My Civic Duty - Day Two

Thinking that perhaps most of the jury had been dismissed because of their education levels, I dressed in my Columbia University sweatshirt the next morning and headed, again, to the courthouse. I arrived at 9:30 on the dot to find the hallway filled with people. I dreaded being the object of the judge's scorn if I were late, but it turns out that I didn't need to worry because we weren't called into the courtroom again for twenty minutes. When we finally did go in, I took my seat and listened to the clerk calling names one by one. The box was nearly full when, to my horror, she announced that juror 14 would be me! With an inward groan, I gathered my bags and took my place in the appointed chair.

The drawing was random, of course, but this collection of people looked much more diverse than the last group. Several people spoke Spanish as a first language, and we seemed to range from people in their mid-twenties to people in their early sixties. The questioning began anew, though the judge seemed less interested in dredging out as many details about our pasts and personalities as she had the day before. The questioning went more quickly. She dismissed one woman, a bartender with short, bleached hair, upon learning that her father had recently been very badly beaten and hospitalized as a result; the woman said she'd try to judge the defendant fairly but that she was pretty angry about what had happened to her dad. Another woman asked to approach the bench and was dismissed after about a minute of whispered conversation. Whenever anyone approached the bench, a lawyer from each side plus the court reporter leaped up to listen in. It didn't seem all that private, but was preferable, I suppose, to speaking with a microphone in front of the other fifteen potential jurors in the box plus the fifty-ish people sitting in the audience area. ("Audience" is probably not the right word. I'm not sure what term I should use instead.)

When we'd finally answered the judge's questions, we passed a microphone around to give bios of ourselves. I was one of two Californians in the group - almost everyone else was from the tri-state area. The group profile was pretty different this time. Among us, there were two actors, a classroom aid, a security guard, a manager of a copy machine repair service, the unemployed husband of a social worker, a flight attendant, and a fitness studio employee. The mood was lighter somehow than it had been the day before - perhaps we were all getting used to each other and the situation. The unemployed man explained that he was out of work, then said that if anyone knew of a good job opening that they should talk to him during the next recess. That got a laugh, and everyone chuckled as well when a woman described herself as an artist and the judge replied, "Well now that you've piqued our curiosity, you have to tell us what it is you do." The woman explained that she was an actress and singer, off Broadway, and the judge smiled and assured her that she'd get to Broadway someday.

Now came the attorney's turn to question. The prosecuting attorney came down hard on a very nervous-looking woman who'd shared with us earlier that she'd been mugged at gun-point while pushing her one-year-old son in a stroller. They were both fine, but the courtroom setting and discussion of violent assault clearly had her shaken up, even though she told us that her son is now in college. The defending attorney resumed his line of questioning how we could tell if someone was lying to us. Alas, he asked the mic to be passed to me. I mumbled something about contradicting stories and evidence. He then asked me if I'd take motive into account. I thought it was a pretty stupid question, and replied that, yes, I was pretty sure people did things for reasons.

Finally, we were dismissed. In the hallway, I saw the three unfortunates who had been selected the day before. After ten excruciating minutes, we took our places in the box again and listened anxiously as the court clerk read off a list of names. I was certain I was going to be picked, but to my delight, my name was not called. I was in such a hurry to get out, lest the judge or one of the lawyers change their mind, that I didn't pay much attention to who had to stay or how many there were, though I'd estimate that there were about five selections made. (The woman who'd been mugged was also excused.) It was a very happy group of jury rejects that made their way across the street to the original room, where our white-haired friend waited and welcomed us back heartily. I picked up my book. Several names were called after about ten minutes, and I recognized the names of some of the people who'd been in the courtroom with me before. Ten minutes later, more names were called, and I nearly groaned aloud when mine was among them. Here we go again.

Glowering, a group of us assembled in the hallway and followed the white-haired man around a corner. He arranged us against a wall and kept telling us to shush. I assumed there was a courtroom nearby that demanded silence. The man indicated that we should gather around him. "I'm going to get you out of here early," he whispered, and the group simultaneously broke out into grins. He explained, still in a whisper, that he was going to hand us letters to prove that we had served, and that we did not have to come back for six years. If we received a summons during that time, we were to send in a copy of the letter. "Do not lose this," he warned us sternly. "No doubt some of you will get home this afternoon and find another summons in your mailbox already." We giggled, giddy. He handed out the letters one by one, and we fled. The unemployed man suggested to anyone in earshot that the court should probably foot our bar bill because we all deserved a martini after the day we'd had.

The whole experience was actually pretty interesting. While I'm thrilled that I wasn't picked to sit on a two-week criminal trial, I very much enjoyed seeing the real-life version of events I've seen played out so many times in movies and television shows. If it wouldn't have been such a blow to my tiny company, I might not have minded getting picked, actually, though I'm very relieved that I did not have to have a hand in deciding the fate of the defendant. I'm also relieved that I won't need to dread finding a summons in my mailbox for the next six years.

My Civic Duty - Day One

I've been summoned for jury duty a number of times, but have always been able to get out of it. I was summoned during college but was excused - being out of state - and the last time I received notice I called the night before as instructed and was told I need not appear. I postponed my last summons, which would have required me to be in court when I'd planned to travel home for Christmas. But this time my luck ran out, and I showed up at the courthouse in lower Manhattan at 9:00 sharp, not sure what to expect. I was pleased that I was able to wear jeans on a work day, and was pretty sure that I'd be dismissed in short order. What were the odds they'd need all of the 150 people cramming the windowless room filled with rows of (admittedly comfortable) maroon chairs? A man with white hair and a New York accent dashed my hopes, however, when he came to the front of the room, leaned against the desk, and told us that he guaranteed we'd be here for two days.

After weeding out people who did not speak English or live in New York County, he started a 20-minute video that taught us all about trial by ordeal during the Medieval period and how wonderful our justice system is in comparison. It showed some shots of courtrooms, explained the process a bit, and ended with clips of several jurors saying that they enjoyed the process after all. Hmph. At least the man with the white hair was pretty funny. He peppered his instructions and announcements with dry quips that had nearly everyone chuckling despite our annoyance at having to be there. I brought knitting, snacks, and books, and settled in to wait. By this time, it was a little after 10:00, and nothing happened until 10:30 when he received a large stack of papers and began to call names, instructing those called to go into the hallway. Mine was about the 40th name called, and my heart sank. When all the names had been read, the group of us crossed the street to another building, escorted by several officers. This, at least, allowed us to skip the metal detectors.

We were deposited into an echoing hallway. I heard what sounded like a dog yelping intermittently, and after about ten minutes of waiting, the sound morphed into very loud sobbing. I looked up from my book to see a group of people, with a weeping, fat, bald black man at its center, making slow progress down the hall. He sobbed that they'd taken his son away from him, and crumpled against the wall for a while until his little group could get him moving again. This was not comforting; I was not eager to be part of a procedure that made these kinds of life-altering decisions, right or wrong, and seeing this man drove home the situation I was in. After about half an hour of waiting, all of us were escorted into a courtroom. To my surprise and pleasure, it looked very much like a television courtroom, but with less flattering lighting. Two young women sat at one table in front of the judge's polished wood box, and a man with a bad comb-over and scraggly beard sat at the other table next to a young, Latino man in a white t-shirt with long braids and a beard. He had long eyelashes and looked pleasant, though he was obviously the accused. Our judge had short, greying hair and glasses. She wore a black robe and asked us to be seated. I liked her immediately. She was blunt, articulate, and professional, but little slips now and then betrayed her sense of humor. The court clerk reached into the sort of hopper one might use at a raffle and drew out cards. Sixteen names were called, mine not among them, and people took their places in the jury box one by one. I picked up my knitting.

For the next hour, the judge explained to everyone the rules that jurors had to follow, and began to question the people in the box. They had to tell the court whether they had connections with law enforcement and describe the nature of that connection. They had to explain any negative experiences they'd had with law enforcement and tell whether they or anyone they were close to had been the victim of a crime. The judge asked follow-up questions. She was in the middle of a sentence when the clerk dropped a piece of paper on her desk, which the judge read immediately. It must have been important because she sent us off for a two-hour lunch break. After a bowl of Vietnamese pho at a nearby restaurant, I returned to the courthouse and took my place in the courtroom again to listen to yet more questioning. Each person in the box had to say something about him- or herself (where they were from, which neighborhood they lived in, what their job and education level was, and whether they lived with any other adults and, if so, what their jobs were), and I quickly realized that this was one of the most impressive line-ups of jurors I could imagine. Of the sixteen, there were about five lawyers, two doctors, a psychiatrist, several people in finance, a civil engineer... So much for being judged by a jury of peers. I don't know what the accused's background was like, but he was being represented by a court-appointed attorney and had allegedly committed his crime, a stabbing, in a rough neighborhood. Hard to imagine that these jurors could relate to him.

Alas, the judge didn't bang her gavel once.

Now it was the lawyers' turn to question the jurors. The prosecuting lawyer took the microphone first. She asked pointed questions about particular jurors' jobs and lives. Then the defending attorney cold-called several people to ask them how they could tell if someone was telling the truth or not. He also asked whether they would hold it against his client if he did not testify, reminding everyone that he did not have to prove the guy was innocent but that, instead, the prosecution had to prove the man was guilty. He asked whether jurors would take information about conditions, such as the speed of an event and lighting, and contradicting stories from the witnesses, into account when making a decision.

Once the lawyers had used up the time allowed them by the judge, everyone was sent into the hallway again for about 15 minutes. We stood around or sat on hard, wooden benches. The sixteen who had been in the box looked nervous; everyone else looked annoyed. The examination had taken about three hours, and combined with the lunch break, the day was nearly over and we were all ready to go home. When we were called back into the room, the sixteen took their places in the box and the court clerk announced that anyone whose name was called should stay seated, and those who were not called should report to the room across the street that we'd originally sat in that morning while awaiting instructions. She then called three names. Thirteen people left the room quickly, and the three unfortunates in the box looked deflated. The judge instructed us to report back to this room by 9:30 the following morning, but told the 3 that they need not come until 11:30. And then, at 4:30, we were dismissed. I was relieved to go home, but nervous about the next day. At least I'd added about 8 inches to the scarf I'm making.

I Run for Boston

Today's Run for the Parks race was NYRR's first race since the Boston Marathon, and those of us registered for it received a flurry of emails in the days leading up to it. Many procedures would be different. Runners were encouraged not to bring baggage, and if they had to, they would need to put their things in clear plastic bags instead of backpacks or gym bags before checking them. Race day registration, usually at a tent not far from the starting line, would be in an enclosed field, and those going in would be subject to security screenings. There would be fewer port-a-potties along the course and no trash cans.

Normally, I show up at the race about 15 minutes before it's supposed to start, grab my number, and pin it on during my dash to the starting corrals. This time, though, I made the trek out to the NYRR office way over on the East Side yesterday to pick up Ed's and my numbers and t-shirts in advance. The race was supposed to start at 8:00 A.M. and I was not interested in showing up any earlier than necessary that morning to allow time for a pat-down. Because I tend to pick up my number and t-shirt at the last minute, I am usually stuck with larges, which go to Ed. At least, I figured, going early would get me a t-shirt I would be able to actually wear, even if the trip would be a pain. No such luck, however. NYRR had made a bunch of special blue t-shirts that read "I Run for Boston" in yellow letters. Anyone could buy one for $20, and all proceeds would go to a relief fund for runners and spectators injured in the bombings. By the time I arrived on Saturday, the shirts were long gone; apparently everyone was so desperate to get one that they showed up early to register, and they took all the small and medium race t-shirts with them while they were at it.

I picked up our numbers and large t-shirts (sigh) as well as two black ribbons and placards that read "I Run for Boston" that could be worn on our backs. As I walked back toward the subway station, I saw an ABC News crew interviewing a woman who'd just come out of NYRR. Apparently, running this race was news.

Central Park is beautiful in spring

Ed and I arrived at the starting corrals this morning to a sea of runners in the limited-edition blue t-shirts, Red Sox and Celtics gear, Boston Marathon swag from this year and years previous, and lots and lots of black ribbons and "I Run for Boston" placards. We observed a moment of silence before the race. The woman selected to sing the national anthem was from Hopkinton, Massachusetts, the starting point of the marathon. She broke down crying near the end of the song, but managed to finish it anyway to sympathetic applause. The gun went off and we made our way towards the starting line as "Sweet Caroline" played over the speakers. I noticed that the clock already seemed to have four minutes on it, which seemed wrong - the gun had gone off only a minute or two before. Then I took another look and realized that it was stopped at four hours and nine minutes, the time on the marathon's clock when the explosions went off. I found myself suddenly tearing up.

It was a beautiful day, if a little chilly, and I enjoyed the quick four-mile run through the park. I've never seen so many police officers patrolling a course before, and there were even NYPD TARU (Technical Assistance Response Unit) officers standing around in the finish area. There wasn't much excitement for them, I'm happy to report. Things went smoothly and peacefully, and everything seemed pretty normal, aside from the bizarre sight of runners clad in rival Boston gear, and people being just a little more courteous and supportive than usual. Perhaps it's naive of me to feel this way, but I hope that these extra safety measures won't be a part of every race. Security screenings and armed officers shift the focus of races from excitement and comradeship toward unpleasant reminders that sometimes people can do sad and terrible things.

OK, but Shaken, After the Boston Marathon

Let me begin my assuring everyone that I am fine, as are my friends. None of us was too near the explosions yesterday, and I feel very lucky. Ed and I traveled to Boston for a three-day weekend to visit Bostonian friends and watch our friend Eliot, who had flown in from Reno, run the marathon, and I'm thankful that all of us walked away unscathed.

Waiting for the competitors

Ed and I had a wonderful weekend catching up with friends and relaxing. We met Ethel, Eliot's girlfriend, in Kenmore Square at about 10:30 or so on Monday, just before the first wheelchair athletes started to come by. She'd staked out a great spot just before the 25-mile mark on a grassy median that allowed us a clear, unobstructed view of the course for about a quarter mile up the course. Ed and Ethel used the marathon tracker app to monitor Eliot's progress, and a guy behind us, who was listening to the race on headphones, kept updating us when anything notable happened. We made friends with Amit, a photographer and runner who was watching the race to our left, and a middle-aged couple from Virginia who'd come in to support their son. Everyone chatted with each other as we waited for the action to start. There were cops everywhere, patrolling the perimeters of the course and looking business-like, but a little giddy, too. I commented to Ethel that this must be a pretty fun day for them.

The first three men

Within ten minutes of our arrival, the first wheelchair athletes started to pass by. The crowd cheered enthusiastically as they trickled by - there weren't a lot of entrants in their category and so there were often several minutes between them. Then the professional women passed, the first with an impressive lead on the second and third place women, who ran together a good distance behind her. Twenty minutes later, the professional men whizzed by, the first three running in a tight, incredibly fast group. After that, things really started to pick up. We no longer had to wait for the next runner to appear - they were coming in a steady stream, all of them lean and quick and focused so late in the race. Some looked determined, some grinned at their reception by the crowds, and some waved their hands to encourage people to clap for them. Every now and then, a guy in camouflage fatigues and boots with a huge backpack would come plodding by, some walking and some jogging, and once there was a platoon of about 12 of them marching at a quick clip. The crowd cheered especially loudly for them. Ed and I had seen some military types patrolling the course earlier, but hadn't realized they'd be taking part, too.

Ed had noticed that Eliot had slowed pretty suddenly, according to the tracker app. He'd been holding 6-minute miles pretty consistently, but he'd added a full minute to his pace after a certain point. He finally passed us, running slowly (for him anyway) and looking grim. Eliot is a pretty experienced runner, and it seemed unlikely that he'd set a pace he couldn't hold. We figured something had gone wrong, but he was still running when we saw him, so, sorry but not too worried, we headed toward the finish area to meet him not long after he passed us.

About half a mile to go

Walking toward the finish area

Our walk along the last mile of the course was beautiful. Trees were blooming everywhere, and the throngs of people were festive. It was chilly, but families enjoyed the sun, with children playing about or adding last-minute touches to banners with markers in anticipation of mothers and fathers running by. Groups of drunk college kids laughed and rough-housed. Some people were barbecuing in front of apartment buildings. Young men wearing colorful bras over their t-shirts invited spectators to "stuff their cups" with dollar bills as a fund-raiser for a children's summer camp. We finally ended up at Newbury Street and wandered along, thwarted by barricades and thick crowds several times before finding the family meet-up area. Eliot, alas, was not waiting under his sign, which didn't surprise me too much, as the walk over had taken us quite a while. We saw on the tracker that he'd ended up finishing more than 15 minutes after he'd hoped to. The area was filled with grinning families and runners wrapped in reflective, disposable blankets. Some looked elated and some looked exhausted, but the mood was triumphant all around. The runners all wore medals and had damp clothes and hair. I stood guard, people-watching and waiting for Eliot, while Ethel wandered around for a while, but she didn't find him and soon Ed and I had to say our goodbyes and go pick up our luggage to go to the bus station. It was about 2:00.

We heard from Ethel about 20 minutes later. She'd found Eliot, and he had what seemed to be a stress fracture which had slowed him down, though, incredibly, not prevented him from finishing in 2:47. (It's difficult for me to imagine being disappointed by that time, but Eliot was.) By 3:00, Ed and I were at the station, standing in line to board our bus. Several runners and their significant others were in line with us, and this is where we first heard that something terrible had happened. Ed immediately dialed Ethel, then Eliot, but was unable to get through to either of them. Then he got a text from Ethel saying that something had exploded. I'm not sure where they were when it happened, but they were both OK. Meanwhile, I was frantically searching the New York Times, CNN, and Boston Globe websites. They loaded frustratingly slowly as thousands of other people jammed the cell signals, and didn't tell me anything I didn't already know when I finally did manage to access the articles. Ed and I began contacting everyone who knew we were in Boston to assure them we were OK, starting this process in the bus line and continuing for about half an hour after we boarded and had hit the road. We were limited to texting, as the phone lines were still overloaded. Luckily, we were well out of Boston before things got chaotic and our ride home was uneventful. People sitting around us fielded lots of calls and texts during the ride, but for once I wasn't annoyed.

The news coming in was horrifying, and I felt shaken looking at the images of the streets I'd walked less than two hours before. Ed and I are lucky that Eliot was fast, lucky that the bombs didn't detonate sooner, and lucky that our friends are unscathed. A day after the fact, I find it a bit difficult to concentrate and think I'll take it easy this evening. This event will not deter me from continuing to train for and run in marathons. But I will do so with greater mindfulness.

Sippin' on Sake

Ed's family has had a long-running relationship with the World Monument Fund. His grandmother was an enthusiastic traveler and went on lots of their trips, and his mother took the torch from her, bringing Ed and his brother along for the ride several times. Recently, we met Pauline, an employee of the fund. She's been inviting us to events for the last few months, but last night's sake tasting was the first one we were able to attend.

The WMF restored this Japanese school, built in the 1950s

The tasting, held on the eleventh floor of the Google building in Chelsea, was geared toward younger people; the Fund is hoping to garner support for its projects in more diverse circles. Ed and I arrived right on time and sipped small plastic cups of tasty sake while chatting with members of the fund (who all seemed to know his mother) as the room filled. Then we took our seats and listened to a 20-minute presentation on some of the projects the Fund has been involved with in Japan. There was a slideshow, and I found myself feeling somewhat nostalgic, even though none of the projects are in Tokyo, the area with which I am most familiar. The WMF is responsible for restoring some beautiful buildings, both ancient and more modern. Along with that, though, they've opened education centers so that locals wishing to do similar projects can benefit from what the WMF learned along the way. I like this commitment to sustainability.

Rick and his wife

Then the official sake tasting began. Rick Smith, owner of the only respected sake shop west of the Rockies, took the podium while small cups of sake were passed around on trays. He talked to us about sake in general, and gave us particular notes on the sake we were sipping, then opened the floor to questions as the other two sakes went around. When I was living in Japan, some family friends took me on a brewery tour and I got to taste quite a few nice bottles, but because the presentations were always in Japanese, I had no idea what was going on. I learned a lot, and the number of questions the audience fired at Rick indicated that I was not the only one interested.

Inside Sakaya

Rick told us that sake is actually Japanese for "alcoholic drink" and so, technically, can also mean beer, hard liquor, etc. "Nihonshu," a term I'd heard in Japan, refers to the clear, rice-based liquid we think of as sake--it literally means the alcohol of Japan. (Rick's shop is called Sakaya, which literally means "liquor store." He said Japanese visitors get a kick out of that.) Nearly every prefecture in Japan produces sake. It's made from rice, and I've often heard it called rice wine, though this isn't really accurate because the process of making it more resembles the process for making beer. The alcohol content is closer to that of wine, though; it's generally around 15% or even higher. We learned that bad sake is always served hot, but most good sake can be served either cold, warm, and hot, according to the season, the food on the table, and the tastes of the drinker. He referred to the sake typically sold in American Japanese restaurants as "hot jet fuel." I knew immediately what he meant.

Ed and I enjoyed the event very much, and went out for sushi afterward. We've been talking about making our own sushi for a long time, but now it seems we have yet another reason to do it: we'll need some sake to wash it down with and so will have a good excuse to visit Rick's shop in the East Village.