SoC 3:1

Voir, Dear

Characters:

The father/husband/J.D. #2: presently a seventy-something, widower, retired from his job (unspecified), also a long-time writer of fiction, lives in New York; same man 45-50 years before; old man, Russian-Jewish immigrant, retired cab driver.

The daughter/wife/wife’s voice: an only child, thirty-something, a free-lance economic journalist, between partners, lives in Chicago; her mother, 45-50 years before, and in the present ( as a voice).

Judge Solomon/ J.D. #2: the fair-minded judge; old man, Russian-Jewish immigrant, retired cab driver.

mugger/J.D.#1: young African-American would-be mugger (past); go-fer for C.S.I. (present).

Synopsis:
This play is about justice, judgment, language and the family. A septuagenarian father in NY City and his grown daughter in Chicago speak on the phone about the father’s jury duty. Portions of the conversation involve a private word substitution game. In the course of explaining why and how he got out of serving on a trial, the father recounts a near mugging from the past and describes two other people in the jury pool, a CSI gofer and a Russian immigrant. After they hang up, his dead wife’s ghost briefly appears.

Settings:
1. Split stage: the father’s kitchenette, daughter’s living room. A weekday evening, after both have eaten supper. Through the windows, rain in New York; snow, in Chicago.

2. Empty, spotlighted, darkened stage representing a deserted street at night, a courtroom, and the Central Jury room.

SCENE 1: father and daughter in mid-phone conversation. Daughter sits in a rocking chair with a cup of tea on a side table. On her lap is a cat, presently asleep. Father sits at the table in his kitchenette, playing with a pencil. As the conversation proceeds, she can thumb through a magazine, push the cat off her lap, play with it (if it doesn’t run offstage), etc., and he can get up and go open the refrigerator, taste something, look at a bottle of wine and decide not to open it, etc.

Daughter: So . . . what else? . . . Weren’t you supposed to start your juvenile delinquency today?

Father: Yesterday. Jury duty, I’m already finished. Ding, dong, the wash is done.

Daughter: Witch is dead.

Father: Time off for general . . . uh . . . bullshit.

Daughter: Good behavior. Go on, please. Time Out?

Father: Granted. Funny you should have played that one, because I met two J.D.’s today, one of whom may actually have been a juvenile delinquent.

Daughter: Hmm, good. Tell me more.

Father: I got called to a panel this morning, a veritable dog.

Daughter: Voir dire. Dad! Remember? Time out?

Father: Oops, sorry.

Daughter: That’s okay, go on.

Father: So, anyway, my dear, I’m not sure if you know how this works. You’ve never been called, have you?

Daughter: Actually, I was, during the summer. But I postponed it because I was busy with the GMI report, their annual report.

Father: Oh, yes, how did that one turn out?

Daughter: Well, you know, it’s what I do. Rent, food, a life.

Father: Understood. So where was I? They need 14 people, 12 regulars, 2 subs.

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

Father: Thank you, I’ll take that as a narrative alert. Isn’t it odd how, even during time outs, we still sound like we’re playing our game?

Daughter: That’s true, it must be . . .

Father (interrupts): So they called a crowd of people down from Central Jury—eighty—and herded us all into a courtroom. Try to guess the judge’s name. It’s easy, the watchword for wisdom.

Daughter: Judge Solomon.

Father: Yep. Looked like a nice guy, too. Smart, eloquent, minimum of jargon.

Daughter: In short, a pargon—sorry, paragon.

Father: And he looked like he had only one wife—there was a wedding band—and no porcupines.

Daughter (a bit sourly): Ha ha, that one again! And not like a man who bangs his clerks or interns?

Father: Oops! Uh, correct. That was a little, er, brisk for you.

Daughter: Out of character, you mean?

Father: Yes. Anyway, so the two cretin lawyers—I don’t know where they get these guys . . .

Daughter (interrupts): A word of explanation, please: ‘cretin lawyers’?

Father: Right. A hard-body Italian prosecutor who asked the prospective jurors such obviously inappropriate, insinuating questions that the judge had to keep admonishing him.

Daughter: Got it. And, let’s see, a fat one, balding, with dandruff all over the shoulders of his cheap black suit.

Father: Pretty much. Blue, though.

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

Father: Okay. The case—I can tell you now, since obviously I wasn’t picked—was about a mugging. The defendant was this pathetic-looking kid, also wearing a cheap suit—black, er, the suit; him, too, for that matter—and a tie his mother must have knitted.

Daughter: Maybe she helped him tie it, too. He sounds like the kid who tried to mug you and Mom way back when.

Father: Exactly, my first thought.

(fade to dark stage, lights, quiet wee hours on a deserted street. A well-groomed African-American teenager accosts the father, younger looking, and the mother, played by the daughter. )

Mugger (very nervous, pointing a gun or finger at them through the pocket of his windbreaker): Your money or your life!

(These can be recorded.)

Father’s voice offstage: Your matzohs or your lemur!

Daughter’s voice offstage: laughs.

Husband (to mugger): Uh, excuse me, did you really say that?

(whispers, to wife, grasping her by the elbow)
Keep going, don’t panic, slowly now.

(They walk straight toward the young man, who seems frozen. To mugger, as they approach, pausing a few seconds between utterances)

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 to win this year?

(Reaching the mugger, who is still frozen, husband steers wife around him Meanwhile, the mugger looks flustered, unsure of what to do or say.)
Uh, excuse us, please. Nice evening, isn’t it?

(to wife): A little faster now, just a little, easy.

(to mugger, now about fifteen feet behind them):
Well, then, we’ll be on our way. It was nice running into you, and if there’s ever . . .

(to wife) Run! Now!
(He pushes her, as if around a corner; she disappears.)

Mugger (screaming): Hey! Don’t you know what this is! (He waves something small, dark, indistinguishable at husband, who follows his wife around the imaginary corner.)

Father: Get the hell out of here, you stupid, pathetic bastard or, in five minutes, the cops will have your ass! (No gunshots. Fade.)

SCENE 2. As they go on talking, she plays with the cat (if available), dangling a piece of string or a Cat Dancer. He takes some ice cream from the freezer, and samples a small spoonful to decide whether to have some. He decides not to.

Daughter: No shots, he didn’t even chase you.

Father: Right. And when we got upstairs, I was so nervous that . . .

Daughter: . . . the only way you could stop shaking was to scrub out the bathtub. You made it glisten, just like . . .

Both: . . . in the TV ads. (They laugh. Silence.)

Daughter: So the point of the story is that the defendant reminded you of that would-be mugger you may have saved from a life of crime, when was it, forty, fifty years ago?

Father: November, 1965. Mom thought so, anyhow. When she wanted to see me as a hero.

Daughter: Hmm, I never knew that was her idea. What did you think?

Father: I acted totally on impulse, then accepted her adulation when it was forthcoming.

Daughter: Dad! For shame!

Father: Why not? Even back then, a sensible man knew enough to take what he could get. Time in?

Daughter: Not yet. Let me get this straight. You didn’t want to be on the jury? You did?

Father: Didn’t. I’ll tell you a few facts about the case so you can see why. It involved a late night mugging of an immigrant grocer on a bridge. He was on his way home with the day’s receipts, several hundred dollars.

Daughter: That reminds me, you never said how much you and mom were carrying that night.

Father: I didn’t? Well, it was the pre-credit card era, you know, so we probably were carrying as much as ten or twelve dollars.

Daughter: Dad! You’d have been like one of those guys who get killed for a quarter.

Father: Not a quarter, exactly, the money was worth more, then. Anyway, according to the loose-lipped prosecutor, even though no one was shot, this time a gun had allegedly been flashed—it wasn’t clear by whom—so jail was a real possibility. Since I didn’t believe doing time could do anything but hurt such a young man and, by implication, everyone else in society, and since, before I’d heard the evidence, I wasn’t so arrogant as to assume I could persuade a jury to vote for acquittal . . .

Daughter (interrupts): . . . you didn’t want to be chosen. I see. Did you get questioned, or did they fill the jury before you had your chance?

Father: I had my chance. But first let me tell you about the other two J.D.’s.

Daughter: Narrative suspense.

Father: Okay, let’s see, then, where to . . .

Daughter: The juvenile delinquent.

Father: Right, I first noticed him when he was called to the jury box for his, er . . .

Daughter (interrupts): Don’t say “venereal disease” or anything, Dad. Time is still out.

Father: 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 the guy!

Daughter: Ooh, this is getting good.

Father: Want to guess what he looked like?

Daughter: You tell it, it’s your story.

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

Daughter (laughs): Let’s see: those voluminous short pants, buzz cut, Metallica tee shirt, gold chain, and a big tattoo on one leg.

Father (laughs): Very good. A dragon. I saw it when he ambled past on his way to the box.

Daughter: And . . .

(fade to courtroom, voir dire of JD #1)

JD #1 (reading from questionnaire on laminated card): Let’s see, Numero Trey. It says, “Are you a native New Yorker?” Yes sir! Born and bred in Brooklyn. That’s New York, isn’t it? Right here in the good old U.S. of A.

Judge: And do you now reside in Manhattan, sir?

JD#1: I most certainly do, sir, in the downtown area.

Judge: Your occupation?

JD#1: I’m a go-fer for C.S.I.

Judge (impressed): Well! That must mean you know police officers and perhaps other people involved in the criminal justice system.

JD#1: I’ll say! I do, indeed, know such persons. Yep, a whole bunch of cops. And I meet numerous criminals, too, bad guys, in my work. Numerous. Plus several of my own friends, even close friends, have done serious time.

Judge: But not you, yourself, sir.

JD#1: Yep, I mean, nope. Never been inside, myself—except to visit, or when we were shooting—ha ha, the show, that is.

(fade)

SCENE 3. As conversation continues, daughter thumbs through a magazine. Cat is gone. Father looks through his wallet, counting money, looking over assorted slips of paper, throwing some into waste paper basket by his side. As they go on talking, he gets up, stretches his sore back. She does same, sometimes simultaneously.

Daughter: I think I know where this is heading. You’re not going to tell me that J.D. Number One was actually . . .

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

Daughter (interrupts): Hmm. Strange machinations of the so-called system of justice. We can infer, perhaps, that this guy satisfied some obscure idea of balance: race, age, whatever. But go on.

Father: Oops! Can I call you back? Nature . . .

Daughter: Me, too, let’s take five.

(They hang up. Fade, then two toilets simultaneously gurgle as he speed dials, she picks up on the first ring.)

Daughter: So. When were you questioned?

Father: In the next batch, right after lunch, by which point my chances of being selected were five out of eighteen—assuming they would finish filling the jury with us.

Daughter: And you mentioned the old mugging? (He does not answer immediately, looks for the first time as if he is uncertain how to proceed.) Dad? Hello? Are you there? Did you do something you, er, shouldn’t have?

Father (sheepishly): Yep, I did.

Daughter: You told them that whole long story? You embellished?

Father: Well, no. I could have, of course, but . . . for some reason . . . (stops)

Daughter: Maybe, you’re finally tired of it, yourself. Or you realize you’ve told it so many times it sounds like it’s made up.

Father (mischievously): Wait till you hear what I really did!

Daughter: Oh, no! You acted crazy or told some ridiculous lie. I hope it wasn’t construed as contempt of court.

Father (amused): Well, yes and no. The judge didn’t admonish me, or anything, but . . . well, contempt may have been involved. You decide.

Daughter (alarmed): What did you do, Dad!

Father: Let’s just say I made the most of the situation.

Daughter: How? Quick!

Father: Well . . . did I ever show you that story I wrote about the shoplifting incident? I must have written it more than fifteen years ago, before I retired from the job.

Daughter: I do seem to remember that one. I think you wrote it the summer we rented the wonderful farmhouse in Maine.

Father: You have a good memory.

Daughter: It was called . . . something with . . . ‘groove’ . . . ‘bag’? Don’t tell me, you . . .

Father: Wow! Yes, you’re right, ‘Trick Bag.’

(At that moment, the daughter’s call waiting signals.)

Daughter: Darn! Sorry, dad, I have a call. I’ll put you on hold, okay?

Father: Okay.

(She talks softly for about half a minute while he sits in an exaggerated attitude of patience. Then she comes back on the line.)

Daughter: Sorry. It was a friend. I said I’d call him back, but that it might be late.

Father: “A friend?”

Daughter: Dad! You know I’ll tell you when I’m ready. Play by the rules.

Father: Sorry. Where was I? Oh, yes, the story.

Daughter: Which of the jury selection questions were you ostensibly answering?

Father: The one about knowing someone who’s been in trouble with the law.

Daughter: Oh, no! And you pretended . . . they let you tell that whole story?

Father: Well, not the whole story, some of it. You see, I used a trick from my own bag. My initial answer was, “Well, actually, I do. Quite a close friend.”

Daughter: So they had to ask. Which one bit? The judge or one of the lawyers?

Father: Heh, heh, well, yes, it was wise Justice Solomon, himself.

Daughter: He asked you to elaborate?

Father: Yep. (mimicking judge) “Briefly, please, sir.”

Daughter: But that didn’t stop you!

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

Daughter (worried): Why’d you do that, Dad?”

Father: Well, as my friend, the shrink, might say, “The act was probably over-determined.”

Daughter: Ha!

Father: 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. And B . . .

Daughter: Yes, ‘B.’ Obviously. Even assuming ‘A’ is true, why couldn’t you just say you and mom had been mugged once, so you might not be impartial? Let’s get to ‘B.’

Father: 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.

Daughter: Yes, you do. B?

Father: Of course, I’m not really sure but . . .

Daughter: Never mind, there’s already been a lot of guesswork in this conversation.

Father: Yes, there has. Okay: I told the story because . . . well . . . I think I wanted to see if it was credible.

Daughter: Ah, yes, that story was never published, right? Was it . . .”credible”?

Father: 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.

Daughter: So are we.

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

Daughter: I’m sure it will, but . . . look, I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, Dad, but this conversation is starting to become annoyingly circumlocutious.

Father: That’s blunt! But true. Okay, okay, I was just . . . I don’t know what . . . trying to . . . shape the narrative, or something.

Daughter: So . . . again, was your story credible?

Father: Okay, okay. First tell me, would you have found it credible?

Daughter: 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.

Father: Well, the judge let me get up to the part about the security guard. Then . . . guess.

Daughter: He politely suggested you’d said enough, he got your drift, thank you, and you should—briefly—answer the remaining questions. (sotto voce) And then go directly to jail.

Father: I heard that! No, not exactly. 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.

Daughter: So you think he realized you were pulling his . . . ? Or was he just moving things along?

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

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

Father: ’”Sorry”?

Daughter: You know, for violating “time out.”

Father: That’s okay, time in. Where were we? Yes, he made me stop, but so what? Remember, I didn’t want to be on the case, anyhow.

Daughter: Sorghum gumbo!

Father: Sour grapes? No, no.

Daughter: Whatever. Let’s move on.

Father: To J.D. Number Two.

Daughter: 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.

Father: Wow! You must have been storing those up.

Daughter (modestly): Well . . . not really

Father: Jew. Displaced.

(This causes a few moments of silence.)

Daughter: Oh.

Father: He was in the same group as Humpty, right before lunch. I’ll describe his virtual divination.

Daughter: I scorn the point. We should have a repeat rule.

Father: Generous, my dear. True. Q. and A. okay here?

Daughter: Q. and A-okay.

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

Daughter: Proceed, sir, without fucking asking!

Father: Wha . . . ? Further ado. I’ll recommence in mobster style, then.

Daughter: Marinara sauce. No, in medias res.

Father: Wow! Good for you, that was a hard one!

J.S.: “So you were not born in this country?”

JD#2: “No, your chonor. Rahsha.”

Daughter: And the witness—you—will now be permitted a boondoggle of the J.D.

Father: Brief description. Ashkenazi, seventy to seventy-five. Careworn, intellectual, grizzled, respectable dark suit, no tie, black-rimmed glasses with a little American flag decal on the right earpiece, the one on my side—on the other side, too, I later ascertained.

Daughter: Excellent, father! Water dog.

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

Daughter: Thank you. Softball. And thank you, Pater. Proceed.

(fade to courtroom, with Father now playing J.D. #2.)

JD#2: But now I am U.S. citizen, your honor.

Judge (very fast): Good. What is your occupation, marital status, and do you currently reside in New York County—in Manhattan, that is?

JD#2: My occ . . . I retire, drive cab fourteen year. Yes, reside . . . I reside, my wife, she dead ten year.

Judge: I’m sorry to hear that. One moment, please. Will the prosecutor and . . . (fade.)

SCENE 4. Now they are both paying attention, no more side action. The father wants to get to the climactic confession, and the daughter, becoming a little stir crazy, wants to get the conversation over with, but subtly, so as not to hurt his feelings

Daughter: So they dismissed him?

Father: Then and there. We’d been told several times that fluency in English was a so quit nagging.

Daughter: Sine qua non. Time out again, please?

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

Daughter: Wow! Interesting. Was that a mistake?

Father: I don’t think so. Solomon was too sharp to make a mistake like that. No, I think he saw how much J.D. 2 wanted to serve, so . . .

Daughter: Oh, no! He let him? Why do you think he wanted to serve so much?

Father: Who knows? Loneliness? Needed the money? Improve his English?

Daughter: What about “the wheels of justice” and all that?

Father: I hate to say it, but I don’t think it really would have mattered—not much, anyhow. Even assuming a case with him as juror ever reached the deliberation stage, he would probably have just sat there and nodded, made the right noises, gone along with the majority.

Daughter: I’m not sure I buy that. Suppose someone asked him to justify his vote? What if the jury was divided?

Father: He would probably have touched the side of his nose, or something, made the “intuition” sign. You know how those Russians are!

Daughter: I’m still not convinced. I don’t think you have any idea why Judge Solomon did what he did. Look, it’s getting late, and I should probably call that guy back, if only to be polite.

Father (reluctantly): Okay. Shall we say good night, then, my dear?

Daughter: Well, almost. One more question: did you see J.D. again? Number Two, that is. I like him.

Father (relieved): Me, too. And, yes, I did. It was during the interminable lunch break. I got back to Central Jury early and saw him looking out of a big picture window over the rooftops of Chinatown toward the Manhattan Bridge. He looked melancholy—not depressed. It crossed my mind that he might have been a scientist or something in the old country.

Daughter: Did you speak to him?

Father: I did.

(fade. Next to a large window, JD#2 now played by Judge Solomon.)

Father: Some view!

JD#2: Yes, beautiful. I love New York.

Father: You drove a cab, correct?

JD#2: Correct. But why . . . ?

Father: I bet you could name all the streets down there. We’re looking north, aren’t we?’

JD#2: Actually, excuse me, sir, but east. (Proceeds, with pleasure, savoring the names): Mulberry, Mott, Elizabeth, Bowery, Chrystie, Forsyth, Eldridge, Allen, Ludlow, Suffolk, Clinton, Pitt—no, sorry, Ridge, then Pitt—Columbia, Baruch Drive, Baruch Place, the F.D.R. Drive, and, finally, at last, we come to the East river. That is not a street, of course, however. (He puts his hand on the father’s arm, smiles gently, and looks into his eyes.) You watch out for me, please, mister? Sir? You stay close, and when I not understanding. . .

Father (surprised, then recovering): Why, well, sure. Yes, I can do that.

(fade)

SCENE 5. The daughter’s interest has been thoroughly rekindled. Both are also anxious to make a good ending.

Daughter: And ?

Father (sighs): But, then . . . I was dismissed, so . . .

Daughter: Don’t worry. He’ll get somebody else.

Father: Yes, I’m sure he will. Even so . . . When I was dismissed, I had to return to Central Jury, and I spotted him there reading the paper or something in a corner.

Daughter: So you weren’t just sent back to the jury pool?

Father: No, dismissed. I got my ticket, no delay, and I left. To my shame, I didn’t even say goodbye. It felt like I was running away from him.

Daughter: Don’t beat yourself up, Dad. I think you showed good . . . judgment.
(a short silence)
Well, it’s getting late. I suppose I really should say good night now. We’ll talk again? Soon?

Father: Always a pleasure, my love. Soon. Good night, dear.

Daughter: Good night, Dad.
(She hangs up, then punches Redial for a new number. One ring.)
John? Hi, Annie. Sorry, honey, I was talking to my dad in New York.
(She laughs happily, fade out her half of stage.)

(Father sits with his hand on the phone.)

Wife’s Voice: So there you are again, Paul, with your oiled marmalade frangible hibiscus on the bleak rebus. Did you enjoy it, dear? How is she?

Father: With my old man’s freckled hand on the black receiver. Yes, I did, Ellen. Very much, thanks. She’s fine.

Wife’s Voice: Good, good, dear, I could tell you haven’t lost a step. Go get ready for bed now. And don’t forget to brush your teeth. Use the electric. I’ll be waiting.
(Exit father. Fade out his half of stage.)

The End