but there were three lamps and a bedside clock. If I wanted to power up my laptop, the lamps had to be unplugged. If I needed light, I had to unplug the clock and the laptop. And since there were no plug-in's in the bathroom, you can imagine the sacrifice when I wanted to straighten my hair.
The next morning, I went outside to the front of the hotel to await my pickup. As I looked around, I thought to myself, "this isn't so bad - it looks like any area near an airport in the world except for the skyscrapers with the bamboo scaffolds surrounding them and the strange crow-like black and white birds hanging around."
I thought that until the donkeys walked by, loaded down with bundles of fabric, followed 3 paces behind by two boys deep in conversation. The donkeys certainly seemed to know where they were going, lucky for the boys.
Then a man walked by with huge open cartons of Ethiopian eggs (or were they European - I wasn't close enough to tell) on his shoulder. Children in dirty school uniforms, really old cars spewing exhaust fumes, and a hooker. I could tell she was a hooker because she didn't go anywhere. She was dressed in what looked like a rayon or polyester dress from the 80's, quite modest actually, and she walked back and forth across the street from me.
I spent my 50th birthday in this place. The CIO of Ethiopian Airlines took me out to dinner to celebrate with a roasted lamb dinner. It too must have been organic, because I could barely cut into it. But it's the thought that counts. The people I have met there have been generous, good, and kind, as airline employees around the world tend to be once you get past their tough exteriors. A new adventure to tell, a new story to remember.
Chapter One - The Beginning
I have wrung more joy out of this life than I deserve. I wish I could say that it was because I had a grand plan and executed it well, but I'm not that organized. Everything I have and everything I've done is because it was dropped into my lap by an unseen, yet unbelievably kind, power.
According to my mother, it was a sunny, warm day the day I was born, 50 years ago. Her due date was 3 days prior, so it seemed like a good day for me to be born. I was supposed to be born on Halloween, and if I was, my name was to be Wendy. Lucky for me I decided that being Wendy the Witch was too much of a lifelong stigma, so I stayed snug in Mom's womb for another few days.
The doctor that delivered me said that I was the most beautiful baby he had ever seen. Several months later he went to rehab for drug addition. But I was a cute child, with a broad smile, and blonde hair that I kept until I was in Kindergarten.
My folks lived in Antigo, Wisconsin, where Dad had a hardware store. We didn't stay long after I was born - Dad yearned to go back to North Dakota, where he was raised, and when the opportunity arose to buy the Coast to Coast hardware store in Casselton, he jumped at the chance. Mom wasn't so sure - she had spent her life in Wisconsin surrounded by family, rolling hills, trees, and green. Her idea of North Dakota was that it was flat, windy, cold, and unforgiving. She wasn't far off.
According to my mother, it was a sunny, warm day the day I was born, 50 years ago. Her due date was 3 days prior, so it seemed like a good day for me to be born. I was supposed to be born on Halloween, and if I was, my name was to be Wendy. Lucky for me I decided that being Wendy the Witch was too much of a lifelong stigma, so I stayed snug in Mom's womb for another few days.
My folks lived in Antigo, Wisconsin, where Dad had a hardware store. We didn't stay long after I was born - Dad yearned to go back to North Dakota, where he was raised, and when the opportunity arose to buy the Coast to Coast hardware store in Casselton, he jumped at the chance. Mom wasn't so sure - she had spent her life in Wisconsin surrounded by family, rolling hills, trees, and green. Her idea of North Dakota was that it was flat, windy, cold, and unforgiving. She wasn't far off.
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