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One thing about jury duty — it’s really good for finding names. If you are a writer, and you need to think of names for your characters, jury duty is the place to be. Wonderful, exotic names are called out all day long: Obie Duffie, Alberta Toppins, Magdelina Hillel, Janet Padget. They are even spelled out loud, taking the guesswork out of the task completely. Maybe this aspect of jury duty should be marketed: "If you are writing a book or a play, or even a situation comedy, volunteer a few days of service to the state of New York. Everyone can be a winner." Whatever your naming needs, you can sit and compose long lists of names all day long, if you are so inclined. I am not supposed to be making lists of names, though. I am supposed to be thinking of goals. And not just any old goals — SMART goals. SMART goals, in case you don’t know, are goals that are Specific, Measurable, Acceptable, Realistic and Timely. I am still not quite sure what all that means. I have never had to make a list of goals before but in an effort to impose some semblance of discipline on me, my boss is insisting on the goals. The task is kind of freaking me out. I decide my first goal should be to find a job that does not require me to make a list of goals. But now I must perform my civic duty. Rethinking my goals, I see that the immediate objective on this Thursday morning is to survive the monotony of jury duty while also avoiding Nancy Goldberger, Juror No. 8. She is a heavy-set woman with very dirty hair who identifies herself as a "teacher slash performance artist," which is kind of a creepy combination, if you ask me. I can tell that Nancy Goldberger, Juror No. 8, is one of those people with whom you should not make eye contact because she will talk you to death in the hallway during court recess when all you really want to do is sit in the corner and finish reading The New York Observer. Yet I’m not even looking in her direction when she blurts out, "I think Bill Clinton is a very attractive man." Maybe she saw Clinton’s caricature on the front of the Observer and that’s why she felt the need to share this. But, really, I don’t know. People like to tell me things. I am trying to read and I am kind of sleepy because I had only one very weak cup of coffee from the cafeteria at 100 Centre Street, and not my usual Big-Gulp-sized cup of Columbia blend. And this Nancy Goldberger, Juror No. 8, is telling me of her lust for the former president and even though I have not really lifted my eyes from the paper, she feels compelled to add, "I mean, he has done some boneheaded things, but if he ran for mayor, I’d vote for him." At this point, I look up and kind of half-smile, which I know is a mistake and will only encourage her, but I can’t help it. Nancy Goldberger, Juror No. 8, interprets this uncontrollable facial spasm as interest and continues to yammer. As she is talking I remember that I had a dream Wednesday night in which I was dog sitting for the Clintons’ dog, Buddy. I don’t mention this. Kevin, the court officer, calls us back inside to Part 33, Judge Atlas’ courtroom. He kind of looks like Ken Caminiti, the baseball player, Kev does. I think a lot of these court officers look like out-of-shape ballplayers. This morning I saw a pot bellied, short Mark McGwire. At the front of the courtroom a skinny Juan Gonzalez is talking to a doughy Jeff Bagwell. My new goal is to investigate the existence of a feeder system from major league baseball to the New York court system. As the jury-selection process resumes, I fight to stay awake. I am in the audience with about 85 other folks. Jury selection has kind of a The Price is Right quality about it. The first 15 contestants are called to the jury box. As one is dismissed, the judge turns to a court clerk, kind of like Bob Barker asking Johnny Olsen the name of the next contestant. The court clerk obligingly calls out the name: "Sarah Keppler … K-E-P-P-L-E-R." Each time a new name is called, I have to suppress the urge to shout: "C’mon Down!" The judge and the prosecutor and the defense attorney take turns asking variations of the same questions over and over to each contestant, um, potential juror. Soon, I start getting agitated by the people who respond to "yes" or "no" questions with their life stories. They are like those annoying contestants on Who Wants to be a Millionaire that have to document for Regis the exact circumstances in their life that brought them to the conclusion that the song is called "Take the A-Train," not "Take the B-Train" or "Take the 1 Train" or "Take the N Train." I am becoming really uncomfortable because the seats in the courtroom are like wooden church pews sans the kneeler and my lower back begins to cramp up. (I actually do start to doze at one point and Kevin has to tap me on the shoulder to wake me up. He is laughing at me, and everyone in my row chuckles. At that point my goal became to stay awake so I would avoid further embarrassment.) The case in need of a jury is a second-degree murder case. The defendant is a kid; she’s 17. She is being tried for a crime she committed when she was 13. The prosecutor keeps saying, "a few weeks shy of her 14th birthday" when referring to the defendant’s age, instead of saying that she was 13. I have been waiting two days to tell them I have a problem with a 13-year-old being tried as an adult, and when I finally am asked about it I can barely conceal my joy and self-righteousness. The judge and the prosecutor are not pleased with my apparent inability to "keep an open mind." I am called to the bench and asked a bunch of questions about said inability to "keep an open mind." Then I am dismissed. Kevin tells me I can leave for the day but I should return to room 1517, the jury waiting room, on Friday. The only good thing about going back to room 1517 is that I get to hang with Walter, the court clerk, again. Walter looks like a thinner, grey-haired Tommy Lee Jones. He has pictures of celebrities who have served jury duty displayed on the wall. They are all autographed with sentiments like, "Walter, thanks for making jury duty painless." Julia Roberts and Paul Sorvino and Mia Farrow and a bunch of local New York newscasters and some soap opera actors are all up there. Walter has quite a fan club. I think about offering Walter a picture of me to see what he says. I’m not famous, but I am a resident of New York County. Or, better yet, maybe I’ll give him my collection of Maureen Dowd mug shots. On The New York Times Web site, they run a headshot of the Op-Ed columnists alongside their columns. Maureen Dowd has changed her photo three times in the past year. It is very unusual for Times columnists to change their photos. I have researched this. I have compared the various Op-Ed columnists’ photos. William Safire’s is from the ’70s. Thomas Friedman’s looks like his yearbook photo. Dowd seems to want to change her picture whenever she buys a new lipstick. I have collected the four column mugs in a folder on my desktop. For what? I don’t know. But maybe Walter would like a copy of my collection of Maureen Dowd mug shots to hang next to Julia Roberts. Maureen Dowd is not a resident of New York County, but she is famous. Walter says I won’t have to watch THE MOVIE again. THE MOVIE is a 30-minute film narrated by Ed Bradley and Diane Sawyer in which they discuss the importance and history of our great legal system. I watched it my first day of jury duty. Ed and Diane talk about ‘the olden days’ and there is a goofy reenactment of a "trial" in which people are tied up and thrown into the water to determine their guilt or innocence. It is kind of, you know, 5th grade social studies stuff. Walter jokes: "People come from all over New York to see this movie," and "It has won many awards in film festivals." I know he has probably told this joke — and all the others he tells — a million times, but somehow it still sounds fresh. I like that Walter. I do not like that Nancy Goldberger, Juror No. 8. She, by the way, also was bounced from the jurors’ box in Part 33, Judge Atlas’ courtroom. She also was told by Kevin to come back Friday morning and go to room 1517. She rode the elevator promising me and all the other courtroom rejects that she would see us the next day at 10:30 am. She was very cheerful about this. No one else was. I want to shout to Orange Shirt, The next day, when I return to room 1517, I see Nancy Goldberger, Juror No. 8, talking to Michael Wittig, a new friend. I don’t know if he has a juror number. They both wave to me, like we are all pals. I decide today’s goal is to avoid Michael Wittig as well as Nancy Goldberger, Juror No. 8. I sit down several rows in front of them and start reading the Arts and Leisure section of The New York Times. I am soon distracted, though, because they are talking so loudly and I am unable to concentrate on Elvis Mitchell’s review of 15 Minutes. "I looooved Aida," says Nancy Goldberger, Juror No. 8. "My sort-of boyfriend took me to see it the other night. I looooved it." I start thinking how interesting it is that she has a sort-of boyfriend but I am interrupted by Michael Wittig’s excited response. "Ooooh yeah! Aida was great!" he says. "I liked it better than The Lion King even." As the two of them discuss the pros and cons of the Disney-genre of Broadway musicals, I learn that Michael Wittig is an actor/singer/dancer/bartender. He also "plays at weddings and other events." I don’t know if that means with an instrument. Nancy Goldberger, Juror No. 8 is impressed. She shares that she, too, is an artist — a "teacher slash performance artist." She is impressed with Michael Wittig’s struggle to make it. I have to say this for Nancy Goldberger, Juror No. 8: She is one heck of an enthusiastic juror. She is not exhausted by the tedium of sitting quietly in the courtroom or fretful over the idea of sitting in judgment of others. She mocks those who grumble about wanting to get back to work. "You like your job that much?" she snorts. And she does not take "I have a lot to do" as an acceptable excuse for wanting to return to your job. "Well, I have things to do. I haven’t even done report cards yet, but I don’t care." Having succeeded in scaring off everyone around them, she and Michael Wittig start to rattle on again, just the two of them, although they are seemingly oblivious of each other. "I had them build a special place to put the garbage can in my kitchen because I can’t stand the garbage can just sitting there, sticking out," says Nancy Goldberger, Juror No. 8. "It’s so tacky." "There were 300 guests at this reception," Michael Wittig says when she pauses for breath. "I figured the tips would be good." "I figure if I’m gonna do it, I’m gonna do it right," he adds. "My father was an architect," says Nancy Goldberger, Juror No. 8. She is soon distracted by this 20-something guy in an orange T-shirt who has just walked into the jury room. "I like your tattoo!" shouts Nancy Goldberger, Juror No. 8, to this stranger who is kind of stunned. He looks at his arm as if someone has snuck up on him and applied this very intricate work of body art to his bicep without his knowledge. I want to shout to Orange Shirt, "Run boy! Run like the wind! For god’s sake, do not answer her!" But I do not, and so he unwittingly walks into her trap. "Um, thanks," Orange Shirt responds to Nancy Goldberger, Juror No 8. "Is it real?" she asks Orange Shirt. He again looks at his arm as if he isn’t quite sure. "Yeah. I got it last summer. In Venice" "YOU GOT A TATTOO IN ITALY?" shouts Nancy Goldberger, Juror No. 8, incredulously. "I’d never have any kind of invasive procedure done in another country. No way." Orange Shirt assures her that this fine piece of body art was actually created in Venice, Calif., where there are many trained professionals who specialize in the fine art of tattoo and all American laws of sterilization and safety are heeded. Nancy Goldberger, Juror No. 8, jumps out of her seat and heads to the hallway to make a phone call. I wonder if she is calling Venice, Calif. to verify the information Orange Shirt has given her. When she exits the room, everyone seems to relax a little. Walter soon starts to call the names of those who are going to be sent to Part 53, another courtroom, for another fun-filled day of jury selection. “Ida Ashe. A-S-H-E. Eve Richards. R-I-C-H-A-R-D-S. Thomas Gifford, G-I-F-F-O-R-D …" If my name is called, I can do this whole jury selection thing again. I am curious about other cases, but I decide that I’d rather my service be over. This is another goal of mine: to finish jury duty on Friday morning. I don’t know if that is very Realistic or Acceptable, but it is Timely. Having finished her important phone call, Nancy Goldberger, Juror No. 8, bounds back into room 1517. She walks up to the desk and interrupts Walter as he is calling for Melissa Lima. "Did you call me?" she asks, "because I was making a phone call and then I went to the bathroom and if you …" Walter gets a little short with Nancy Goldberger, Juror No. 8, which makes me like him even more. He tells her to sit down and listen. If she was called, he will call her again. She will not be marked AWOL. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head as she trudges back to her seat. About an hour passes and Walter announces that he is going to release a bunch of folks who have been doing jury duty since Wednesday. He starts calling people up to the counter to receive their jurors’ "proof of service" certificates, but then he stops and explains, "There is a number at the bottom of the certificate that says ‘Call for juror payment information’ but, please, don’t call that number. We have no information. "I mean, you can call if you have an important question or something," Walter continues. “But we get people calling us all the time, waking us up, and when we ask what they want, they say, ‘ I don’t know.’” Walter says this part, effecting a stupid-guy voice. “‘I got this paper and it says to call for information. What’s the information?’ "When I tell them I have no information, they wanna know why we gave them a paper that said to call." Walter is now looking in the direction of Nancy Goldberger, Juror No. 8. He knows she is exactly the type to call and ask, "What’s the information?" "I’m telling you now, I have no juror payment information. Don’t call," says Walter before launching into another list of names of the liberated. "YOU are a GEM," says Nancy Goldberger, Juror No. 8, looking at Walter. "Isn’t he a gem, folks?" she says to the rest of the jury room, as if she were a talk show host and Walter was her special guest. I wonder if we in the general audience are supposed to applaud. Walter calls Nancy Goldberger, Juror No. 8, to the desk. She gets her certificate. Then, she leans over to him and says in a stage whisper, "I’m not going back to work." Walter smirks and responds, "Listen lady, you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here." Walter sounds like a bartender trying to roust the drunks from his joint at 4 a.m. Lucky for us all, this logic makes sense to Nancy Goldberger, Juror No. 8. She gathers up her things, waves goodbye, and walks out of the room. The entire room exhales and Walter goes back to reading names. Marta Washington, W-A-S-H-I-N-G-T-O-N. Christian Abdul, A-B-D-U-L. Joan Chin, C-H-I-N. Rhonda Riering, R-I-E-R-I-N-G … Lisa Tozzi is hoping to start a business in which she would serve other people’s jury duty for a small fee. Until that takes off, she works as a content editor at The New York Times on the Web.
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