Note: My own personal 5 year Statute of Limitations is
now up for this one, and I feel I can finally tell this sordid tale from
2008......
I’m back from Jury Duty. A
two week case, and it just slipped right by, like a Century. Now I don’t have
to be on a jury for two years. But since it was a two-week case, I think I
should be exempt for four years. Two years for every week spent sitting
in a sweatbath wearing a monkey suit and listening to asshats seems reasonable.
Sadly “reasonable” was a
term not heard during this trial.
Because folks are often at
their most passionate and incoherent when one of their parents is dying.
They’ll do anything to prolong the inevitable end, and then when the passing does
occur, they’ll strike out at anything and anyone handy to somehow get some sort
of ‘revenge’. And when the mourning offspring is an A-type lawyer, well, you
get dumb, stupid, lame, useless, stupid, dumb, lawsuits like this one.
The statute involved was
Elder Neglect. Mister Asshat lawyer spent two-and-a-half years (and something
on the order of half-a-million dollars of his own money) stitching together the
most far-flung and trivial moments in his Mother’s care to somehow prove
that his mother was recklessly neglected during her stay in the ICU and
Med-Surg floors of our local hospital.
Think about that. Neglect,
in a hospital? Have you ever tried to get any sleep in a hospital? It’s
nigh-on impossible because every 15 minutes someone barges in with a machine on
wheels, prods you in some manner, and then wheels out after advising you to "get
some rest". These are the well meaning folks who will wake you up to give
you a sleeping pill.
Neglect? Hardly. Stalking
would be a closer term. I’m sure many patients would gladly file a restraining
order against their nurses in order to get some rest. (Which is really what a
discharge is. They stabilize you, but you actually heal at home, where you can
finally relax.)
Here’s a definition of the
various types of neglect and abuse from a Lawyer’s
website.
As you can see, the site
for these crimes is a nursing home. Not a hospital. The only 'neglect' you will
find at a hospital is that they neglect to put any taste into the food.
So Mr. Asshat lawyer never
had a chance here. And We the Jury let him know it, in no uncertain terms. And
it didn't do a damn bit of good.
After 9 days of testimony we
heard the closing arguments on the morning on day 10 and the trial was
complete. All the principals took off for the rest of the day.
Start the clock on us
jurors.
First the Judge gave us our
instructions. To prove Neglect was a 7-step sequential process. We had to vote
on each of these items in order, and if any step did not pass, then the case
failed.
Then we were taken to the
deliberation chamber and told what we should expect for lunch in a few hours
and what dinner arrangements could be made for us.
All 12 of us sat around a
large, round table and waited for the first person to break the silence. That
poor sap was instantly elected our foreman.
Forewoman, actually. She
reviewed the 7 steps to us, got out a piece of paper and called for a vote:
- Step 1: Was Asshat Lawyers mom named so and so?
Seriously? That's a
question? Um, YES.
- Step #2: Does Dominican
Hospital exist at this address?
Gee, I'm not sure. It
might've broken free of gravity overnight and is currently in orbit. But we'll
take a chance on this one. All hands raise: Yes.
- Step #3: Was Asshat Lawyer
Mom under the care of this hospital?
Well, that's ALL we've been
hearing about for 9 forty-four hour days, so yeah, I think we can pull together
a consensus on this one: Yepper.
- #4 was the crust of the
biscuit: Did Asshat Lawyer Mom suffer from Neglect while under the care of the
Catholics?
We all glanced at each
other, took a breath, and 10 of us raised our hands. Two of us did not. But it
turns out those two weren't really paying attention, so as soon as our forewoman
re-read the definition of Neglect to them they also got on board.
And that was it. No step 5,
let alone 6 and 7. Done. Two week trial and we officially 'deliberated' for a
grand total of 45 minutes. The bare minimum.
Our forewoman went to fetch
the bailiff, who thought we needed more instruction or something.
"Seriously? You're done already? But everyone is long gone...."
He went off to make a bunch
of phone calls and try to gather everyone back to the courtroom; a process that
took almost two hours to accomplish.
Meanwhile, back in the
juror room, it was ties loosened and feet up on the table. Our job was done and
we could now, for the first time, talk to each other. Its one of the oddities of
Jurisprudence that you spend days (or weeks in this case) sweating alongside 11
other people that you are not allowed to converse with. A nod and a "good
morning" and that was it. During breaks we all went to separate areas and
kept our heads down. (I did about 1,000 crossword puzzles.)
But now it was a party in
the juror room. We discussed which lawyer had the best neckties. We played with
the exhibits that had been left on the table (Impacted colon plush toy!
Haha!). I commented how ironic it was that me, a Wiccan, was helping to defend
Dominican Hospital, and by extension, the Catholic Church.
And we ALL groused about how
stupid this stupid whole stupid case stupid had stupid been.
But after 90 minutes of giggles
and impersonations, I felt that we had one more duty to do. I called everyone
back to the round table and explained that yes, this was a dumb doo-doo of a
trial, but somebody DID die here (but not as a result of Neglect), and really
hasn't been allowed to Rest in Peace, because of this stupidstupidstupid trial.
That sobered everyone up.
So we all held hands around
the table, I said a prayer, and we all had a good, long moment of silence for
the poor woman who we now knew sooooo much about, inside and out.
It was as if the final
weight got lifted from our shoulders. Now Mrs. Asshat Lawyer Mom was free, and
so were we. Cue the raucous laughter again. We could hear the lawyers returning
to the courtroom so we tried to stifle our giddiness. Ties were tightened,
dresses were smoothed.
Two and a half hours after
the trial ended we were escorted back to our box and the Forewoman and Judge
had that extraordinarily formal conversation that closes each and every trial.
- Step 1: After much screaming and yelling the jury decided
that the Mom's name was indeed what her name was.
- Step 2: We were pretty sure
Dominican Hospital hadn't been stolen by ninjas in the night and reassembled
across town by morning.
- Step 3: Mrs. Asshat Lawyer
Mom was indeed under the care of the Doctors, Surgeons, Orderlies, Techs,
Nurses, Clerks, Administrators and Volunteers of that hospital.
- Step 4: No, we could not
take seriously for a moment the notion that a vast conspiracy was underway from
all of these caregivers to deny this one patient the care she needed.
Boom. Here's your asshat,
and there's the door. The room quickly cleared. The Judge thanked us all for
our service and remarked that it was nice to hear laughter from the jurors room
as everyone gathered out in the courtroom. That remark got me thinking.
Then we were dismissed with
a reminder that we were now allowed to discuss (or not discuss) this case with
anyone we wished.
Outside the courtroom I
found Mr. Asshat Lawyer and his lawyer sitting side by side on a bench, in grim
discussion.
They were both delighted to
talk to me, however. The Lawyers lawyer wanted to know if his expert witnesses
were any good (they weren't), and how close the vote was (as far from close as
you can get). I then addressed Mr. Asshat.
What I wanted to impress
upon him was that if he heard us laughing in the juror room, it was not with
any disrespect to his Mother. He looked surprised at that, but then he saw my
reasoning and he nodded gratefully. I then informed him that just before they
arrived we jurors had said a prayer and had a moment of silence for the
deceased. He nodded again, mumbled a thank you, and shook my hand limply.
I could see from the look
in his eyes that he was a million miles away, and a shudder ran through me as I
realized that he was already plotting his Appeal of our no-brainer of a decision.
Nothing had been resolved
in this case, and for Mr. Asshat lawyer, nothing ever would be - until his
Mother somehow magically reappeared, alive and well.
I walked away, shaking my
head.
Because even in
Post-Everything Western society, people die. And the ratio is pretty much
one-death-per-person. But in our modern world of wonders we have yet to conquer
death – and so we deny it. We are unprepared emotionally when it inevitably
happens.
Death offends us. And even
more incredibly, death surprises us. And when we are surprised, we React.
Irrationally.
Angus McMahan
angusmcmahan@gmail.com
@AngusMcMahan
P.S. The next week I got a letter from my health
insurance saying that my premiums are going up. Coincidence? Yes. Related? Also
yes.
(pic from DCmessageboards.com)
