If you want to get out of jury duty, what you have to do is this:
When they ask you what you do for a living, you say, “I write television comedy, your honor,” and then you wait around a bit while the judge and the lawyers busy themselves with other prospective jurors. You’re eventually going to hear something like, “The court would like to excuse the television comedy writer with the expensive watch.”
They don’t use those exact words, of course. They use your juror number — but the effect is pretty much the same.
As prospective jurors go, the average professional scriptwriter is on the no-fly list. The prosecutors assume you’re probably some kind of guilt-ridden Hollywood far-left social justice warrior who thinks all police are liars and racists. The defense attorneys are equally certain you’re just another pampered plutocrat, terrified and baffled by being in a public building surrounded by criminals and so concerned about the lunch options that you want to vote guilty and get back to your upscale neighborhood as soon as possible.
Both of them, it must be said, are essentially correct.
I was on jury duty not long ago — and when I say “duty,” I mean that I sat in a courtroom for a couple of days, waiting for jury selection to be completed, waiting to say, “I’m a television comedy writer, your honor,” and to be excused a few moments later.
It’s important to say: I wasn’t trying to get out of jury duty. I’m a citizen — not a good citizen, more like an OK citizen — but I get it. We all have to do our part. Trial by jury, the justice system, bedrock of civilization, blah blah blah — basically a good thing, most of the time.
The experience was an exercise in futility. Still, I sat there politely, even though I knew from previous jury service that it was highly unlikely that anyone on either side of the case wanted me around. The American justice system, apparently, doesn’t value the truth-discerning, disinterested analysis of a guy who writes situation comedies.
The jury selection took about an hour. This being Los Angeles, we first had to hear from a documentary filmmaker prospective juror (excused, of course) and a yoga instructor prospective juror (also excused for some reason) before we got to the television writer.
Not me. The other television writer.
An old colleague of mine, Phil, was also part of the jury pool that day.
As happy as I was to see an old friend, I can’t say that I was happy to see him in the same group of prospective jurors. His presence really messed up the odds.
While they might excuse one television writer during the selection process, they’re not so flush with available jurors that they’d bounce two out of the room. Seeing Phil there meant that disaster might actually strike: They might have to accept a television comedy writer onto a real-life jury.
And you can’t have a justice system like that. We’d let criminals off just because they were “likable” or had “an interesting point of view.” We’d punish the lawyers for being insufficiently ironic or for “tipping the joke” during their opening argument. We’d roll our eyes at the victim’s testimony as “too on the nose” and for having “been done to death.” Witnesses would be dismissed for being too overweight or not overweight enough for a wacky sidekick character. And the judge we’d ignore as just another network suit, giving notes.
In short, chaos.
So we all lucked out, halfway through the second day, when the prosecution and the defense reached a plea bargain. Phil and I went to lunch together and did what writers do best: We talked trash about other writers, especially other more successful writers. And we ate salad.
The American justice system, that day at least, was safe.
Rob Long is a television writer and producer and the co-founder of Ricochet.com.
