SoC 3:1

Voir Dire

 

M y daughter and I invented (we think) this game. One of us inserts into a conversation a nonsense phrase that has the same initials as the phrase suggested by the context. The other has to spot it and substitute the real phrase. We’ve never set an extra-terrestrial landing for the substitution (exact-time limit) because the rule is that, if the speaker goes on for two or three more sentences, uninterrupted, (s)he wins the point (although we don’t keep score). The guesser gets the point for a correct guess only, but the missing phrase must be obvious enough that s(he) has a fighting chance. For instance, if I were to say, “I haven’t seen any frog musings lately,” meaning “field mice,” that would violate the obviousness rule, unless we had recently mentioned field mice or other small rural rodents. There is one more rule: at any time when there are no “hanging initials,” as we call them (after hanging chads—“hard cheese”), either of us can call time out. This rule, liberally and equitably applied, keeps the game from becoming tiresome or (too) obsessive, and allows us to discuss important matters, when necessary, without ludic interruption.

Since we both live alone (I, a widower, retired; she, between partners, no roommates), and since we both write (I, fiction; she, financial journalism) and both love word games, you could say this nonsense has practically become absent-without-leave (a way of life), or a major part of our moving violation (modus vivendi). Since we also live in different cities (I, in the Baboon’s Ass, New York; she, in the Water Closet, Chicago), the game is played telephonically. During visits, for some reason, it seems mostly to be suspended, only very occasionally resumed because a complete suspension would seem artificial. Lately, she has been trying, unsuccessfully so far, to get me to switch from the phone to transcendental meditation (text messaging).

By now, I expect, the reader understands the game, even if not, perhaps, why we play it. Cliché sensitizer? Painless intergenerational communicator? Friendly wordsmith rivalry? I’m open to bids.

“So, Dad, how was your juvenile delinquency today?”

“Jury duty. Same old, same old. But I’m finished. Ding dong, the wash is done.”

“Witch is dead.”

“Time off for, uh, general . . . uh . . . bullsh . . . ”

“Good behavior. Go on, please. Time Out?”

“Granted. Funny you should have played that first one, because I met two J.D.’s today, one of whom may once have been an actual juvenile delinquent.”

“Hmm, good. Tell me.”

I could hear her blowing on her tea to cool it, and settling further into her creaking armchair. It was after dinner, her time, shortly before, mine, on a rainy May evening in both cities, perfect time and weather for telephonic games and story telling.

“I got called to a panel this morning, a veritable dog.”

“Voir dire. Dad!”

“Oops, I forgot.”

“That’s okay, go on.”

“So, anyway, my dear, I’m not sure if you know how this works. You’ve never been called for jury duty, have you?”

“Actually, I was, a couple of months ago. But I postponed it.”

“Okay. So. They need 14 people, 12 regulars, 2 subs.”

“ ‘Alternates.’ That much I know—everyone knows—from TV. Assume intermediate knowledge.”

“Thank you, I’ll take that as a narrative alert.” It’s odd how, even during time outs, we still sound like we’re playing.

“So they called a bunch of people from Central Jury—eighty—and herded us down to a courtroom. Try to guess the judge’s name. It’s easy, the watchword for wisdom.”

“Judge Solomon.”

“Yep. Looked like a nice guy, too, smart, eloquent, a minimum of legal jargon.”

“In short, a pargon—sorry, paragon.”

“And he looked like he had only one wife—there was a wedding band—and no porcupines.” There was no need to explain, or comment on, this malapropism, an old one with us.

“And not like a man who bangs his clerks or interns?”

“Oops! Uh, correct.” That was a little brisk for her.

“Anyway, so the two cretin lawyers—I don’t know where they get these guys.”

“A word of explanation, please. ‘Cretin lawyers’?

“Right. A hard-bodied Italian prosecutor who asked the prospective jurors such obviously inappropriate, insinuating questions that the judge had to keep interrupting.”

“And, let’s see, a fatso who looked like a bleeding heart, balding, with dandruff all over the shoulders of his cheap black suit.”

“Pretty much. Blue, though.”

“Most TV defense lawyers—I’m assuming he was Legal Aid—look like that. Go on.”

“Okay. The case—I can tell you, since, obviously, I wasn’t chosen—was about a mugging. The defendant was a pathetic-looking kid, also wearing a cheap black suit, and a tie that his mother must have knitted for him. And knotted.”

“He sounds like that kid who tried to mug you and Mom once upon a time.”

“Exactly, my first thought.”

This is the story: In the late Sixties, when my wife—she died three years ago, don’t ask—and I were twenty somethings, a well-groomed kid accosted us on our way home from a party: deserted street, wee hours. The way he acted, very nervous, I thought this might be a dress rehearsal for his first real mugging. Pointing his finger (I still think) at us through his jacket pocket, he actually said, “Your money or your life.” (“Your matzos or your lemur.”)

This was still the pre-credit card era, and my wife and I later discovered we had been carrying about eleven dollars between us. But, in those days, I was a bluff, daring sort of guy, so I decided to try to stop the kid. I’m not sure why, but the fact that we had never been mugged before may have been part of it. Also, and you can take this with a big gob of spit (grain of salt), I think I had a notion the kid could be diverted from the road to nowhere down which he was hurtling. As I mentioned, he was neatly groomed and, well, he just looked like a good kid. (If you don’t mind, I won’t go into the racial aspect of this, although I bet you think it was a factor.)

Anyway, I talked our way out of the situation. I began with a stream of soothing patter. Grasping my wife’s arm, I whispered to her to keep walking, not to hurry, not to panic. Then, I led her slowly ahead, straight toward him, meanwhile saying things like, “Hello, there, how are you tonight?” “We live a few blocks from here.” “Nice evening, isn’t it?” “Do you think the Yankees have enough pitching this year?” You get the idea.

By the middle of my spiel, things were looking good; that is, nothing had happened. In fact, as we got close, the kid actually stepped to one side—my side, next to the curb—as if to let us pass. And, so far, except for the opening salvo, he had not said a word. He just looked unsure of what to do, a bit flustered, not homicidally agitated, or anything. Once, his mouth opened, but he closed it.

“Excuse us, then,” I said, as we came alongside, and, still holding my wife by the elbow, I steered her around him.

“Walk a little faster now,” I whispered, speeding up the patter. “Well, then, we’ll be on our way. It was nice running into you, and if there’s ever . . .” By then, we were at a corner, and I pushed her around it and said, ”Run! Now!” She did. Mostly around the corner, myself, I periscoped back and yelled at the kid, “Now get the hell out of here, you stupid, pathetic bastard or, in five minutes, the cops will have your ass!”

At that point, he finally shouted, “Don’t you know what this is!” and waved something small and dark that I could not see. But no shots. I ran; he did not follow. When we got home, I was trembling so hard that the only way I could stop was to scrub out the bathtub. I made it glisten, like in the TV ads.

Starting that night, as many times as this incident came up, my wife was never able to decide whether I had been a hero or an idiot. And, if my daughter has an opinion, she has never shared it with me. By now, I probably remember the incident completely wrong, so I leave it to you to make up your own version of what “really happened” that night fifty years ago.

The point of the story is that, when I saw the defendant in Judge Solomon’s dock, I was determined not to be picked for the jury. According to the loose-lipped prosecutor, although no one had been shot, this time a real gun had allegedly been flashed, so jail was a real possibility. I did not believe jail could do anything but hurt such a young man and, by implication, the rest of society, and, before I had heard the evidence, I was not so arrogant as to assume I could make a jury vote for acquittal.

My daughter readily grasped all this. “Right, you didn’t want to be chosen. Did you get questioned, or did they fill the jury before you had your turn?”

“Well, yes, I had my turn. But, first, let me tell you about the other two J.D.’s.”

“Narrative suspense.”

“Okay, let’s see, then, where to . . .”

“The juvenile delinquent?”

“Okay, I first noticed him when he was called to the jury box for his, er . . .”

“Don’t say “venereal disease” or something, Dad.” She had caught me. “Time is still out.”

“His voir dire. As he was walking up with the others—they do eighteen at a time—I thought he had either dressed to be rejected, or was just completely inappropriate. I could hardly believe this guy!”

“Oh? This is getting good.”

She sighed; her cat meowed; I pictured it on her lap. The cup of tea, now tepid and mostly gone, would be resting neatly on a coaster on the oak side table.

“Want to guess what he looked like?”

“You tell it, it’s your story.”

“Thank you, my dear. Well, then, can you picture a hip-hop Humpty Dumpty?”

She laughed. “With a big tattoo on one leg.”

“A dragon. I saw it when he passed me on the way to the box.”

“And . . .”

“And . . . to the jurors’ questionnaire, question number three, I think it was, “Are you a native New Yorker?” he replied, ‘Born and bred in Brooklyn. That’s New York, isn’t it? Right here in the good old U.S. of A.’ The judge then double-checked that the man now lived in Manhattan. He did, in ‘the downtown area.’ ”

“And the question about his occupation?”

“‘I’m a go-fer for C.S.I.’ Judge: ‘Does that mean you know police officers or other people involved in the criminal justice system?’“ (I thought, ‘cookie jar stash,’ but refrained.) “He did, indeed, know such persons. ‘Yep, a whole bunch of cops. And I meet lots of criminals, too, bad guys, in my work. Plus several of my friends, even close friends, have done serious time.’ Judge: ‘But not you, yourself, sir?’”

“‘Sir!’ This Solomon must have the patience of Job.”

“Yep.” It had been clearly stated, at least twice, that convicted felons could not serve on juries (an interesting gloss on the principle of trial by peers). “Humpty: ‘Nope, never been inside, myself—except to visit, or when we were shooting—the show, that is.’ ”

She had heard enough. “Stop. I think I know where this is heading. You’re going to tell me that J.D. Number One was actually . . .”

“He was. I couldn’t believe it, either. I mean, he was among numbers nine to eleven of the jurors chosen, and there were still more than forty of us waiting to be examined, so it wasn’t as if . . .”

“Hmm. Strange machinations of the so-called ‘system of justice.’ What were the first eight like?”

“No help there, either.” My back was getting sore, so, as we went on talking, I stood up and stretched. “Not that I really understand this, but they had chosen mostly people who seemed, well, average. And, then, Humpty. Honestly? I don’t know why they choose anyone.”

“But we can infer, perhaps, that this guy satisfied some obscure idea of balance. Maybe. Possibly. Go on.”

“Oops! Can I call you back? Nature . . .”

“Me, too, let’s take five.”

We did.

Back in place presumably, she picked up on the first ring, even before the toilet (mine) had stopped gurgling. “So. When were you questioned?”

“The next batch, when my chances of being selected were five out of eighteen.”

“And you mentioned the old mugging.”

For the first time since we had started this conversation about twenty minutes before, I paused, uncertain of how to proceed. The truth is, I was a bit sheepish about the next part. Her antennae were up.

“Dad? Hello? Did you do something you, er, shouldn’t have?”

What the hell, she was my daughter, my dear daughter. We understood each other.

“Yep, I did.”

“You told them the whole mugging story? You embellished?”

“Well, no. I could have, of course, but . . . for some reason . . .”

“Maybe, you’re finally tired of that story. Or you realize it sounds like it’s made up.”

I chuckled. “Wait till you hear what I really did!”

“Oh, no! You told some ridiculous lie. I hope it wasn’t construed as contempt of court.”

“Well, yes and no, the judge didn’t admonish me, or anything, but . . . well, contempt may have been involved. You decide.”

“What did you do, Dad?” Her tone combined filial alarm with filial reproach.

“Let’s just say I made use of the situation.”

“How? Quick!”

“Did I ever show you that story about the shoplifting incident? I must have written it more than fifteen years ago.”

“I do seem to remember that one. It was called . . . something with. . .‘groove’. . . ‘bag’? ”

“You have some memory! ‘Trick Bag.’ ”

At that moment, her call waiting interrupted, and she put me on hold for several seconds.

“It was a friend. I said I’d call him back, but it might be late.”

This, I knew, was my license to natter on. But, first, I was curious.

“A friend?”

“Dad! You know I tell you when I’m ready. Play by the rules.”

“Sorry.” I was usually well trained in this area. “Where was I? Oh, yes, the story.”

“Which of the questions were you ostensibly answering?”

“The one about knowing someone who has been in trouble with the law.”

“Oh, no! And you pretended . . . they let you tell that whole story?”

“Well, not the whole story. Most of it. You see, I used a trick from my own bag. My initial answer was, ‘Well, actually, I do. A close friend.’ “

“So they had to ask. Which of them bit?”

“Heh, heh, Justice Solomon, himself.”

“He asked you to elaborate?”

“Yep. ‘Briefly, please,’ he specified.” I tried to mimic the judge’s reasonable tones.

“But that didn’t stop you.”

“Nope. I got up to the part where Johnny—remember? that was his name—was accosted by the security guard. Then, at last, he did stop me.”

The story, very briefly, this time: A poor, hardworking African-American who had been an R&B star in his youth (hence, the title, from a song), is wrongfully accused of shoplifting an engagement ring from a store in the jewelry district. Since he has prior convictions, at the eleventh hour he plea-bargains, and he winds up serving eighteen months. The real culprit turns out to be the storeowner; the motive, an insurance scam.

Perhaps the most interesting fact about this story, beyond its multiple rejections (none with so much as a word of praise), was the suspicion that I, myself, had excited when I stood in one of the jewelry stores for several minutes, scoping out their security system. My explanation to the two burly guards who had watched, then accosted, me—that I needed some facts for a story—had not prevented them from giving me the bum’s rush out onto the sidewalk. I had subsequently been forced to invent those details which I had been prevented from observing.

“Why’d you do that, Dad?” she asked—said—sounding seriously worried. Perhaps, she feared dementia.

“Well, as my friend, the shrink, might say, ‘the act was over-determined.’” I had no such friend, at least not one who would say any such thing.

“Oh?” Was she playing shrink, herself?

“If I understand my own motives, I think that, A, I knew, or hoped—since, after Hip-Hop Humpty, anything seemed possible they would disqualify me for telling the story.”

“Yeah, sure. Even assuming ‘A’ is true, why didn’t you just say you and mom had been mugged, and that you couldn’t be impartial? Let’s get to ‘B.’ ”

”Yes, that would have been the normal approach. It’s funny how they expect ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers to indeterminate questions, isn’t it? Another fiction. But I digress.”

“Yes, you do. ‘B.’? “

“Of course, I’m not really sure, but . . .”

“Never mind. There’s already been a lot of guesswork in this conversation, hasn’t there?”

“Yes, my dear, there has. Okay: I told the story because . . . well . . .” Could she hear me blush? “I guess I wanted to see if it was credible.”

“Ah, yes. Was it?”

“If you’ll allow me to introduce J.D. #2 now, I can circle back to my own role in these events. All the parts are related, you see.”

“So are we,” she noted.

”The point of the story will be more forceful if I tell it this way.”

“I’m sure it will, but . . . look, I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, Dad, but this conversation has become annoyingly circumlocutious.”

“That’s blunt! Okay, okay, I was just . . . I don’t know what . . . trying to . . . shape the narrative, or something.”

“So . . . again: was your story credible?“

“Okay, okay. First, tell me, would you have found it credible?”

She paused. “Hmm, depends. Honestly? Well, I can’t remember having been unable to suspend disbelief when I read it. But I was only twelve or thirteen, then, and if you had . . . hmm, I’m not sure.”

“Well, the judge let me get up to the part where the security guards close in on Johnny. Then . . . guess.”

“He politely suggested you had said enough, he got your drift, thank you, and you should—briefly—answer the remaining questions. And, after that,” she added, sotto voce, “go directly to jail.”

“Not even. He called the lawyers to the bench, the three of them whispered behind their hands like they do, and he dismissed me, then and there.”

“So you think he realized? Or was he just moving things along?”

“Well, I wouldn’t swear to it, but, well, he normally wore a sort of sympathetic, inquisitive expression, and, by the time he stopped me, he looked like . . . like he had smelled a rat.”

“Like he had snorkeled a reef? smoked a reefer? snookered a Roman? Damn! Sorry, Dad.”

“’Sorry’? For what?”

“You know, about your story. Oh, and for violating ‘time out.’”

“That’s okay, time in. My story? So what? Remember, I didn’t want to be on the case, anyhow.”

“Sorghum gumbo!”

“Sour grapes? No, no.”

“Whatever. Let’s move on.”

“To J.D. Number Two.”

“Right! On to John Denver. John Deever. John Dean—no, that’s ‘Howard.’ Wait, there was a ‘John Dean,’ too, wasn’t there? Jeffrey Daumer. Johnny Damon.” She sounded happy.

“Wow! You must have been storing those up.”

“Well . . . not really.” I could almost hear her modestly shrug.

“Jew, Displaced,” I announced. It was a conversation stopper.

“Oh.”

“He was in my group. I’ll describe his virtual divination.”

“I scorn the point. We should have a repeat rule.”

“Generous, my dear. True. Q. and A. okay here?”

“Q. and A-okay.”

“May I refer to them as ‘J.S.’ and ‘J.D’? “

“Proceed, Sir, without fucking asking!”

“Wha . . . further ado. I’ll recommence in mobster style, then.”

“Marinara sauce. No, in medias res.”

“Wow! Good for you, that was a hard one! ‘J.S. So you were not born in this country?’

‘J.D. No, your chonor. Rahsha.’ I’ll dispense with the accent, you get the idea.”

“Thanks. And the witness will now be permitted a boondoggle of the J.D.”

“Brief description. Ashkenazi, 70 to 75. Careworn, intellectual, grizzled, respectable dark suit, no tie, black-rimmed glasses with an American flag on the right earpiece, the one on my side—on the other side, too, I later ascertained.”

“Excellent, father! Water dog. ”

“Well done. Tin yams, my dear, if I may throw you a Serbian babushka.”

“Thank you. Softball. And thank you, Pater. Proceed.”

“‘J.D. (proudly): But now I am U.S. citizen, your honor.’ ‘J.S. Gooood.’ Oops, wrong speaker. ‘Good. What is your occupation, marital status, and do you currently reside in New York county—in Manhattan, that is?’ “

“Whoa,” she interrupted. “What was that alcoholics anonymous?”

“All about. You’ll see in a second. ‘J.D. My occ . . . I retire, drive cab fourteen year. Yes, reside . . . I reside, my wife, she dead ten year.’ ‘J.S. I’m sorry to hear that. One moment, please. Will the prosecutor and . . . ‘”

“So they dismissed him?”

“Then and there. We had been told several times that fluency in English was a, so quit nagging.”

“Sine qua non. Time out again, please?”

“Time out. But the judge neglected to have the man excused altogether. He sent him back to Central Jury.”

“Wow! Interesting. Was that a mistake?”

“No, I don’t think so, Solomon was too sharp to make a mistake like that. No, I