2004 - Jury Duty

My last jury duty, so far, wasn't so bad. I got to use all of my jury skills declaring this fool guilty of stupidity.

2004 – Jury Duty

The jury members were 100% certain we were witnessing the prosecution of a sexual pervert…and we were prepared to do what we needed to do – convict. Of course I didn’t know this until we had all been retired to the jury room for deliberations.

A couple of days before, we had all survived jury selection and were now safely ensconced in our jury box. The first witness was called whom I will refer to as April. She was a young girl, around 14 years old. She appeared somewhat intelligent but the arrogance of a 14-year old was clearly present. Her testimony revealed that almost daily, after school, she rode her bicycle to a bus stop where a copse of bushes and small trees across the street from the bus stop allowed her to hide her bicycle until later in the evening when her grandfather would drop her off to ride her bike home. The bus ride to her grandparents’ house took about 10 minutes.

On the day in question she stepped into the bushes and out of sight of the road or sidewalk. In the spot she usually stashed her bicycle sat a young man in his early 20’s. His pants were half off and he had his arm deeply down one of the legs. He had no underwear on so his naked butt sat on the undergrowth and fallen leaves and debris that made up the surface of this tiny hidden clearing.

“He told me to get out of there.” She testified.

“And what did you do?” Asked the prosecution.

“I grabbed my bike and left.”

“What happened then?”

“I waited a few minutes so he could get dressed and went back to stash my bike.”

“And what did you find when you went back to hide your bicycle?”

“He was still there but now his pants were completely off and his head and arm were inside his pants. When I walked up he pulled his head out and he told me to get out again.”

“And what did he do then?”

“He stood up and took a step towards me.”

“And what was your reaction?”

“I threw my bike at him and ran. Then I jumped on the bus and when I told my grandpa what happened he called the police. I guess that’s how he got arrested.”

“Thank-you.” He turned toward the defensive table, “Your witness.”

“Thank-you. Now, April, the first time the defendant spoke to you exactly did he say?”

“Exactly?” April looked at the prosecutor and then the judge, “Really?”

“Yes, April.” She looked back at the defensive lawyer. “What were the exact words the defendant used when he told you to get out?”

“He told me to…” she paused, “He told me to ‘get the fuck out of here!’”

“Thank-you, April. And what did he say to you the second time, when he took a step towards you?”

“He said ‘What part of get the fuck outa here don’t you understand?’”

“Then he took a step towards you?”

“Yes.”

“Did he threaten you or touch you?”

“Well I felt threatened! He was walking towards me! He was a naked pervert!”

The judge instructed us to ignore the witnesses’ final sentence saying “The statement of the defendants intentions or April’s opinion of the defendant will be disregarded. His intent and mental status is the subject at hand. It is up to you to determine the state of the defendant’s mind and not this witness.”

“Thank-you, Your Honor. April, did he make any other advances? Did he try to get you to come to him or was he…um…manipulating himself in any way?”

“No, but he was naked and he was threatening me when he tried to get me. The only reason he didn’t get to me was because I threw my bike at him.”

“One last question, April, was your bicycle still there when you returned?”

“Yes.”

“Thank-you. No more questions.” The judge told April she could step down.

The next witness was the grandfather who repeated his part of the story. It was reflective of April’s story. Following his testimony the prosecution rested and the defense was ready to begin. First we broke for lunch.

As we would find out later, at that point we were all pretty well convinced Gregory, the defendant, was guilty of both counts. One was a felony, attempted sexual advances to a minor, and the other count was a misdemeanor of public exposure. Although we didn’t discuss the evidence or even discuss the case we did talk about past jury experiences. Our conversation with the few of us that ate together at lunch revealed that more experienced jurors told us we would probably not hear from the witness as most defendants did not testify as their own testimony might sink the case. The last words were “I don’t think the defense is going to want us to hear from the defendant.”

We were understandably surprised when the defendant was called to the stand. I glanced over toward the juror that had suggested we would not be hearing from the defendant but he didn’t look back. I wondered what tactic could the defense possibly use in defense of this event. I didn’t think there was much that could be said in defense of his actions. After all he had readily admitted to being naked in the bushes and the defense had objected to almost none of the witness statements to this point.

Gregory took the stand.

Our opinion immediately changed. What we had previously seen as an act of perversion was starting to look like an act of possible stupidly. Gregory was asked his full name. He seemed to have trouble with that for just a minute. “My name?”

“Yessir.”

“Umm…Greg.”

“Your full name, sir.”

“I don’t go by my full name. Everyone just calls me Greg.”

“For the record, sir, we need your full name.” Gregory…Greg gave his name correctly.

“Now, Greg, would you please explain, in your own words, what happened that day? First of all, why were you hiding in the bushes?”

“Well…it’s like this.” Greg related. “I had gone to see this guy I knew about buying some weed…”

“Just a minute, Greg, did you say you were buying drugs?”

“Just some weed.”

“Ok, Greg, you were going to buy some ‘weed’. This isn’t what you told the police.”

“Well of course not! They’re the police!”

“So what has changed?”

“I’m in a lot of trouble and…uhh…buying weed didn’t have nothing to do with the charge…besides,” his eyes opened wider, “I swore on the bible.”

“Ok, Greg. So you were buying some marijuana. What happened next?”

“Well…uhhh…the guy I was buying from wouldn’t let me wait in his house when he went to get the weed so I figured I’d wait down the street on the wall that ran into those bushes. I was sitting on the wall when I figured I’d buy me a beer with the $20 I had left over!” Greg began to get excited. “So I looked in my shirt but – no money! So I looked in the pockets of my sweats and…” Greg was getting agitated as he spoke. His hands became more animated and the frustration at not finding the money was plainly etched upon his face. “…When I couldn’t find my money I figured I might have been down the leg of my sweats ‘cause sometimes that where it put it! But when I looked there…no money!” At this point Greg was so animated it was like we was searching for the money that very minute. I was sure; if being in court had not restricted him he would have jumped to his feet before continuing. Greg was almost shouting at this point blinking hard at every other word. “Well, I knew I had the money so I went into the bushes to better look inside my sweats! Nothing! So I looked around and no one could see me so I went to take a better look in my sweats so I sat down to be completely outa view and slid my sweats halfway down when this stupid girl comes into the bushes and says ‘Hey, what’re you doin’?’ So I told her to get the fuck outa here and she ran away! Then I kept lookin’ in my sweats ‘cause I knew the money was there but I couldn’t find it so, finally, I took the pants off ‘cause I knew my $20 was in there! About then the same stupid girl comes back and says what are you doin’ but I wasn’t doin’ nothin’ but lookin’ for my money so I said ‘What part of get the fuck outa here don’t you understand...and she just stood there lookin’ at me so I said ‘Hey, get the fuck outa here’ and I jumped to my feet to chase her away! Geez…I was naked, almost, but she was just standing there! She needed to go! So then she pushed her bike over and ran away I figured I was ok!” Greg calmed a bit and sat for a few seconds breathing heavily. The defensive attorney opened her mouth to speak but Greg continued before she could speak. “I thought everything was ok but the next thing I know the cops have me and they put me in handcuffs and took me downtown to jail! I was just tryin’ to buy some beer!”

“So, Greg…calm down a bit…here.” She handed him a glass of water that he drank completely dry. “Ok, Greg, did you intend to threaten the little girl or make sexual suggestions in any way?”

“Hell no! She was a little girl! What kinda perv do you think I am?” He stopped as though he suddenly realized that was exactly why he was here. He looked down and said softly, “I’m not weird like that. That’s just wrong!”

We soon retired to the jury room to deliberate but within about 15 minutes we were released for the evening and instructed to be back the next morning to continue our deliberations. The next morning it took less than an hour to determine Greg’s worst crime was stupidity – which isn’t a crime at all. We let Greg go on the felony, he didn’t intend to hurt or threaten anyone, he was just being stupid. We convicted him on the misdemeanor for which he was destined to do naught but get a severe warning from the judge and a fine of under $100.

Stupidity is NOT a crime. But, sometimes, don’t you wish stupid hurt a little so you knew when you were doing it?

Greg could’ve certainly used some pain to tell him: Stupid, dude, stupid.

1972 - When I Was In The Mental Hospital

In ’72 I gave up driving a cab to take a Nursing Aide position at Downey Hospital which I was told was the largest mental health facility in the US. There were a few stories from that year but one of the first things I learned to say when I prefaced any story was “When I worked at the mental hospital...” instead of...


1972 – When I Was In The Mental Hospital

“No!! Get away!!” Mr. Harris shouted, waving his arms around his head as though he was being attacked by a flock of birds. “No!!” He leaned back and closed his eyes, striking out with a wild right-handed roundhouse. He was a slight, tiny man about 5’2” with snow-white hair and dressed in his usual too-big pants held up by suspenders with his slippers peeking out from under his dragging cuffs. Likewise the shirt was just a little too big but Mr. Harris usually wore these ill-fitting clothes with dignity that reflected a completely different life before he took up residence in the hospital. Although, normally, he could barely shuffle down the hallway to the ward cafeteria he was now showing more energy and mobility than I had seen him display previously. “Stop!!” He shouted to the air.

There was no one there.

Approaching from behind I gently took Mr. Harris by the shoulders, being careful to keep my eye out for any wild swings. “We’ve got soup today, Mr. Harris.” I moved around so he could clearly see me. His wild eyes focused on my face and he immediately calmed.

“Ohh…G’soup t’day.” He said, his recent hallucination already forgotten. He sat and Mrs. Turner, the dietician served him a bowl of broth.

“Here ‘yago Mr. Harris! I have a nice bowl of soup for you today!” She looked lovingly at Mr. Harris. She looked up at me and smiled. She had known Mr. Harris for several years now and cared for each and every one of her patients. “G’soup t’day?”

Mr. Harris looked down at his bowl, “G’soup t’day!” said Mr. Harris.

Mrs. Turner was a very round and very dark woman with a boundless smile and a caring personality topped by a professional attitude and a lifetime of experience. She bustled her hardy 5’5” inch frame around the room assuring every special diet was accounted for and assured no one was stealing from a table-mates’ plate where the food may have been solid instead of creamed (yuck) or include bread or potatoes or something else which would be restricted from some diets. She supervised her kitchen staff well, demanding service, accuracy and quality with a gentle but firm hand. The aides stood off to the side at various places in the cafeteria. We stayed out-of-the-way while still remaining available if an event occurred that required our assistance. I glanced over at Anita, engrossed in conversation with Anne. Marty stood near the door primping his hair and straightening his creases.

Marty, had shown up that morning in a nurses uniform and had just gotten back from going home to change. I guess management didn’t have the same sense of humor the rest of us did when it came to Marty…but then you had to know Marty.

I believe Marty was the darkest person I have ever known. There was almost a void in space where his body resided…man, he was black…and as big and bright as the Las Vegas Strip. He had a bright orange/blond shock of hair that was straightened and cut short with the intent that it should lie down but his hair fought against this condition as soon as Marty left the mirror, spiking out in random places all over his head. Marty wasn’t just flaming – Marty was the sun…Marty was a welders spark…Marty was the core of a Nova. Marty was just a little gay – which is like saying the sun is a little warm as Marty was OUT THERE…and a great friend. Marty wouldn’t hesitate to tell anyone that “When I was a Marine I got more tail than anyone else.” I didn’t ask for details. Marty and I started the same day and went through all of our training together. When we were finally assigned to a ward we wound up on the same floor of the same building.

Anne and ‘Nita were also black Americans and wonderful people with huge hearts truly caring for the patients like they were their own. Anne was the “old hand” on the ward although she was only in her early 40’s, but she had worked a Downey for most of her adult life and had known most of her patients for a large part of that time. Anne was the “mother” to us all and led the aides with humor and a fierce determination to do what was best for her patients.

Our ward was a Geriatrics ward where residence was not determined by age but condition and the doubt that they would ever return home – they would not. Bob was the youngest patient on the ward and was barely 40-years old. Bob, like everyone else in the building would not be returning home for any length of time. He had been in a auto accident in Germany while he was in the Army and sustained brain damage that made him extremely simple but extremely lovable – kinda like a big puppy-dog. And he was a big guy. He was the 2nd tallest person on the ward and only surpassed by Mr. Vannich who was hospitalized with Tourettes Disease who wandered up and down the ward all day holding his cancerous throat groaning out obscenities and nonsensical utterances. Where Bob was like a puppy-dog Mr. Vannich was more like an unfriendly giant. Although he didn’t fight when he was physically directed toward which ever activity the ward was involved in, whether Swimming Therapy or Occupational Therapy, he also didn’t bend over backwards to cooperate. On one occasion he became very resistant and I was forced to “pull rank” on him.

Pulling Rank was actually very easy as we aides were graphically set apart from the patients as the patients dressed in street clothes – aides dressed in a white uniform with a big set of keys at the end of a long chain. The guy with the key had the power – they all knew it and our advantages, both physical and mental was illustrated by this uniform.

On the day in question Mr. Vannich was directed, along with the rest of the patients, to the day-room where they would all get shaven with one of the electric shavers kept on the ward for this purpose. Mr. Vannich didn’t want to go and resisted by doing nothing. He stood next to the door to the dayroom, staring and holding his throat refusing to enter. Eventually he was the last to be shorn and Anne asked me to help move him. Guys in the ward always wielded more power than any of the women which was a result of most patients being from a generation where women didn’t give orders and the fact that most of them could overpower the women easier than the guys, who would fight back. I walked up to Mr. Vannich who towered over my 5’5” by at least a foot and probably much more as he was around 6’9”, and poked my finger into his chest. I looked up and boldly said, “Mr. Vannich it’s time to get a shave! Comeon! Lets go!” He looked over my head, held his neck and said “Why-o God-damn cock-breath mother-er-e-o damn whee-o-why,” and whipped his right arm around toward me. I ducked & heard a violent “SLAM” as his hand contacted the thermostat mounted on the concrete block wall. I looked up from my position crouched just underneath the height of his swing. I saw the thermostat had been pounded into a hole in the concrete block with the single blow of his fist.

There wasn’t even a scratch on his hand.

Mr. Vannich didn’t get a shave that day.

Anita was not much older than me but single with a young son. Anita was a lot of fun and, like almost everyone else on staff, a caring, wonderful person. I met Anita the day I interviewed as I was returning to the same building I had left following my interview 15-minutes before. She and another aide were searching for a patient that had wondered off and were searching along the fence line the hospital shared with Great Lakes Boot Camp. Patients frequently climbed the fence in an effort to escape. They were escaping from a place that had a gate which was never closed or locked and had access to a main road. If they escaped over the fence and into boot camp, there was a gate and guards who were experienced in returning our patients to us. Usually the escape was obvious as the patient often was clothed in pajamas as well as being much older than a Naval Recruit. After leaving my job interview I was walking along the road when I noticed I was overtaking a slow-moving gentleman in pajamas who didn’t really seem to have any purpose or intent…he was just walking. As I came up alongside I gave a cheery “Hello!” and looked into his face. There was no recognition or acknowledgement I was even there. This was, evidently, a patient who had simply walked out the front gate. I slipped my arm into his and, as I stood in place, he pivoted around me until we were headed in the opposite direction. We quietly walked the two-blocks back to the hospital where I met Anita coming around the corner of the building. She thanked me for waking her patient back not knowing I would be working on her ward, in her building and with her within the next couple of weeks.

After just a couple of months I found myself dropping right into the 7/24 life of a Nursing Aide, including my participation with the usual activity every day at 1:00 – Watching the soap opera General Hospital. I had been watching on a regular basis for a couple of weeks when on my day off I heard myself utter these words of terror: “I have to get home for my story.” I could barely grasp the fact that I was hooked on daytime soap opera TV. This had to be dealt with which I did my next work day by retiring to the day-room at the opposite end of the ward. One day-room had 2-TVs and they were turned everyday to the soaps which was where all of the aides and most of the patients hung out. The other dayroom had a TV but it was rarely on. This was where I headed. With 2 pool-tables I figured I would knock some balls around until the soaps were over. During my second day of this Mr. Johnson asked me if he could play with me. He began bragging about how he used to play for a living but it sounded like any one of a dozen stories these guys had that were often more wishful thinking than personal history. Now Mr. Johnson…he had the palsy. He shook violently with every step but managed to still get around although with difficulty. He ambled over to the rack of cues shaking like a wet dog all the way over and while he choose a stick. He pulled one of the sticks off the rack and looked down the shaft although his shaking was so violent I figured this was more of a habit than an actual evaluation of the straightness of the stick. Mr. Johnson shook and vibrated over to the table and asked me if I wanted to break. I took a long draw on my stick and hit the balls dead center. They moved a few inches apart and rolled slowly to a stop. Mr. Johnson shook and vibrated around the table making almost a complete circuit before he stopped and, waving a shaky, jerking finger at the table he said “3-ball corner-pocket.” As he lifted the point of the cue it shook like a flag in the wind…but as the cue descended towards the table all tremors disappeared and his arms became steady as rocks. He pulled back and BANG – 3-ball corner pocket. He continued his trip around the table still shaking like a high-speed car with a flat tire. 7-ball, 2-cushions, side-pocket. Again the vibrating stick pointed towards the heavens but descended solid as granite – BANG – 7-ball, 2-cushions, side-pocket – AMAZING!!

Mr. Johnson and I played on a regular basis thereafter until he was transferred off ward for a medical problem. We had several months of pleasure before he was taken with an illness and transferred to the medical building.

Ok, this is the hard part – the stuff I don’t often admit – as much as I like people in general and believe myself to be kind in my heart and in my actions…but a year working here changed me. See, there was this directive that an aide might hear on occasion: “It seems he needs some motivational therapy.” This statement often came from a doctor or nurse. No one told us what to do but I was trained by other male aides that this statement meant we had a patient who was refusing to care for themselves. The patients in our ward were long-term patients and many had already been there for decades. These gentlemen knew very well how to work the system. They knew if they didn’t want to feed themselves, we would. They knew if they didn’t want to go to the bathroom in the actual bathroom one of us would clean-up both them and the chair or bed. Then they would get a personal hand-shower and then re-dressing if required. This was not a desirable scenario, not because we didn’t want to work but because the patents were so old and in such bad physical conditions that failure to use their legs, or arms or whatever, that they could soon lose the ability to walk, carry or reach if the muscles weren’t used. We were told the patient needed motivation to help themselves for their own good. This was true, without a doubt, but…

Often motivational therapy meant wrapping our hands in towels and going 3-rounds in the shower room with the old guy in question. This was our way of saying, “You WILL get up and walk to the bathroom when you have to go.” In the beginning I felt really bad about this but soon came to realize this really was a valid method of motivation although something less confrontational could be better, this method was fast and gave the results we needed: get up off of your dead ass and move it or you’ll lose it! I rationalized this behavior and reluctantly participated in a couple of these “training sessions” and eventually became inured to the violence of the act. I realized that the technique was quick and it worked and, although it was not preferred, it was effective and efficient. This motivational therapy was probably the biggest reason for leaving the employ of the hospital when I realized, as I was rolling around on the floor with a 67-year old that had gotten his arms around me: I was looking forward to this kind of confrontation.

I was only 22-years old – something was wrong. I saw the change in myself…I didn’t like the change…I did something about it.

I quit.

Next stop...California.