As if two jobs and as much photography as I can possibly squeeze in wasn't enough, I thoroughly enjoy writing short stories. Creative writing. Though my style may not be to the liking of some people, as it's blunt and often from the dark side of humanity. But I don't write for other people. I write for my own pleasure and to maintain good mental health. Here is a sample for you. But first:
Based on personal experience and comes with a warning: There might be some food for thought in this one.
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He woke up to the sound of the old-fashioned mail slot. A short and brief squeak and then the metallic clang as the mail slot slammed back down, into its metal frame. Less than a second later, the thump from the envelope landing on the hardwood floor in the hallway.
"Wow! A real letter", was his first thought. "Not likely from an old girlfriend seeking to revitalize a relationship doomed from the beginning. Nobody writes letters any longer. It's gotta be either junk or some serious government shit", he told himself.
He made it barefoot across the cold floor, into the kitchen where the first order of the day, as always, was a cup of Nelson Mandela. A cup of strong and black coffee, to jolt his system into a state of relative alertness.
After two cups of Nelson, he was ready to open the envelope, which by now was lying on the counter in front of him, looking very official, indeed. The first page that jumped out on him like a Jack-in-the-box, was printed on green paper and was in itself the one that stood out. The other page looked like your standard white paper yada-yada, so he immediately refocused back on the green one. Huge, bold prints jumped out on him: "In the supreme court of British Columbia". Immediately his past flickered for his inner vistion as the nervously searched for a reason that anyone "would like to see him" in supreme court. But to his huge relief, common sense and knowledge made him realize that nothing that he had ever done, would have him start out in surpreme court. It's "BIG time" once it finally arrives at supreme court, and he had never been big time, in a criminal sense.
"Juror summons" was the next words his eyes sent to his brains and he understood "summons" well enough that he know there was no way out of this one. He was just relieved to find the word "juror" preceeding the "summons".
He mentally digested the letter in its entirety, which in short told him to be at a certain place in supreme court, at a certain date and a very specific time. It was a very firmly worded letter and on the backside of the green sheet is listed a fairly substantial list of "the only way" he could weasel his way out of jury duty, should they decide that "he was the one" or at least "one of the ones". But he had never been a weasel and he was not old enough, not sick enough, not religious enough and he didn't have "the right job", either, to have a chance of an exemption of jury duty, should they decide to pick him. It was all pretty much set in stone, the way he saw it, unless they would find unknown reasons to exempt him.
The next couple of weeks, following his mailing in his confirmation of attendance, he had pretty serious ambivalent feelings about the whole thing; picked or not for jury duty. The task, the duty as a good Canadian citizen, the potential pressure and responsibility he could potentially have to endure, should he be picked as a juror in one of the two criminal trials on the book, started to dawn on him. When the smoke and discomfort of the letter and it's potential ramafication began to dissipate, he slowly landed at a place where he saw it as a natural place for him, given his background in general and he got fairly certain that he was destined to be picked. "The chickens had come home to roost" was his take on it. He was too suited to get an exemption, and this was his duty as a good Canadian citizen. He started to see it as something to be proud of, fully aware of the massive ramafications it could have on everyone involved.
As he started coming to this conclusion, thoughts started racing through his mind: How can you serve justice? Not just justice for the victim. Also for the accused. Justice, period. After all, that's what our judicial system in founded on. The notion of innocense, until proven guilty...beyond a reasonable doubt. But what exactly does that mean? How much doubt is "reasonable" ? That one might require counsel by the judge. Big thoughts to wrestle with, until the end of what could be a long trial, if picked for jury duty.
Thoughts were stirring in his uneasy mind for the next few days: As a juror, in a case like this, the pressure (to get it right) and responsability is enornous. Not everybody can handle being in a pressure cooker like that. You could potentially set a killer free in the streets, or you could send an innocent man to jail. You have to think very seriously on the impact your decision could have. Not only on the/an individual, but on an entire society. This is not fun and games. It's the proverbial life or death. Are you balanced enough to deal with that? Are you open minded enough to see the case from a neutral perspective? It's all inside your head. Enormous pressure and responsability. A very, very complex scenario.
So, on the morning of the juror summons, he went there, with a gut feeling that his fate was sealed. He would more than likely be the older one, and based on his life experience, the wiser one. The least judgemental, the most balanced one and the most curious and meticulous one. All very bad omens for anyone trying to weasel their way out of jury duty. But as said, he was never a good weasel and was ready for the responsibility.
On the morning of his juror summons, even prior to that, he decided to dress casually, but in a very dignified way, to "send a message" reflecting what the real him was really like and all about; down to Earth and deeply professional, and then they could either yay or nay him as they liked. He'd picked a pair of rust coloured, straight legged stylish jeans, with a new pair of matching, brown leather dress shoes. Complimenting this, he'd picked an UnderAmour, plain black T-shirt in the fabric that most soccer shirts are made of, togther with a matching, black "baseball cap" with a First Nations bear logo on, that you had to look really carefully to spot, as it was also in all black. On top of this, just to match with the rusty brown theme, he wore a pale yellow, well fitted dress shirt, that he chose to leave open in the front, just to balance the black with the rust colour and the pale yellow. For the reading glasses that he strongly suspected he'd be needing, he picked a pair of yellow framed glasses that were twice as wide as they were tall. He'd always liked those, and they matched the rust and pale yellow to perfection, all backed up by the universally versatile black. For his bald head, his usual small, stainless steel ear rings were discreet but highly appropriate, as was the runes engraved, likewise stainless steel finger ring, that he strategically put on his right hand's middle finger, so that it would get noticed if this became a "shake hands" affair. In his own oppinion, he was quite stylish and dignified for a guy who was only a couple of years from official retiring age, and his demeanour was exceptionally calm, thoughtful and professional. The psychology of all this, the message he was sending, without saying a single word, was of highest importance to him.
The dog days of summer had the wind rustling the leaves on the trees and the barometer reading a very pleasant 18 degrees, as he made his way to the SkyTrain, above him a mostly blue sky with scattered clouds. The first yellow leaves had started to appear, which only brought a smile to his lips, as the thoght them a perfect match to what he was wearing. Besides, fall was his favourite season, and being on the cusp of it, he was in a chirpy mood. On the half hour SkyTrain ride to downtown, he was in the zone, spaced out with Procul Harum's "A whiter shade of pale" on repeat on his head phones, white gave him a mental "out of body" experience, a tranquility, peace and harmony feeling feeling that is near impossible to find in daily life. A clean high with with no side effects.
Hindenburg Zeppelin over New Jersey, 1937. Just as it was looking good, catastrophy struck and when he got to the main doors of Supreme Court, all that greeted him was a note taped to the inside of the glass doors that the juror summons had been cancelled and "nothing furter" was planned. Despite their claim, no effort had been made to notify him of the cancellation, up front, which very strongly indicates a last-minute plea bargain on the behalf of the accused. Needless to say, the unannounced cancellation, meant a few pissed off people were trotting around outside, complaing about the money they just wasted on downtown parking. Not likely juror candidates, anyway, as smart people would have taken the SkyTrain.
So for all the bullshit at work, management trying to deal with, and understand, a situtation they had zero previous experience with, he ended up with a few days off, which to him was always a welcome thing; like a temporary parole from a psychiatric hospital. The up-to-date and alert observer he was, not to mention the CBC News addict he labelled himself as, it - the cancellation - didn't really come as a surprise to him, as the last 48 hours prior to his summons, on his way home from work while listening to the news in the car, they had been mentioning two different upcoming criminal trials, and based on these updates, it was almost as they would never come to fluition.
So back home, it was a bit of a Shakespearian "much ado about nothing" feeling that came over him. Or maybe the Hindenburg 1937. But rest assured. There will be other murders, other murderers, other criminal trials, and who knows, maybe some other time, a little, very officially looking envelope, will plonk through the mail slot in the hallways, again. "C'est la vie, mon amour", and there's nothing you can do about it.
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