Caterwauling

Before the trial began, the judge asked us not to Google the case.

I was fine with that. My laziness will win out over my curiosity any day of the week.

After my sleepless post-verdict night, Howler Monkey immediately started screeching in my direction.

Jesus FUCK, babe. I cannot stand you on my best day, and today is not my best day.

To buy myself some time to come up with an answer that contained no “F” bombs, I finally Googled the case.

Holy FUCK.

There were a few times I had felt bad for the guy, like, his lawyers were trying to lose him this case.

But it looks like they did well by him. They got a very serious charge thrown out before it came to the jury. Or, at least, it was not THIS jury’s responsibility to decide on it.

Knowing it now explains a lot. A LOT.

I found the PBSO report too. Not that I am in the business of trusting cops. But the ones I saw on the stand were credible, thorough and, honestly, they made our jobs easier.

Anyway, with good investigators and attorneys, we arrived at the right verdict.

Getting the extra information reinforced it.

I hope the other jurors who wrestled so hard with it made the same discoveries.

What the smart guy on the jury, along with the third-grade teacher and I, wondered was why would Lil Dude request a jury trial.

I get it now. We could have gone with not guilty. Or we could have picked one of three other verdicts.

So, a 25% chance of going free.

Once again, luck was not on his side. Not on the day of the accident. Not on the day of the verdict. Maybe, even when he finishes serving his time, not ever.

I think about luck a lot.

I violated no fewer than four traffic laws on Thursday alone.

But I slept in my own bed with large purring loafs.

And, unlike him, I didn’t have an ex lurking in the audience to see to it that I was put away for a good, long while.

(I have enough exes lurking, but from a safer distance.)

Also I am grateful that everyone ex-Howler been gracious about my blown deadlines and messed-up mind.

Here’s hoping my charmed life (as it were, as I am aware I’m the dog in the fire saying “This is Fine”) never runs out of charm.

And that Lil Dude can turn his luck around somehow. Or at least get back to a base level of unlucky from current levels.

There’s a saying in Swiftie-land, “Screaming, crying, throwing up.”

It’s a takeoff on Taylor Swift’s lyric, “Screaming, crying, perfect storms” in “Blank Space.”

We usually use it when Taylor performs a surprise song on The Eras Tour that we consider “ours.”

For me now, up at 2:15 a.m. after finding a defendant guilty of the worst charge put in front of me, it feels appropriate.

The judge — who I remember voting for, and I am glad I did — said we enjoy a special privilege as jurors. That is, to never speak of this again. Not to reporters or people who just want to know.

What I will say is I was very happy with the juror pool. Super smart people. Really great discussions.

I was pretty happy that the smartest one in the room and I wrote down the same exact questions. And wanted to see the exact same exhibits again.

The law is written so obtusely. We both took issue with “willfully” and “involved.”

And even though we asked the judge for some clarification, all she could do is read the charging documents to us again.

Like, those lawyers KNEW we’d get tripped up on those words. I gotta hand it to them, they did their jobs well.

Still. We sent a nice man to jail for what I assume will be a very long time. Over a stupid thing that could have happened to any of us. Because the law apparently mandates how you are supposed to react in this sort of moment.

I will miss the court deputy most of all. He was so kind to us. I of course kept cracking jokes, and he couldn’t keep his serious facade for more than 30 seconds.

I asked him why we got picked. There were 63 other people who got quizzed during jury selection. I said beyond voir dire, you guys only talked to two other people in this room.

The deputy said you listened the hardest, answered the most directly, and basically just had the right body language.

He said you can just tell who will absolutely upend the process, and those are the people we send home.

Anyway, when we all parted — after days of sitting stone-silent in a room together, and then debating fiercely and eventually laughing together because JESUS CHRIST THIS SHIT IS STRESSFUL — I wished everyone well, thanked them for being so cool and adding, “It was a pleasure NOT speaking to you for the last four days.”

They all went to the garage. I walked my happy ass back to Elisabetta’s for the third and final time of the week. Because, drinks. So many drinks. All the drinks.

(At this point I imagine old Cindy is either going to rush her happy ass there or post for no one to read that she built the building it’s in and therefore lays claim to it.)

Anyway. I could write all night. But I feel like absolute dog shit. Even though it was a unanimous vote, the smart guy and I said a lot to get the whole group to that outcome.

Honestly I was praying the defense said or did something to make me go the other way.

I think we all were. So, it’s not on me by any stretch.

But that won’t stop me from thinking we just helped the “justice” system to make a tragic situation even fucking worse.