FILM ME IN

The blurred lines between an actual courtroom VS. Hollywood drama.

Before even stepping foot into a courtroom one thing was for sure, since fate had beckoned in the form of a letter in the mail that had prompted Jury Duty, I figured my only duty was to 12 Angry Men the shit out of this. Make no mistake I was Henry Fonda, me. I would rile with eleven stubborn and impatient suckers with the collective attention span of a fish and have to contend with their increasingly shortening tempers by using my unbridled power of influence and maybe even evidence until each of them saw the light. My light. It would be tough and emotionally exhausting and I didn’t care if the accused graced the witness stand doused in the “alleged” victim’s blood whilst brandishing a flesh caked chainsaw, these naysayers were about to get schooled in virtue.

I’d snigger at the bible allowing my hand to merely hover above it, ironically taking an oath and mewling with the accent of a rich teen. The over used phrases “I swear to God” and “with God as my witness” weren’t going to fly with me, there was a new saviour in town and the eventual penance for prior non-believers would be three Hail Me’s. In fact scrap the facts, I would thrive on gut instincts alone and my instincts told me to do whatever the movies have taught me to do. I mentally prepared to bunker down in a sweltering room on the hottest day on record and orchestrate results via a game of mental endurance against eleven of the most righteous, law-abiding prudes I’d ever have the displeasure of knowing but the rain was coming, oh yes a monsoon by the time I’d finish with them, just as soon as I could make a breakthrough with that cantankerous Lee J. Cobb.

There was a read-while-you-wait sign with the headline ‘the CSI effect’ informing you that what you see on TV may differ from reality, I read no further, no deceptive sign was going to mar my lionised appreciation for and universal understanding of courtroom drama, this would be exactly as the TV has always depicted so help me God. My name had been selected for the first ballot and I was escorted to the first of two courtrooms I would see that day. I cautiously scanned the other potential jurors for an obvious nemesis, and although he or she was undoubtedly among us, it was too early to narrow it down.

Although the resulting case was not one of murder as I had determined it most definitely should be, the case was still something that I could attribute my honourable sense of justice towards. They didn’t go into details but the crux was that a guy had grown marijuana in his home and got busted. Perfect! I’d wear a suit stitched from the finest hemp and seize the opportunity during toilet breaks to stealthily execute a preconceived wardrobe change with t-shirts bearing the slogans ‘Jesus was an Anti-Christ’, ‘I wish I was black’ and the people’s favourite ‘fuck this court’. It would be tough on the promising Edward Norton but with Courtney Love as my witness we would end this ongoing debate over weed legalities and argue in favour of a man merely growing herb for what I had now decided had been for medicinal purposes. With the kind of encouragement I was willing to provide, he would be leaving the court with a pipe in one hand and a doctorate in the other.

We were instructed to position ourselves in front of the accused upon hearing our name and slowly walk past to the jury box as though it were a catwalk while the innocent man made assumptions based on appearance. My name was called and as I reached down to grab my belongings I was stopped mid-hunch. At first sight the accused had barked ‘challenge’ meaning he had used one of his limited options to dismiss me from participating in the jury as my face apparently posed some sort of threat to his case. I had been warned not to take offence if this very thing happened but… hang on… wait… me? Me? Luke Skywalker’s prolific words in the Supreme Court of the Hutt ran through my head as I met the vile criminal’s eyes ‘this is the last mistake you’ll ever make’. May the force of the judges’ gavel decapitate the head of this Rancour and may his devils weed burn, consuming the very house it’s encased within detonating a storm of smoke, its red plume of which could harbour the wicked witch of the west. Yeah I was pissed, and to think I was practically on his side but now all I could bitterly see before me was a drug lord of Escobar-baric proportions and I immediately exchanged the ideology of Cheech and Chong’s Up In Smoke to that of Reefer Madness. Throw the book at him your honour. Send him to ‘the hole’ Chief Warden.

Hardly an ace up the sleeve but I was sent back to the common room to await another ballot or chance with destiny. After hours of indecisiveness as to whether these law types were ready for us or not I decided this tedium was still better than the day-job alternative and kept myself occupied with an easy to pick up and put down Chuck Klosterman book detailing significant pop-cultural essays of the time of its original publication. Most others maximised the experience by playing pool and forming friendships. This comradery was creating yet another obstruction I would have to overcome when my head-butting 12 Angry Men moment surely arrived, I bet Lee J. Cobb was rounding up sympathisers for this very purpose right at this very moment.

Eventually I was summoned once more, this time for a civil case. I scanned the sighing faces of the other potential jurors who felt this was an unwarranted interruption to their unfinished games of pool and cigarette breaks, but I continued to pair them with the cast of my memorised angry men. One guy was a dead-ringer for Tony Danza which I perceived to be a fateful sign until I realised I was now confusing the original movie with the made-for-TV version but specifics be damned for there was also an older gentleman who I discovered to be a retired university lecturer. As in the movie, he would be the first to cave and pledge his loyalty, this was going to be as simple as reading from a script. Fate had been restored, and besides, marijuana was beneath us, it was time to star in the courtroom A picture, the type of which would see Matthew McConaughey suit up and become the man we’ve fallen in love with time and time again.

The façade of an older building that we marched towards appeared much less sterile and once inside we were mesmerised with the sheen of white marble that greeted us at every turn. The first thing I noticed that differed from the celluloid American courtrooms of which I was remarkably well accustomed was that there were no windows. How would we know that justice had been served without the sunlight peering through and casting its rays upon a free man, the result of an irrefutable revelation that happened only moments earlier, but right towards the end?

They proceeded to inform us that the case would last three and a half weeks so I figured I should harden up and quickly warm to this windowless, multileveled claustrophobic box. The judge’s tone was stern and commanding, immediately holding us at attention and snapping my gleaming smile shut. Reality was sinking in, there would be no Col. Nathan R. Jessup telling us how funny this all is as he justifies ordering the code red. I saw no reason for anyone to be deserving to die and burning in hell. There would be no (misread) Oscar performance by Marissa Tomei reiterating the specific details of the tyre marks of a ’64 Buick Skylark under the wary gaze of Herman Munster and a bewildered if impressed Karate Kid. Worst of all the grey bespectacled lawyer hardly resembled McConaughey and I sulked at this pitiless substitute’s reliability in his search for truth, justice and the American way (or in these circumstances, a similar way south of the equator).

But once I got wind of the vague details I changed my tune, it appeared the victim was pointing the finger not at the perpetrators who had done him serious harm while serving time, but at the entire prison system. I wanted to contact work and tell them they won’t be seeing me for the better part of a month for I had bigger fish to fry – I was suddenly staring at Kevin Bacon, whilst nodding knowingly at Christian Slater and we were out to not only take down the cruel Gary Oldman but we were endeavouring to shut down Alcatraz! The inmates may have been the weapon but Alcatraz (we’ll continue to refer to the institution as Alcatraz) pulled the trigger. The only thing missing here that was still bugging to no end was the lack of sunlight, maybe I’d need to hire a stage light for poor Mr. Bacon’s final monologue or “testimony” or whatever.

I gathered my belongings once again and feverishly anticipated my way to the jury box. I would even willingly volunteer to be the foreperson and read the verdict, desperately trying to contain my excitement as the court erupts in applause drowning out that banging gavel as I utter the words ‘your honour, we find Alcatraz (local prison) guilty (raise voice pitch two octaves) of murder (or injury) in the first (I assume it’s always the first) degree (followed by the loudest whisper of “yes” ever recorded).

But unlike the movies that shaped my romanticised version of how I’d determined this courtroom excursion to unfold, my name was never read out and I was thanked for my time and formally excused. My internal objection had been overruled… Your honour didn’t allow it… and other clichéd sentences formed in my head that I’ve only come to recognise through movies. To make matters worse Tony Danza and the retired lecturer had been selected and peered down from their esteemed place in the jury box which made me realise I was never actually a part of this movie, but this also meant something else that I had previously overlooked – there was clearly another Henry Fonda among us.