Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Kicking It At the Palace of Civic Justice
Jury duty comes like an illness: it is acknowledged shortly before the event itself, forgotten for days while you busy yourself with other matters, and then suddenly makes itself known and unavoidable when most inconvenient. Unlike an illness, though, you need a court order to get out of it.
For myself, I was notified three weeks before my report date. It was through the grace of Amanda that I even remembered to send in my 'Yes, I would love to serve!' postcard that prevents me from going to jail. I promptly forgot about the entire affair; whenever Amanda reminded me to tell our HR department at work that I had jury duty, I would enthusiastically agree. 'Got it!' I would say, as the task I was agreeing to flowed smoothly back out of my brain.
So it was that, Monday morning on my way to the courthouse, I called my supervisor and let them know I had jury duty. 'Worst case scenario, I don't make it in until lunch. I'll let you know.' I sign in at the courthouse and have a seat in the jury waiting room.
A clerk enters. 'Since we are only selecting for Grand Jury today, we will only need fourteen of you.' Awesome. My odds of serving are 14 : 100. As I mentally try to take that down to its lowest common denominator, those of us who were still qualified to serve (A whole mess of people disqualified themselves after finding out you can't have been convicted of basically anything in the last fifteen years) march into a courtroom.
I am still waiting to see a Perry Mason style courtroom in real life. No wide aisle down the middle gallery, nor olde-timey wooden gates and banisters separating the legal teams from the viewing audience. No separate witness stand behind which weeping widows can confess to plotting against their husbands. The style and size of the courtroom is way off from what I expected, and I get the feeling the other jurors are thinking the same thing.
Upon being seated, a circuit judge enters the room and gives us a quick rundown of constitutional democracy. I don't begrudge her this because, 1. It is actually relevant to why we are there, and 2. This lady probably doesn't talk to a lot of non-lawyers in her daily activities, and she should feel free to show off the knowledge that earned her those black robes.
We are told that grand juries serve for two weeks, and there will be two juries of seven citizens selected. One will serve Monday, Wednesday, Friday. The other will serve Tuesdays and Thursdays. Unlike a normal jury, we will not be observing trials and handing down verdicts. Instead, we will view about a dozen cases each day that the District Attorney's office is hoping to prosecute. We are presented with evidence, witnesses and victims testify to us, and we choose whether to indict an individual based on the evidence, which will then allow the case to move to trial. Think of it as proof-reading the case before it goes to trial, and you're halfway there.
I don't know why the judge chose me for the Monday/Wednesday/Friday crew, but it probably had something to do with my height. I sat straight and tall in my pew (?), and was seated in between two tiny old ladies who were both busy clutching their bags and looking down.
Show me to be attentive.
I can't discuss the cases outside the courtroom, but after two days of hearing cases I can safely say one thing: Salem, you've gotta kick the meth. It's getting a little embarassing.
Five days left, and keeping my fingers crossed that I don't hear any child abuse cases. Already had to send a few domestic violence and attempted murder cases to trial, but this is a job that I definitely don't want to take home with me.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
My Barely-Informed Economic Opinion
I spent a little time this morning reading what is apparently a fairly controversial blog posting from Chicago law professor Todd Henderson. I couldn't do this on his main blog page because the firestorm of negative, personal attacks on his family and livelihood from certain readers has caused him to permanently quit blogging.
Todd Henderson, good luck to you and your family, and I'm sorry that your blog-post put the lie to the idea of Liberals being more reasonable and civil.
Since I couldn't read it on Mr. Henderson's page, I followed a link from the Huffington Post to its reposting on the blog of UC, Berkely economics professor Brad DeLong. Mr DeLong has, in addition to posting the original blog in its entirety, has been good enough to provide a safe haven for the comments Mr. Henderson was compelled to leave in response to people attacking his character.
If you haven't clicked on either of those links, go ahead and do that now. I'll wait until you're done.
Finished? Good.
I agree with Mr. Henderson, almost entirely. He is not saying that he should be pitied, nor is he implying that he will be worse off than the poor due to a tax-hike. What he is saying, reasonably, is that he and those of his particular bracket should not be the scape-goat for what is wrong with the American economic system.
This is where it gets tricky for me. As a left-leaning, registered Independent, I generally support our President's policies and ideas. I believe in a robust government that helps those who can't help themselves, and I believe that a few bad apples skating by on the system is a small price to pay to provide assistance to families who can't make it no matter how hard they try.
I supported extending unemployment benefits for those who have exhausted their 99 weeks of benefits, and I support an extension of all the Bush-era tax cuts, at least temporarily. We can re-assess after another two years when, optimistically, our economy will be in a recovery in practice as well as in economical theory.
I guess the whole point of this post is to say:
I'm tired of the hypocrisy that many, many Republican congressmen, pundits, and voters displayed when they said we couldn't afford to extend those unemployment benefits that cost so much less than these tax-cuts, but are practicing all sorts of Newspeak to justify extending these tax-cuts.
I'm surprised and equally disappointed with our President for saying that we have to extend those unemployment benefits by adding to our deficit, but deciding that the line must be drawn in the sand when it comes to paying for tax cuts that will affect our economic recovery in a very real way.
I remember reading an analogy during the unemployment extension argument by an economics professor. If I knew who it was, or when they said it, I would quote it. But I don't, so I'll just finish up this post by paraphrasing him.
"When your house is on fire, and water is the only thing that will put it out, you don't yell at the fireman for getting your couch wet."
For those of you not paying attention, our economy is the blazing house, a short-term deficit is the water, and our couch is...well...our pure ideals about progressive taxes and low government spending, I guess. They're going to get a little soggy and we may have to get new ideologies once this fire is out. Maybe there will be a sale.
For now, though: Unemployment is, arguably, a worse problem than government spending. Let's wait until unemployment is back to reasonable levels before we throw down on the 'let's stop spending,' argument. Okay elected officials?
Please?
Todd Henderson, good luck to you and your family, and I'm sorry that your blog-post put the lie to the idea of Liberals being more reasonable and civil.
Since I couldn't read it on Mr. Henderson's page, I followed a link from the Huffington Post to its reposting on the blog of UC, Berkely economics professor Brad DeLong. Mr DeLong has, in addition to posting the original blog in its entirety, has been good enough to provide a safe haven for the comments Mr. Henderson was compelled to leave in response to people attacking his character.
If you haven't clicked on either of those links, go ahead and do that now. I'll wait until you're done.
Finished? Good.
I agree with Mr. Henderson, almost entirely. He is not saying that he should be pitied, nor is he implying that he will be worse off than the poor due to a tax-hike. What he is saying, reasonably, is that he and those of his particular bracket should not be the scape-goat for what is wrong with the American economic system.
This is where it gets tricky for me. As a left-leaning, registered Independent, I generally support our President's policies and ideas. I believe in a robust government that helps those who can't help themselves, and I believe that a few bad apples skating by on the system is a small price to pay to provide assistance to families who can't make it no matter how hard they try.
I supported extending unemployment benefits for those who have exhausted their 99 weeks of benefits, and I support an extension of all the Bush-era tax cuts, at least temporarily. We can re-assess after another two years when, optimistically, our economy will be in a recovery in practice as well as in economical theory.
I guess the whole point of this post is to say:
I'm tired of the hypocrisy that many, many Republican congressmen, pundits, and voters displayed when they said we couldn't afford to extend those unemployment benefits that cost so much less than these tax-cuts, but are practicing all sorts of Newspeak to justify extending these tax-cuts.
I'm surprised and equally disappointed with our President for saying that we have to extend those unemployment benefits by adding to our deficit, but deciding that the line must be drawn in the sand when it comes to paying for tax cuts that will affect our economic recovery in a very real way.
I remember reading an analogy during the unemployment extension argument by an economics professor. If I knew who it was, or when they said it, I would quote it. But I don't, so I'll just finish up this post by paraphrasing him.
"When your house is on fire, and water is the only thing that will put it out, you don't yell at the fireman for getting your couch wet."
For those of you not paying attention, our economy is the blazing house, a short-term deficit is the water, and our couch is...well...our pure ideals about progressive taxes and low government spending, I guess. They're going to get a little soggy and we may have to get new ideologies once this fire is out. Maybe there will be a sale.
For now, though: Unemployment is, arguably, a worse problem than government spending. Let's wait until unemployment is back to reasonable levels before we throw down on the 'let's stop spending,' argument. Okay elected officials?
Please?
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
New Phone!
This is a test post that I'm writing on my phone.
I received a free phone at work for being awesome, and one of the things it has (which my old, touch screen only phone didn't) is a full physical keyboard. I'm so used to the touchscreen by now that I use it still for browsing the web and texting, but I thought having a full keyboard would make blog-length typing a bit easier. So, I downloaded a blogging application, and here I go!
Testing, one, two? Test, test?
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Critical Thinking: A selection from an essay I wrote for my Russian History class.
It’s a question that I’ve tried to discuss with my friends a number of times: What would you do if your country was invaded?
The question is purely academic. As an American living in the twenty-first century, I’ve never had the opportunity (and never will, God willing) to answer that question based on experience. Neither have many Americans; the entire twentieth century was an exercise in empire building and intervention where we have been the invading force, but never once were we forced to expel invaders from our own country. As I ask my friends, time and time again, What would happen if a foreign country invaded and threatened not only our livelihood, but our lives? Our family’s lives, our neighbor’s lives?
It’s a popular question, when taken in a Hollywood context. Chuck Norris in, ‘Invasion,’ and Patrick Swayze in, ‘Red Dawn,’ show us what it means to be an American fighting back against invaders, and show that it’s a common enough question to be a reliable box-office smash. Outside of Hollywood, however, the question is difficult to answer: What if a war was brought to our shores and inaction meant death?
The answers--sitting around a table at a restaurant, or lounging on a sofa in my living room, or standing around a parking lot after a movie—are predictable. ‘I’d fight back, no question.’ ‘I’d take my family and go into hiding.’ ‘I’d grab my Dad’s shotgun and my Uncle’s truck and have a blast!’
I may as well be asking what they would do in case of a zombie apocalypse.
The humor and bombast are only to be expected given the context of the question. It can only be hypothetical; no nation exists (again, God willing) that would challenge the U.S. with a full invasion.
But let’s change our position. Let’s say we’re a small European nation. Not a century ago, not a lifetime ago, but barely a generation past. Sixty years ago. We’ve been through some rough patches over the last twenty years, with a change in government, a Civil War, and we haven’t been sure of the name of our country for the last few decades, but at least we have our home, our land, and our family.
Then the Germans invade.
At first, we take it in stride: This is nothing new to us. After all, we’ve been Russians, then Ukrainians, then Russian again on and off for the last thirty years, so now that we are Germans, maybe Stalin will stay off our backs for a little while. Russian, German, or Ukrainian, just let us keep our land and we’ll salute whatever you ask us to.
Then we realize that this is not like the other times. This is not an invading force that wishes us to be its new tax-paying subjects; the Germans want our land, and they want us gone. We hear rumors of the last village they went through, stealing from and destroying their homes, raping and killing the villagers all to give them their Lebensraum, their living room. Their living room, (such a presumptive, disgusting phrase) which is filled with Ukrainians and Russians, Slavs and Romani, and which they have no intention of sharing. According to the survivors from the last village, they kill those that resist and they kill those that surrender.
The context has changed and the stakes have climbed. Now, the question: What would you do?
The question is purely academic. As an American living in the twenty-first century, I’ve never had the opportunity (and never will, God willing) to answer that question based on experience. Neither have many Americans; the entire twentieth century was an exercise in empire building and intervention where we have been the invading force, but never once were we forced to expel invaders from our own country. As I ask my friends, time and time again, What would happen if a foreign country invaded and threatened not only our livelihood, but our lives? Our family’s lives, our neighbor’s lives?
It’s a popular question, when taken in a Hollywood context. Chuck Norris in, ‘Invasion,’ and Patrick Swayze in, ‘Red Dawn,’ show us what it means to be an American fighting back against invaders, and show that it’s a common enough question to be a reliable box-office smash. Outside of Hollywood, however, the question is difficult to answer: What if a war was brought to our shores and inaction meant death?
The answers--sitting around a table at a restaurant, or lounging on a sofa in my living room, or standing around a parking lot after a movie—are predictable. ‘I’d fight back, no question.’ ‘I’d take my family and go into hiding.’ ‘I’d grab my Dad’s shotgun and my Uncle’s truck and have a blast!’
I may as well be asking what they would do in case of a zombie apocalypse.
The humor and bombast are only to be expected given the context of the question. It can only be hypothetical; no nation exists (again, God willing) that would challenge the U.S. with a full invasion.
But let’s change our position. Let’s say we’re a small European nation. Not a century ago, not a lifetime ago, but barely a generation past. Sixty years ago. We’ve been through some rough patches over the last twenty years, with a change in government, a Civil War, and we haven’t been sure of the name of our country for the last few decades, but at least we have our home, our land, and our family.
Then the Germans invade.
At first, we take it in stride: This is nothing new to us. After all, we’ve been Russians, then Ukrainians, then Russian again on and off for the last thirty years, so now that we are Germans, maybe Stalin will stay off our backs for a little while. Russian, German, or Ukrainian, just let us keep our land and we’ll salute whatever you ask us to.
Then we realize that this is not like the other times. This is not an invading force that wishes us to be its new tax-paying subjects; the Germans want our land, and they want us gone. We hear rumors of the last village they went through, stealing from and destroying their homes, raping and killing the villagers all to give them their Lebensraum, their living room. Their living room, (such a presumptive, disgusting phrase) which is filled with Ukrainians and Russians, Slavs and Romani, and which they have no intention of sharing. According to the survivors from the last village, they kill those that resist and they kill those that surrender.
The context has changed and the stakes have climbed. Now, the question: What would you do?
Sunday, January 3, 2010
My Mom Got A Lousy Birthday Present
Happy New Year from Salem Hospital!
Yes, Salem Hospital, land of nine hour waits between doctor visits for non-life threatening emergencies. The gorgeous, wireless-signal blocking architecture. Grouchy admissions staff who are too busy being upset they have to work on New Year's Day to notice that the people they are admitting probably had better plans for the day too.
I kid sarcastically, but I'm glad they're only a fifteen minute drive away because my Mom couldn't have been driven much further and retained consciousness through all the pain.
About half an hour after calling her to see if she could sit for Oliver so that Amanda and I could go to a movie with our friends, she calls me back, crying, saying, 'I can't, I can't, I can't!' Wailing in pain, she tells me that she can't watch him after all because she's in so much pain.
Probing a little deeper, I ask what's wrong and find out she has excruciating pain down her left side and in her kidneys. Doubled over in agony, vomiting from the pain, the biggest emotion she has, by far, is the sadness that this means she won't get to come see her grandson today.
What a classy lady.
I kiss my wife goodbye and run to the car, driving faster than I should to pick her up. I make the ten minute drive to her house in about six minutes, where she is waiting at the door for me. I help her stagger to the car and buckle her in, and we drive off.
'Don't speed,' she whispers through the pain.
The drive is quick for me, most of the traffic lights being green, but it was a lifetime for poor Mom, doubled up in pain with eyes closed.
'I wish I was just in labor,' she says. 'Labor wasn't this bad.'
We arrive at the emergency room, where we approach the admissions desk. We are met with a vaguely appraising stare, which is attached to the face of a dowdy admissions nurse. Nurse Dowdy looks us up and down, this middle-aged woman leaning on her son for support, whispering, 'It hurts, it hurts, it hurts...' and shows the world why she is just an admissions nurse by asking, 'Need something?'
'Yes,' I say after punching her in my mind, 'we have some pretty intense pain in the kidneys and wondered if anyone could help with that.'
Nurse Dowdy is not impressed. 'Last name?' she asks.
We give her all the vital information, which she enters into her system with the speed of a DMV line. Her sole duty in life fulfilled, she raises her head from her computer screen and, compassionately, nods her head for me to turn around.
'Wheelchair,' she offers.
I smile my best, 'Maybe-your-son-wouldn't-care-about-you-but-I'm-a-little-worried-about-my-Mom' smile and thank her. Seating Mom in the chair, I tell our savior that I parked illegally outside to get her in here, and would like to move the car now. Nurse Dowdy says she'll take care of her and begins to wheel her away, behind The Swinging Doors. I return to the car and park at the nearest spot, which is only technically still in the Pacific Northwest, geographically. A quick seven-day journey back to the emergency room from the car, and a different nurse is taking Mom's blood pressure and asking her about her allergies.
We are admitted, and wheeled back to a room separated from the triage ward by a sturdy curtain. This room, we will soon discover, has been stripped of most of its comforts and supplies by other nurses.
"Salem Hospital: Where Someone Else Will Always Be Our Priority."
The nurse we get to help take care of Mom is actually very nice. Nurse Becky talks with my Mom about the joys of grandchildren between bouts of pain and does her best to accommodate Mom's general weirdness of conversation.
Over the next two hours, Nurse Becky and our doctor determine that Mom is passing a kidney stone. I present an excerpt from the conversation:
Doctor: 'Well, the good news is, the stone is almost done with its journey, so most of the pain is behind us.'
Mom (heavily medicated): 'Ooh, thaab gwoo.'
Doctor: 'The bad news is, there are still a few up there.'
Mom: 'Whhhhhh...'
Doctor: 'But they're much smaller than the one you just passed!'
Mom: 'Ahhhm.'
Doctor: 'Except for one of them. It's actually much bigger.'
Mom: (collapses in agony)
Some different medication was brought in by a different nurse, and it put her to sleep pretty quickly. The administering nurse must not have been paying close attention to my or Mom's face because she surprised me, as she was filling out some paperwork, by asking, 'You're the husband?'
'Excuse me?'
'I asked, are you her husband?'
Disbelievingly, all I can manage to say is, 'Son.'
'Oh! Well, yes, I guess you would be,' she stammers as she gets a closer look at our thirty years-separated, clearly related faces. 'Sorry. All I saw was the wedding band, and I...I assumed.'
'It's okay,' I answer, deciding that if a nurse is going to have such a large lapse in judgement, I was glad it was about our relation instead of accurate dosage or procedures.
After three hours, by far the shortest visit I've ever had to Salem Hospital (Where Even the Visitors Have to Work Eighteen Hour Shifts), we are excused and sent home with medication and strict cranberry juice requirements. Mom stays with us for the night in case of a relapse.
I bring her home and Amanda greets her with Oliver in her arms. Oliver smiles at Mom, then reaches out to grab her face.
'Thank you, little man. I needed that.'
She really did, too.
Happy birthday, Mom. Feel better.
Yes, Salem Hospital, land of nine hour waits between doctor visits for non-life threatening emergencies. The gorgeous, wireless-signal blocking architecture. Grouchy admissions staff who are too busy being upset they have to work on New Year's Day to notice that the people they are admitting probably had better plans for the day too.
I kid sarcastically, but I'm glad they're only a fifteen minute drive away because my Mom couldn't have been driven much further and retained consciousness through all the pain.
About half an hour after calling her to see if she could sit for Oliver so that Amanda and I could go to a movie with our friends, she calls me back, crying, saying, 'I can't, I can't, I can't!' Wailing in pain, she tells me that she can't watch him after all because she's in so much pain.
Probing a little deeper, I ask what's wrong and find out she has excruciating pain down her left side and in her kidneys. Doubled over in agony, vomiting from the pain, the biggest emotion she has, by far, is the sadness that this means she won't get to come see her grandson today.
What a classy lady.
I kiss my wife goodbye and run to the car, driving faster than I should to pick her up. I make the ten minute drive to her house in about six minutes, where she is waiting at the door for me. I help her stagger to the car and buckle her in, and we drive off.
'Don't speed,' she whispers through the pain.
The drive is quick for me, most of the traffic lights being green, but it was a lifetime for poor Mom, doubled up in pain with eyes closed.
'I wish I was just in labor,' she says. 'Labor wasn't this bad.'
We arrive at the emergency room, where we approach the admissions desk. We are met with a vaguely appraising stare, which is attached to the face of a dowdy admissions nurse. Nurse Dowdy looks us up and down, this middle-aged woman leaning on her son for support, whispering, 'It hurts, it hurts, it hurts...' and shows the world why she is just an admissions nurse by asking, 'Need something?'
'Yes,' I say after punching her in my mind, 'we have some pretty intense pain in the kidneys and wondered if anyone could help with that.'
Nurse Dowdy is not impressed. 'Last name?' she asks.
We give her all the vital information, which she enters into her system with the speed of a DMV line. Her sole duty in life fulfilled, she raises her head from her computer screen and, compassionately, nods her head for me to turn around.
'Wheelchair,' she offers.
I smile my best, 'Maybe-your-son-wouldn't-care-about-you-but-I'm-a-little-worried-about-my-Mom' smile and thank her. Seating Mom in the chair, I tell our savior that I parked illegally outside to get her in here, and would like to move the car now. Nurse Dowdy says she'll take care of her and begins to wheel her away, behind The Swinging Doors. I return to the car and park at the nearest spot, which is only technically still in the Pacific Northwest, geographically. A quick seven-day journey back to the emergency room from the car, and a different nurse is taking Mom's blood pressure and asking her about her allergies.
We are admitted, and wheeled back to a room separated from the triage ward by a sturdy curtain. This room, we will soon discover, has been stripped of most of its comforts and supplies by other nurses.
"Salem Hospital: Where Someone Else Will Always Be Our Priority."
The nurse we get to help take care of Mom is actually very nice. Nurse Becky talks with my Mom about the joys of grandchildren between bouts of pain and does her best to accommodate Mom's general weirdness of conversation.
Over the next two hours, Nurse Becky and our doctor determine that Mom is passing a kidney stone. I present an excerpt from the conversation:
Doctor: 'Well, the good news is, the stone is almost done with its journey, so most of the pain is behind us.'
Mom (heavily medicated): 'Ooh, thaab gwoo.'
Doctor: 'The bad news is, there are still a few up there.'
Mom: 'Whhhhhh...'
Doctor: 'But they're much smaller than the one you just passed!'
Mom: 'Ahhhm.'
Doctor: 'Except for one of them. It's actually much bigger.'
Mom: (collapses in agony)
Some different medication was brought in by a different nurse, and it put her to sleep pretty quickly. The administering nurse must not have been paying close attention to my or Mom's face because she surprised me, as she was filling out some paperwork, by asking, 'You're the husband?'
'Excuse me?'
'I asked, are you her husband?'
Disbelievingly, all I can manage to say is, 'Son.'
'Oh! Well, yes, I guess you would be,' she stammers as she gets a closer look at our thirty years-separated, clearly related faces. 'Sorry. All I saw was the wedding band, and I...I assumed.'
'It's okay,' I answer, deciding that if a nurse is going to have such a large lapse in judgement, I was glad it was about our relation instead of accurate dosage or procedures.
After three hours, by far the shortest visit I've ever had to Salem Hospital (Where Even the Visitors Have to Work Eighteen Hour Shifts), we are excused and sent home with medication and strict cranberry juice requirements. Mom stays with us for the night in case of a relapse.
I bring her home and Amanda greets her with Oliver in her arms. Oliver smiles at Mom, then reaches out to grab her face.
'Thank you, little man. I needed that.'
She really did, too.
Happy birthday, Mom. Feel better.
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