Civics 101, New Orleans Style

Today was the first time I actually entered the jury pool in Orleans Parish, Louisiana. What an interesting process.

We veniremen must call a recording in the "Jury Pool Administration" office each day to learn whether we are to report the next day. And, in typical NOLA vernacular, the recorded voice told Group #4 to "report to the Jury Pool Lounge [Lounge. Ha!] for 8:30 a.m. on Monday." Not "at" or "by" or "before," but "for 8:30." That's just one of the peculiar colloquialisms you hear in southeast Louisiana -- like "making groceries" or "where y'at."

Unlike 3/4 of today's pool, I arrived in plenty of time. Security at the Civil Courts Building is rather, um, casual. My purse had to go through the x-ray machine, but not the book I was carrying. TSA would have suffered a coronary on the spot! What if I had carved out a gun-shaped hole in the pages to conceal a non-metal pistol, like Dwayne Hickman's preacher character in "Cat Ballou?"

I did manage to avoid the elevator that you must close manually by shoving the doors together (I learned the hard way about that one on the day I reported to answer the jury summons!). And I found the "Lounge" with no problem this time (I learned on my first trip that the rooms aren't numbered sequentially). "Lounge" must be one of the most stretched euphemisms I've ever heard -- holes in the ceiling, theater-style flip-up HARD chairs, and a heat-and-air system that would make a polar bear shiver. I think I'll stick with my original assessment -- the Lounge is "holding cell chic."

Once there, I fell in line to check in with the Jury Pool Administrator's Administrative Assistant, a rather large man with a fairly brusque manner whose job it is to scan the summonses for attendance purposes, to acquire names of those who forgot their summonses, to explain how to detach the perforated juror badge from the summons and place it in one of those clear plastic sleeves with a clip that really only works on men's clothing, and to change the channel with a remote control on the television mounted above his desk from the local CBS affiliate's morning show to CNN and back to the CBS affiliate for the noon show. We didn't meet the Jury Pool Administrator (picture Carlton from "The Fresh Prince of Bel Air") until all the late arrivals trickled in, about 9:45. Be there for 8:30, my foot. (Oh, The Administrator's Administrative Assistant also muted the television when Carlton came out to make announcements. Usually. He missed that cue when Carlton came out to tell us we were all excused for the day, so, instead, he had to answer the same question about 35 times about whether we could go).

Once checked in, the waiting began. Not as bad as labor and childbirth, but not as good as a delayed trans-Atlantic flight -- just sort of a gynecologist-appointment-on-a-day-when-he-has-an-emergency-in-the-delivery-room wait. (If you're a man who happens to be reading this, ask the mother of your children to describe the depth of this eternity). The really good thing about the wait is that you can get in some outstanding people-watching! I saw people of all ages, genders, races, socio-economic levels, and relative IQs. There was one man in pajama pants -- I wonder if he was one of the homeless I walked among while cutting through the abandoned Hyatt Hotel driveway from the parking deck to the courthouse. That was one sad sight. I think I'll choose a different short-cut next time -- listening to unfamiliar snoring amid urine-tinged air is not a good way to start the day.

But, one must make lemonade when besieged by lemons. I think my favorite people-watching sighting -- a sighting that made me feel not quite so put-upon -- was one of our former U.S. Attorneys. He had to sign in just like the rest of us. He cuts a rather striking figure, anyway, being all of about 5' 5", maybe 130 lbs., and sporting a mane (except for the male pattern-baldness spot on top) of snow-white wiry hair that cascades a good 4" past his shoulders. And today he was wearing black socks that featured red chili peppers. Red chili peppers on the former U.S. Attorney's socks. Now that's New Orleans style.