Trials

“I screwed up.” He said when I answered the phone, though he didn’t exactly say “screwed up.” His actual words were a bit more graphic.

My younger brother lives near my parents in a very small town in rural southwestern Kentucky. He spent the winter working for my aging and increasingly frail folks. In season though he works on a blueberry farm. He’s an expert in irrigation systems and has worked many well-known golf courses. He is also listed by the Commonwealth's largest university as a Master Gardener. He has worked outdoors in lousy weather doing heavy manual labor his entire adult life. It’s starting to wear on him but he’d still rather sweat and ache from the toil than sit in a cube or stand behind a counter.

He doesn’t get paid enough, never has. The kind of work he does best is not exactly the stuff of wealth.

When he said what he did, that he'd screwed up, in a tone that reeked with angst, depression and maybe even despair, I assume that there was more bad news about my parents’ health. There’s been a lot of that lately.

“I got called back to work.” He sighed. I figured there was much more to his present crisis than this, but he likes to weave a story.

“And that’s a bad thing?” I asked. I have to ask, Jeff’s stories are deliberately interactive.

“I start back tomorrow, I need the money, I’m about a week from having my phone shut off.”

This was not alarming, he and his lovely wife both have careers that are grossly undervalued. She’s a nurse’s aid in a mental hospital, a near-lateral move from her previous work in a nursing home. They’ve always lived precious paycheck to precious paycheck, usually without significant benefits or other perks. Their home is humble, old and drafty, heated by a wood stove using wood that Jeff finds and chops himself.

“So going back to work is not your problem.” I said, once again pushing the story along as I am expected to do. I don’t mind this at all, I’m not much of a phone conversationalist and I actually appreciate the cues to participate.

“You know I got called for jury duty.” He added after a pause, changing the subject, or maybe not.

“No, I don’t think I knew that.”

“Yeah, I had to report this morning.”

“And they didn’t pick you?”

We’d discussed this sort of thing before, a few weeks back, why someone would or would not participate in the jury process. He kept asking me what he should do, I kept telling him that I try to avoid using the word ‘should’ when talking to people since it implies that my morals and ethics are well thought out or some sort of lofty standard that others should aspire to. We debated that for several minutes before he’d reduced it to an answerable “What would you do?”

I told him that barring some dire need to do otherwise, that I’d actually jump at the chance to participate in the justice process, as a learning exercise, and as a potential opportunity to  write a good story about the experience or the trial.

“They picked you?” I asked, somewhat surprised.

“Yeah, and that was pretty cool.”

He paused again.

“How’d that go?” I participated.

“It was the strangest thing. They gave us each a number when we signed in, then the County Clerk pulled numbered chips out of a box.”

“They still do that?” I puzzled, I would have figured that somewhere since the invention of electricity and crude tabulating devices that there would be a somewhat more elaborate system involved in the selection process.

“Yeah they still do it that way, and this time I was the sixth number they drew out of thirty two.”

“So where did you screw up?” I actually used the words ‘screw up’.

He sighed again and mentally mapped out the next paragraph before letting it loose.

“They picked me, then I had to go through the interview, like on TV.” Another pause.

“The lawyers questioned you?”

“Yeah, the prosecutor, the defense lawyer and the judge, right there in front of the defendant.”

“Awesome!” I was envious.

“Yeah it was.” Another pause.

“So they kicked you out because of the interview?”

This was an unfair assumption of mine. My brother is a man of certain strong opinions and not at all shy about them. On TV they usually don't pick strong stereo types for a jury. Some might read him as a hang’em high gun-clinging ultra-conservative, though I know there’s a lot more complexity to him than that. I do forget this sometimes though especially if he’s just said something about  swiftly converting sand covered countries or regions into shiny glass.

“No, they accepted me.”

“Really?” I was still assuming.

“After they had their choices the judge asked us if a long trial would be a financial hardship.”

“And you have a phone bill due.” I was beginning to understand the dilemma.

“That and a few others.”

“So that thing you screwed up. . .”

“Yeah, I raised my hand.”

I felt bad for him. He saw this as a unique opportunity, as a social obligation and as an intellectual as well as civic exercise. Once again petty and annoying day to day finances rather than desire dictated his life’s course.

“I would have been a good juror.” He said. I was pining for something reassuring to say.

“Well these things are usually only about disputed insurance claims or something petty like that.” I finally offered, thinking we were at the end of his story. I was wrong.

“They usually are, I served in El Paso on a couple of those.”  This was a leading comment. I didn’t recall that he had served before, but it was the framing of the comment that led me to believe there was more to the tale.

“This wasn’t one of those?” I asked, as he wanted me to.

“It was a murder trial, a change of venue from another county.”

“You’re kidding!” He now had my complete attention, which Pip, my small and precious pit bull in my lap picked up on, she responded to my sudden increased adrenalin by licking my face. With the murder angle, the whole conversation had turned, squealing and smoking like a hot rod racing on an abandoned runway.

“A rural murder trial! No way!” I yelled, tasting dog tongue as it lapped even more vigorously.

My brother knows me well. He knew he had just jammed me into full journalist mode.

“I thought that might wake you up.” He said with a grin. I could sense the grin even though we were hundreds of miles apart.

My mind raced. I’d heard nothing about a murder trial in the area, I barely knew anything at all about the other rural Kentucky county. I told him as much.

“I didn’t know a thing about it either, that’s why they accepted me for the jury.”

Just like on TV, the best jurors come in with no actual prior knowledge of the crime or the participants.

“What would you have done?” He asked.

“Well, that’s easy, assuming I didn’t have a bunch of bill collectors at the door, I would have jumped at it. There’s like a dozen stories just in what I know so far!”

“So write it.”

“It’s not my story, it’s yours.”

“Well, that may be true, but I’m giving it to you, I don’t have the way with words you do.”

He says this a lot. I can’t deny the truth of it. I do write, find pleasure and confidence writing, but I just don’t have a lot of actual interesting stories in me. He on the other hand has many, many stories, wonderful stories but he’s completely in foreign territory at a keyboard. We’re okay with this disparity, we’ve discussed it a lot. He’s admitted jealousy as well as respect for my ability to slap words together on paper. I on the other hand admire his connection with nature, machinery and survival skills.

I’ve got a couple of college degrees, the knowledge and experience to maintain corporate computer systems, and the ability to articulate thoughts. He on the other hand can change out engine parts, grow a decent tomato, cook the best pizza in the world and can also lift more than ten pounds without having a paramedic standing by.

In the upcoming apocalypse and inevitable zombie attacks, one would be very, very wise to follow him rather than me. In fact, even in less catastrophic times, storms, blizzards, regional famine or local pestilence, he’s your man. He finds and chops his own wood for Pete’s sake. (Recently he told me from memory how to make gunpowder from wood stove ashes and crystallized urine.) I have hundreds of trees and they simply laugh at me and my tiny, un-start-able and therefore rarely used chainsaw.

“Rural murder trials are commonly very complex, layered, long-standing family rivalries, clannish disputes, deep, long-simmering hatreds suddenly manifesting in fits of violent savagery. . .” My mind was reeling with potential, and yet saddened by the missed opportunity, I felt his pain.

“I screwed up.” He said again, still not actually saying ‘screwed up’.

I came back to earth. “You did what you had to do, there’s no error or shame in that.”

“I should have stayed.”

“There you go saying ‘should’ again, you know I won’t speak to that.”

“Still.”

“Look Jeff, you and I both inherited this tragically overwhelming sense of responsibility. It’s dad’s fault, not yours. We, like him, will almost always do what we know needs to be done, generously sacrificing many or most of our own personal interests and desires along the way. We can’t help it. We might as well dream of breathing fire or being physically attractive. Our own set of physics and DNA just won’t allow any other way than what we are. Any time any of us have put self-interest over responsibility it has turned into a monsoon of trouble, hurt and life-long regrets. We both have the many ex-wives and estranged kids to show for it.”

“I hate that though, the regrets.” He shrugged

“That’s just part of the affliction.”

Like my brother, I don’t at this time have any knowledge of the case whatsoever. I am sure it is fraught with tragedy and sadness, it wouldn’t be considered such a heinous crime if it weren’t. But right now, in our complete ignorance of the specifics, we could speak of it freely in impersonal and detached ways.

“The defendant was there, he looked kind of hinky.” He said.

“You haven’t pre-judged him have you?”

“Oh no, no, I know lots of hinky looking people that never killed anyone, I’m just saying.”

“I know you haven’t, just pulling your chain.”

“I could have sat there and listened to the facts of the case for days then decided whether he was guilty or not, no matter what he looked like.”

“I know that about you brother, you’d probably start from a position of ‘prove it to me Mr. Prosecutor’.”

“Exactly, show me your case! I’ll decide if you brought it or not!”

And he would. My little brother is suspicious, analytical, a thinker, a listener, a ‘willing to change his mind if the facts change’ kind of guy. He would be right at home here in the Show-Me State. This trial, any fair trial would appreciate him for that. He and I share this trait as well, we’d both make great jurors, maybe we could even take the show on the road, professional yet completely impartial, wandering jurors.

Not because we want the limelight, not because we’re better than anyone else, just because of another innate, immutable need we share, the need to be part of something important.

Not necessarily world-changing, not even the need to be the leader. Just to be an integral part of something big, something that matters. I think this trait comes from our mother.

My brother and I were brought up around the time of America’s so-called Camelot. The rise of and promise of the young John Kennedy. Not the man himself, but the era, the prevailing attitude of promise and optimism. The age that saw the birth of the Peace Corps and desegregation, civil activism breaking through the old social machines. Individuals could make a real and lasting difference if they only believed it possible, worked hard and dared to dream.

I don’t recall ever actually being told as much but I always felt that I would do something important. Not for fame or wealth, but simply to help make the planet a better, more just, peaceful and verdant place.

Somewhere along the parade of years and decades since though, the cold and emotionless face of reality and average-ness overcame the smiling, wide-eyed certainty and promise of youth. Doing something important fell well behind the need to do just what was immediately required.

Opportunities missed, ignored, or wasted.

“I just don’t seem to have an edge anymore.” My brother said. I added that I didn’t either. We spoke more of other times we missed out, deliberately, by mere stupidity, negligence or perhaps just by fate. We each have pretty long lists. And now here we are in middle age, two old guys whining about what could have been if we’d just tried a little harder, looked a little closer, put ourselves out there just a little farther.

Serving on a criminal trial, as a fair and impartial juror would certainly fit the definition of doing something important for either of us. Once again, not for selfish purposes, but simply to be the right person at the right place and time for a serious task. Yeah, I’d like to write about something like that, it’s my calling, but the participation would still be the greater personal reward.

But in the end, it’s about doing what you have to do, even if it’s a small thing, like paying the bills. It often sucks, and it certainly often feels less than important. Maybe in the end, the sum total of our sacrifice and work will in itself prove important.
Then again, maybe sharing time and thoughts and baring your soul with a brother who you love, respect and admire is important as well. Maybe not capital-I Important, but that’s okay. I wouldn’t trade my time on the phone with Jeff for a front seat at the latest crime of the century.

Jeff, You didn’t f#$! up at all, you just did what you needed to do, it’s our curse.