The Juror

THE JUROR

by

HARVEY JACOBS

Produced by ReAnimus Press

Other books by Harvey Jacobs:

Beautiful Soup

Side Effects

American Goliath

Coming soon: The Egg of the Glak, by Harvey Jacobs

But Wait.... There's More! #1

But Wait.... There's More! #2

But Wait.... There's More! #3

© 2017, 1980 by Harvey Jacobs. All rights reserved.

http://ReAnimus.com/store?author=harveyjacobs

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~~~

TO THE MEMORY OF DONALD A. DIKE AND LEONARD S. BROWN

The Juror was completed with the help of a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts

~~~

Table of Contents

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16

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

"Love is the fulfilling of the law"

—The Epistle of Paul to the Romans

1

Leon Drew, who fenced in college and who could not believe he had last touched swords twenty years past, lunged toward a full length mirror bolted to the bathroom door. His weapon was a stiff finger. He thrust at his agile, weightless reflection. Then he touched the mirror glass with his fingertip while he examined his naked body for signs of change. He was holding his own.

Leon Drew was balding. He was a bit too fat. But his shape was still there. His arms and legs looked strong and ready. The remnant of an old football injury, a permanent blue mark on his thigh, radiated thin blue veins like a burst of rockets in a fireworks display. This was the only obvious imperfection. It had its own purpose, a virile spice, a point of focus on the pink, hairy surface of skin. The only other questionable detail of his anatomy was a toe nail slanting in a direction opposed to that of its neighbors. Not much to concern a person, considering.

This was the age of cancer and heart attack. Leon Drew had known victims of both. So he considered himself fortunate, even blessed, in that moment of morning inventory. His eyes were clear, the blue-green pupils looked alert, his face had actually taken on a more interesting look with maturity. Thirty-nine was not the end of the trail, not in the last decades of the twentieth century. In some ways, Leon Drew felt more alive and effective than ever before. He examined his scrotum. It was brimful. His penis was slightly tumescent, probably because of the vigorous jumping exercise, mobilized.

I’m leaving now, said Leon Drew’s wife, Barbara. I’ll see you tonight, darling.

Wait, said Leon Drew. He came out of the bathroom and gave her a hug. She gave him a slap on his bare buttocks.

Charlie walked the dog and fed the dog before he went to school, said Barbara.

Where is the dog?

Sleeping on Charlie’s pillow.

Did you see the bill from the vet? Eighty-five dollars for loose movements and the snorting. Why do we have a dog?

Because Charlie wanted a dog and you gave him a dog. That’s why we have a dog. I’ll be late for work. We have a nine o’clock meeting. Good luck with the judge.

I doubt if I can get another postponement. It’s incredibly unfair. I’ve already served four times. Eight weeks out of my life. Two months. And there are millions in the city who are never called.

I’ve got to go, Leon.

This is the worst time of the year for me.

Maybe you should take the dog down to court. Tell them you’re responsible for a sick animal. They’ll see the dog and love the dog and give you perpetual immunity.

Don’t be so smug, Barbara. You can’t plead your pussy anymore. They’ll get around to calling you.

Actually, I’d like to serve. It must be a fascinating experience.

Fascinating? It’s terrible. It’s heavy. Oppressive.

Maybe you’ll get an interesting case.

In Civil Court? There are no interesting cases. Just small under-the-rock cases. Grinding, lying, perjuring imbeciles. Dumb lawyers. Sleeping judges.

You make it sound terrific. I envy you.

Leon Drew gave his wife the once over. She wore a black velvet top over a tight fitting grey skirt, a white blouse with pearl buttons and the silver necklace he gave her for her thirty-fifth birthday. Her high black boots and dark pantyhose gave her legs an efficient, sexy look. Barbara was still a very attractive woman.

Have a good day. Survive and prosper.

Thank you, Leon. Leave a note for Charlie. Walk dog. Give dog medicine. Feed dog. Do homework. Practice harp. Clean room.

Does he ever practice the harp?

You told him not to practice when you were home. Now you don’t believe he practices.

Why does he play the harp?

He likes the harp. Goodbye, Leon. Call me and tell me what the judge said.

I know what the judge will say. He’ll say, ‘No.’ I feel it in my bones.

Never trust your bones.

Barbara left. The dog jumped off Charlie’s bed and came into the bathroom where Leon Drew brushed his teeth. It tried to sniff his backside but he shoved it away. When Leon Drew finished with his teeth, he walked into Charlie’s room.

The room was a respectable mess. Rock albums were piled on the stereo. Clothes lay on the floor. The desk was a junk heap. The walls were filled with cutouts and posters. There was an empty milk glass on the bed. The TV and CB wires were tangled. Only the harp stood clear.

Charlie is alright, said Leon Drew to the dog, who paced behind him. The dog rolled over on its back. Leon Drew bent and scratched its belly. By and large, considering what’s around, he’s a good kid. Your basic nice kid. Jesus, dog, look at this. A hair dryer. When I was his age the idea of a man using a hair dryer was totally unthinkable. And playing the harp? Of all the instruments in the world, the harp? Things change. They do. What does it all mean? A minute seems long. The Polaroid minute. Twenty years is short. A flick of memory. Good dog. Eat, shit, and be merry.

Leon Drew dressed, left the note of instructions for his son, then headed downtown to plead his case for postponement of jury duty.

In the taxi moving south, Leon Drew felt pleasantly content. Even the slow traffic didn’t bother him very much, or the driver’s lament over the price of gas. The weather was splendid, the streets were full of thick sunlight, it was spring and the city was buoyant. There was reassurance in the ticking meter heart. His company was picking up the cost of the ride so the red digitals on the clock did not signify. The good feeling lasted until the cab crossed Worth Street.

2

There was something ominous about the downtown area east of City Hall Park. Leon Drew ascribed this to his own particular quirks about doing jury duty. The official buildings, heavy, adorned with imposing statuary, tattooed with slogans, appended with concrete and granite steps that rose like waves, filled with thick books and files, populated by servants of The Law (and its enemies), induced a sense of unease.

Why? Leon Drew was a citizen in good standing of city, state, nation. Those austere buildings represented his protection. His wallet was filled with blue-chip papers of identification along with sufficient money. He had nothing to fear from the massed symbols of authority. Yet Leon Drew experienced anxiety in that legalistic universe.

Once, as a child, Leon Drew had come downtown with his father to seek justice. He could not know it then, but Leon Drew was the plaintiff in a case against an invisible landlord. The landlord had decorated the lobby of the building where the Drews lived with a large birdcage. A parrot lived in the cage. It would not speak. It would not move. It was a bird of astonishing color, a rainbow of feathers that tempted little Leon Drew to friendship. When the child approached the cage, extending chubby fingers holding a Cracker Jack, the parrot bit him. The wound required five stitches.

An uncle was called in to handle the case. Leon Drew heard voices discussing the attack. He was checked by the family doctor for psittacosis. The bird bite, he learned, might easily have been fatal. One morning, not unlike the spring morning at hand, Leon Drew held his father’s arm as they went to testify before a judge. The lawyer uncle had been careful to brief them so Leon Drew knew what to say and when to hold up his damaged finger. What worried Leon Drew was his suspicion that he had caused the parrot’s wrath. If the bird was found guilty it might be executed. Leon Drew had seen films of the electric chair. He reasoned that there must be special chairs for animal offenders. The parrot would be shaved, fed, prayed over, strapped in, and jolted to heaven or hell. If so, and if the parrot were indeed innocent, its ghost would seek vengeance. What were the facts? That didn’t seem to matter. The process of justice carried Leon Drew like a rising tide. When it was over and done with, father, son, and uncle were somehow better off. The verdict was favorable. Leon Drew, who hardly ever saw his father at lunchtime, was taken to the Automat and allowed to eat what he wished. He was missing a day of school. He had earned money for his family. His qualms about what really happened faded quickly, except that he developed a phobia that made sparrows and pigeons objects of lurking terror. But even that silly fear had long since departed.

Looking up at the grey government buildings, Leon Drew wondered if that incident of confused justice was responsible for his sense of alienation and threat. He decided that much more than simple guilt was involved.

He was handing himself over to them, falling into their hands, becoming subject to their rules and whims, he was about to be owned by them. A juror must abide by the laws that govern jurors, as interpreted by nervous judges and sullen, hopeless clerks. However honorable and necessary his mission, the juror is their man. He must report on time. He is told when to take lunch. He must respond to roll call. He must go where he is directed and reply quickly to all questions put to him. He must sit, listen, deliberate, reach a verdict, and then he is told, by them, when he may go home. Leon Drew knew the routine only too well.

It’s ridiculous, he said to the taxi driver as he paid his fare, that one person should be summoned to sit for jury duty again and again and again when literally hundreds of thousands are never called, not once.

I never been called, said the cab driver. My brother works in the Post Office and what they pay him for sitting on the jury he got to give them back. Rotten bastards to make him give back. Where does it go but up the politicians’ assholes? Am I right or am I wrong?

Right. You’re exactly right.

Guys like us get screwed, blued and kazooed. Am I wrong?

Leon Drew straightened his light overcoat and began the climb up the sloping steps of 60 Centre Street as he had done so many times before. The steps, banked at a peculiar angle, gave him the feeling of falling up and forward. So Leon Drew took his time as he mounted while he felt in his pocket for his latest jury summons and the letter, on his company letterhead, pleading for compassion in requesting a fifth postponement. Leon Drew knew it was futile and that he would be denied additional deferment. But it was worth a try.

He passed between the enormous stone columns that anchor the building facade into the huge, dark, cool lobby. A brass zodiac is set in the lobby floor. Leon Drew stepped over that curious decoration and found the elevator bank. There he stood with accused and accuser, elegantly dressed lawyers, hunched, depressed court clerks with pale Irish faces, jurors in the midst of their forced term of service, witnesses for the defense, witnesses for the prosecution, and a few lost and lonely souls who sit in courtrooms just to pass time.

Leon Drew thought he was early. He wanted his case heard quickly. But a long line of the reluctant already stretched from inside the courtroom to the hall. Each petitioner held a summons, each had a letter asking respite, everyone had an urgent reason for delay. Leon Drew joined the angry line. He had forgotten to buy himself the Times. He had nothing to read. There was nothing he could do but stand and wait, move forward by inches and keep his thin hopes alive.

Leon Drew noticed that there were several women in the line, a few blacks in business suits, young men in loose jackets with open shirts. In the old days that line was strictly blue suit and male. For all that, the rhythm of snail progress was the same. Leon Drew moved toward his audience with the judge unaware of his own momentum. He picked a spot on the wall to measure his progress and let his mind wander through a maze of random thoughts. He thought about his work at Rifkin, Blaze and Gillari, Inc., about Charlie’s harp teacher, a skinny Italian who played for the New York Philharmonic and the Metropolitan Opera when he could get work, about the stretch marks on his wife’s stomach, about his retirement plans, inflation, taxes, wars in Asia and Africa, about last summer’s vacation on Martha’s Vineyard, about this and that and nothing in particular. He moved alongside, then beyond, the spot he marked on the wall and found himself in the courtroom. So he chose another spot to give himself a fresh target.

The judge sat high at a raised desk. Leon Drew could not hear what the judge said but he could read gestures of outrage, an occasional smile, a shrug of draped shoulders, a wringing of hands. The judge examined letters and letterheads, whispered to the potential jurors, listened to their complaints and made quick rulings. It was impossible to read the judge’s mood but Leon Drew knew the mood would grow more impatient as the morning dragged on.

Things were not looking good. First in line, Leon Drew could have pleaded his case to a judge who still tasted toothpaste mint between his teeth. As it was, the line droned, the minutes worked against him. A fifth postponement was unprecedented. But, Your Honor, he would say, I have already served four times. It’s not as if I’m trying to evade my civic duty. And the judge would lean forward and say, Then you should know better by now. Isn’t experience worth anything? Like it or not, Mr. Drew, this is our judicial system and until someone can show me something better I thank God for it.

What happened was worse. When Leon Drew finally stood before the bar, the judge scanned his note and made sucking sounds with his cheeks. This is shameful, he said. Beyond forbearance. Your letter says your presence is essential to Rifkin, Blaze and Gillari, Inc. in a time of acute stress. What is Rifkin, Blaze and Gillari, Inc.?

An advertising agency, Your Honor.

And what is the acute stress? A new product? A new douche to display on television at supper time? A suppository? A deodorant in a bottle shaped like a phallus? Is that your acute stress, Mr. Drew? The man who stood here before you was an epileptic. I ordered him to serve. Is your stress more acute? You will report as ordered on Monday morning. You are obviously essential to Rifkin, Blaze and Gillari, Inc., but they will have to survive your absence. I am sympathetic. I know what they’ll go through. Acute stress. Let’s hope the company manages to hold together. Goodbye, Mr. Drew. Next.

But Your Honor, there are extenuating circumstances. There’s more than meets the eye. I’ll try to be brief. I do not react well to jury duty. It’s the truth. And difficult to verbalize. You see, sir, we all exist in parallel universes as you must understand. There is the daily life, the normal, the predictable, if you will. Then there is the bizarre, the shady, shifty colorburst netherworld where we nibble at the moon as if it were a communion wafer. Now, Your Honor, somehow, for me, these two worlds come together in the courtroom. It is a peculiar fission if not fusion. The interplay of fantasy and reality, superreality, megareality if you will... the bumping together and bursting apart of truth, half-truth, deception, deceit, the matrix of vengeance, greed, honor, debasement... you follow me... combine to produce a pulsating organic compost that swirls and uncurls, unravels my very being as if I were a...

A swan?

What? What did you say, Your Honor?

Monday morning.

I am requesting this postponement based on solid facts of urgent importance beyond corporate need. There are vital bits and snatches of information, priceless input, that you have not yet...

Bailiff, remove this person.

That’s quite a curmudgeon, Leon Drew said to the bailiff.

Yes, he is feisty. But he hears so many people in any given day. I mean, he gets an earful of the blarney every five minutes.

I had things to tell him.

Better not to push the judge too far.

I don’t feel fairly treated. And I resent the aspersions cast on my profession. It’s not as if I condone every commercial on the airwaves. And advertising makes a major contribution to the quality of life. It affects the flow of goods and services. It’s basic to our economy.

It was nothing personal, said the bailiff. People ask for too damn much. You should hear some of them.

So Leon Drew left 60 Centre Street with a mandate to return on Monday. They had him.

3

Leon Drew worked as Senior Copywriter for the firm of Rifkin, Blaze and Gillari, Inc. The company was no giant like Young & Rubicam nor was it fly-by-night. It was, in the industry idiom, well positioned. Rifkin, Blaze and Gillari had a solid reputation as a creative house with its feet firmly on the ground. Its client list was impressive if not awesome and nicely balanced.

In advertising there are seasons for outrageous innovators and seasons for the strict bottom line, the tried and true. In times of affluence, Jews and Italians come forward with original concepts and sly humor. In times of threat and tension the sensible Wasp base of the profession takes the reins to talk numbers and profit margins. The Jews and Italians are reminded in Advertising Age that the purpose of advertising is to sell, not win awards. In times neither calamitous nor lush there is a mix of creative and business energy that produces a viable result. Stan Rifkin was famous for his humorous campaigns. Frank Gillari was known for his inspired art direction. Jeremy Blaze was a brilliant statistician and a tremendous salesman. To the degree possible, Rifkin, Blaze and Gillari, Inc. was immune to the inevitable swings of fortune. They had something for everyone.

Leon Drew found a home there after moving through the usual training program at a larger agency, a second job, a third job, a fourth job. He had been with Rifkin, Blaze and Gillari for seven years, more than doubled his starting salary, was partially vested in the pension plan, was involved in profit sharing, was promised stock options if the agency decided to go public and fully expected a Vice Presidency. He liked his job well enough, had the feeling of respect, was allowed expression within sensible limits and often had lunch with Rifkin, Blaze or Gillari to chat about account problems or new business. He traveled to distant cities on responsible missions, even overseas from time to time. Leon Drew was comfortably employed. He had survived ups and downs, two purges, a near takeover by a conglomerate, and the sundry upheavals that affect so fickle a trade. He had the pleasure of turning down other jobs at other agencies despite certain obvious immediate benefits because he had the feeling that his roots were established in fertile ground. What more could a practical man expect of his vocation?

When Leon Drew got back to his office after his abrupt encounter with