Adventures With Drew: Mansplaining

Dedicated followers are well aware that my husband Drew is a kind, giving man, He's a DIYer, and not just for my house but many people's homes. He knows a lot of trivial things, especially with regards to Sci-Fi. And he has no qualms about slipping a  Doctor Who joke or a Tommy Wiseau reference into the middle of a conversation, usually leaving the recipient completely and utterly lost.

He's a good man. But he's a dork.

I live with this fact every day and I've grown to accept him. Most of the time. Occasionally, his dorky mannerisms will drive me insane. And once in a great while, he ends up being the subject of a blog post.

I know what you're thinking. "Drew! What did you do now?" Well, I'll tell you...

Every few weeks, Treleaven Winery will host an afternoon of music. When they do, there's usually a couple food trucks there serving up yummy local delicacies. 

(((Seriously, the local food truck scene in CNY is epic. How come food from a truck tastes so much better than food from a building?! It's a mystery I never want solved.)))

On one particular afternoon last month, we met up with Matt and Stacey to enjoy a full day of music, food, booze, and fun.

 I don't know these people. It's the only picture I have of the winery yard. 

I'm sure they're very nice though. Whoever they are.

For those of you haven't had the pleasure of being in my presence for more than five minutes, I am going through what the experts call "hell on Earth for old ladies." The maxi pad industry refers to it as the "market killer." Society calls it menopause. 

(((I might have that all backwards. I wouldn't suggest you correct me on this though.)))

The point is I'm experiencing the uniquely female "joys" of getting old. Nothing about how a woman's body works makes any sense. At no stage in this game of life have I said, "I'm so glad I have a vagina!" I don't exactly suffer from penis-envy either, so get that thought out of your heads. 

(((Although it would be nice to pee standing up. I mean, you can in the shower but I don't think my employer really wants me using the company shower five times a day because I don't feel like using a toilet. And standing on the toilet is not recommended. Not at any age.)))

When I was in my early teens, I once asked my mother why women had to go through menstruation at all. It seemed very inefficient of Mother Nature. She replied, "Because Eve at the apple from the tree and now God's making all women pay for eternity." My mother swears she never said this, but I can still see the faint glow of red behind her eyes when she said it. 

(((Or I dreamt it. That's a possibility. And if that's what it was, it was a very realistic dream because I swear it was really her.)))

Personally, I think I should be exempt from having to go through menopause. I didn't even use my baby-making bits for procreation. Just recreation. I climbed out of the shallow end of the gene pool a long time ago and I've been on dry land ever since. I did the Universe a favor by not watering down my DNA and splicing it with another weirdo human. So, I want a waiver for this old age shite! In fact, I should be thanked! Instead of hot flashes, achy joints and a stray white hair on my left boob that's as coarse as a fiber-optic cable --- Admit it! All you old ladies have one! --- I think I should gain Superpowers. The ability to fly would be cool. Or invisibility. I wouldn't want mind-reading as people are generally effed up in the head. But the ability to mentally crush people who don't pick up their paper towels when they miss the trash can in the office bathroom would be neat-o.

But that hasn't happened. Instead, it's hot flashes. Hours and hours of internally combusting. Over and over again. And there isn't a damn thing you can do about it. Nothing helps. And I was whining about this for the nine-millionth time at the winery that day.

Matt very innocently and honestly asked me, "What causes that?"

I began to answer and this came out of Drew's mouth...

It's hormones. You see what happens--

That's as far as he got because my hand clamped over his mouth.

Me: You are not seriously about to mansplain menopause?!

Drew: I was just going to explain scientifically--

Me: Oh no you weren't!

Drew: I like science!

Matt: Dude, I hate to say it, but that is literally the definition of mansplaining. A man explaining to another man about a woman's problem instead of letting her do it.

Drew: Alright, I'm sorry. (He's pouting now.)

Me: Thank you Matt. Menopause is hell. That's all you need to know. It's hell.

Stacey: Yes it is! (She's not there yet, but she's heard me complain enough that she might as well be going through it too.)

I swear he googled "mansplaining" after that conversation.

Drew was on the shit-list for about another hour. Or until my third beer. Whichever came first. 

Meanwhile, there was one happy couple that night...

Aren't Stacey and Matt the cutest?! Ahhhhh.

The night ended happily enough. Thanks to beer.

The next day, Stacey and I traveled to the outlet mall to look for a rib-crushing garment for Stacey to wear under her wedding dress. While there, I took the opportunity to goof off in the Vanity Fair fitting room. I don't think this was the lingerie selfie Drew had been hoping for his entire life.

Text To Drew: Am I doing this right???

He called me.

Drew: Um, what are you doing?

Me: I forgot how to bra! I need a man to explain bras to me!

Drew: Ha ha. Looks like you're having fun.

Me: I am.

Drew: Um, are you going to get that? You should get that.

Me: No! Good day sir!

The upside to being married to a dork? He finds my sense of humor sexy.

Love you Drewbie!

~Steph

Short Story: "Tulips"

Today, I found myself with a lot of spare time. Like all dang day. So, I decided that today would be a creative writing day. I wanted to take a break from the screenwriting and try something a little different.

Many moons ago, I purchased from Amazon a fun little gift for myself called THE WRITER'S TOOLBOX. It is, in a nutshell, a game for writers. You are given a starting sentence, some writing prompts, a conflict idea, and a number of other random suggestions to use in your story.

I wrote the below. It's not a comedy, which is my usual preferred genre. It's also not edited, so if you find a typo or grammatical error, give yourself five points. Huzzah.

WARNING: Language

TULIPS

A Short Story by S.K.Deal

“I put tulips under all the pillows, and then I set fire to the house.”

There were so many things I couldn’t reconcile about what Sheila had just told me. But right now I wanted to know one thing.

“Why put tulips under all the pillows?”

“That’s your question? I burned down a house that killed a family of four and you want to know about the tulips?”

“Technically speaking, the family was dead before you burned the house down. It wasn’t the fire that killed them but the handgun.”

“Well, if you’re gonna get that fucking picky about it, it was the bullets really. What difference does it make?! I killed them all!”

“No one is disputing that. But I want to know about the tulips.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes at me. I was proving to be a disappointment during our lunch conversation today.

“Tulips symbolize the innocence that has been restored to the soul of the departed. That’s why you find them in every funeral home.”

“That’s lilies.”

She stopped and stared off into the distance while feeling around on her plate for the third-quarter of her tuna fish sandwich. Finding it, she slowly slid it into her mouth and bit off a piece, still unblinking. Between chews, she mumbled, “Shit, you’re right.”

“Did anything else happen in the dream you had last night?”

“I found a diamond bracelet in the back of his car.”

“The husband’s car? Or the teenage son’s car?”

“Gerald’s car.”

This was something I was not prepared for. I’d visited with my sister in the sanitarium every week for the past three years and never once did she talk about Gerald or what happened the night he died. Not even when I asked her.

“Your husband Gerald?”

“Yep.” She continued to slowly eat and chew her sandwich and not blink.

“Was it yours?”

She stopped chewing and stared at me. “What the fuck do you think?”’

I lowered my eyes and she went back to chewing and staring off into the distance. I lightly suggested, “Maybe it was a gift for you?”

“Maybe. The tag on it said To Tiffany. Maybe he thought my name was Tiffany.” She stared at me again, this time with enough anger to spit. “Do you fucking think he might have?!”

“Probably not.” I wiped the partially-chewed tuna from my sleeve.

“I told the police about it, but they never found it. Said I was making up lies again. For the insurance money. It wasn’t even mine so how could I collect the insurance money for it?" I shook my head and rolled my eyes, signaling I shared her opinion. "I bet that fat bitch cop took it. She looked like she’d snuck a lot of crap from the evidence room. Jewelry, cash, drugs. Obviously half the donuts from the break room. Hayley used to do that at work. Except she was about as big as a stick. As ugly as one too.”

“I believe you.”

She swallowed, finally, and looked up pleasantly. “You do?”

“I do, Sheila.”

Her smile turned dark quickly. “Why? Is it because you knew about Tiffany? You knew and didn’t tell me?!” She started to raise out of her chair. I glanced back at the guard who was on duty in the dining hall. He wasn’t paying any attention to us. I’d have to get out of this one myself.

“No! I didn’t know! I just believe you! I always believed you!”

She sat back down, considering me. Then noticed the last quarter of her sandwich and went back to happily eating. She was always happiest when eating so I let her eat in silence.

When she was done, she asked me a most peculiar question.

“Do you think Gerald’s in hell for cheating on me?”

“Yes. Most definitely.”

“Am I going to hell for killing him?”

“It is a sin; however, if you ask the priest to be forgiven, then you can go to heaven.”

“I don’t believe in priests or God.”

“Then there’s no hell.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you ate the meatloaf they served last Tuesday.” She let out a howling laugh at her own joke. At least a half-dozen other patients laughed along with her. Not because they heard or understood her joke, but they were mentally deranged as well and enjoyed a good laugh.

“That’s funny, Sheila.”

“You know what else is funny?”

“What’s that?”

“What happened that weekend in Duluth.”

“Du-Duluth? When did you go to Duluth?”

“Oh, I haven’t. But you have.”

“Once. For a conference on advancements in laser-eye surgery. It was quite astounding really! The guest speaker was world reknown surgeon James McCardle.“

“Really? So you did leave the hotel room long enough to attend some of the conference?”

“What are you talking about? I was at the whole conference. The hotel wasn’t that nice anyway.”

“Funny. That’s not what Gerald said.”

“Did he stay at the same hotel that I did?”

“Well, he had to to fuck you.”

“I—I never slept with Gerald.”

“Really? Tiffany?”

“My name is Brenda. I’m your sister Brenda.”

“That’s what it says on your birth certificate. But on the hotel registry it was Tiffany. Tiffany and John Simmons.”

“No.”

“Yes! Because that’s what he told me! And Gerald wouldn’t make it up.”

“Gerald made up stuff all the time!”

“And how would you know? Huh? Tiffany?”

“Because you told me he did. And you don’t lie, remember?” Sheila looked at me with disgust. I’d caught her in her own hypocrisy. “I think lunch is over now.”

“No! Not until I say it is. I still have my grapefruit.”

“Then eat your goddamn grapefruit.”

She pouted. “I will eat my goddamn grapefruit.”

Winnie, an elderly patient, came wandering over. She interrupted at least once every lunch. Usually halfway through the cottage cheese. She was late today.

“Look what I got, Brenda!” She held up an old Danielle Steel novel.

“How nice. Five Days In Paris. How was it?”

“I haven’t read it yet. I just got it today.”

“She’s had it for at least a year,” Sheila mumbled. “It’s all she reads.” I threw her a look to knock it off. Winnie was a sweet, harmless Alzheimer's patient. Well, harmless now that she wasn’t behind the wheel of a car. That poor dog.

“Maive is looking for you.” I pointed to Winnie’s roommate and she wandered over to show off her “new” book. Probably for the tenth time today. Maive had dementia herself and wouldn’t remember. They were a match made in heaven.

“Speaking of Paris,” Sheila said while fighting with her plastic fork to stab the last piece of grapefruit, “ever been?”

“Nope. Never.”

“I mean the Paris in France. Not in Texas.”

“I didn’t know there was one in Texas. But I’ve never been to either.”

“Huh. I wonder who he went with.”

I wanted to ask who, but I knew who she meant. For three years I wanted her to talk about her late husband, and now I’d give anything for her to stop.

“Do you smell peach pie?” I asked, looking around.

Sheila pounded her fist on the table. “Don’t try to change the subject.”

“I’m not. I want peach pie. Harvey! Is that peach pie?!”

“No! It’s apple!”

“Oh. I don’t like apple.”

Sheila grabbed my arm and I pulled back, nearly knocking over my chair. “Who did he go to Paris with?”

“I don’t know!”

“I know you know. You know everything.”

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about! Stop it! Frank! Frank!!”

By the time the security guard came over, Sheila had released my arm and was back in her chair.

“Sheila’s being difficult and it’s time for me to go.”

“You haven’t eaten yet.”

“That’s ok. I’m not hungry.”

“Girl, you never eat your lunch. Let me get you a to-go box so you can take it with you.”

“That’s ok. I don’t…” But he was already gone.

Sheila laughed. “See. You’re not going anywhere.”

“What is wrong with you today?”

“Me? Nothing at all. I’ve never felt so free. Now that I know the truth. And I’ll be leaving here soon enough. Tiffany.”

“You’re crazy, Sheila!”

“I’m crazy? That’s funny, considering I’m not the one in a crazy home.”

“Because you put me here! You killed Gerald and blamed it on me!”

“You confessed to it all to save your poor sister. Your guilt for sleeping with my husband made you do it!”

“You bitch!” I lunged over the table for her, wrapping my hands around her throat. “You couldn’t stand that he could love me more than you!” The guards pried me off before I could choke her to death. “No! She’s the killer! She did it! Not me!”

“Come on, Brenda. It’s time to go back to your room.”

“No! She killed her husband! She killed him! He loved me and she killed him!!”

“No more lies, girl. Let’s go.”

The last thing I saw before they dragged me out of the dining hall was Sheila waving to me with an evil smirk on her face and a diamond bracelet around her wrist.

That's it for me today! Enjoy the weekend!
~Steph

My (Short-Term) Life as a Federal Juror

I feel like I should warn you. I'm going to ramble. Like, a lot. More than normal. But I've had information trapped in my head for five days and if I don't get it out, I'm going to go crazy. This is my mental purging.

My (Short-Term) Life as a Federal Juror

From February 5th to February 9th, I performed my civic duties as a juror in a Federal Civil Case. It wasn't something I wanted to do. In fact, my husband can tell you that I was a raging lunatic the whole time. The case, the driving, the weather, everything seemed to be designed to push me to the brink of total panic. But I was picked and I was doing it. Even if I had an anxiety attack the entire time.

I couldn't talk about the case at all until it was over. We weren't even allowed to discuss it with our fellow jurors until deliberation. Now I can share with you the details of...

The Case of Hicks vs. the Town of Vestal

The short of it... On Halloween 2011, Wayne Hicks shoplifted a pair of women's sneakers from Famous Footware in Vestal, NY, ran to his car to escape, Office Fiacco placed himself directly in front of the car to stop him, Mr. Hicks ignored all verbal orders, turned on the car and hit the officer while trying to flea the scene. He ended up getting shot five times by Officer Fiacco and Sgt. Kennedy, who was directly next to the driver's side door.

For this case, Mr. Hicks was claiming:
1. the officers were excessive and unlawful in their use of deadly force,
2. that the Town of Vestal failed to train their police force properly in the use of deadly force,
3. that the Town of Vestal failed to report the use of deadly force properly and mishandled evidence,
4. that he should be awarded $767,000 in compensatory damages for his pain and suffering,
5. and that the jury can consider making the officers each individually pay individual punitive damages to the plaintiff. (I honestly have no idea who was going to be paying #4. Probably you and me, taxpayer.)

I used the term "use of deadly force" three times in the above bullet points. I heard it approximately 4.6 million times in the course of the five day trial. I'm only slightly exaggerating about that.

"Use of deadly force" is, essentially, when a police officer draws his weapon and shoots someone because his life or another person's life is being threatened. And that's the ONLY time he's allowed to do that.

The plaintiff claimed the cop wasn't in front of his vehicle at the time and he never struck him. So, if the cop wasn't in front of the car, his well-being wasn't in jeopardy, and then use of deadly force was illegal. Our job was figure out the truth.

It's Matlock time!!

I'll spare you all of the details... that we heard over and over and over again for 5 days... heard so many times that we started to answer the witnesses questions for them. (OMG! Lawyers love to talk!) Strike that, 4.5 days. Wednesday, we were only in court until 12:30 and then the judge dismissed us because of A WINTER STORM. Yes, I drove home from Syracuse during A WINTER STORM. It was awful. Extremely awful.

And you know how on T.V. and in movies lawyer give their closing arguments and it takes maybe... two... three minutes. Nope. I didn't time it, but it had to be like twenty minutes. Each. And there's a rebuttal that was easily fifteen more minutes long. If you're a lawyer and reading this, I can tell you definitively that by the time you get to closing arguments we have already made up our minds and we hate you. Hate you with all the passion that an emo teenager hates pastels. Hate you like you're a puppy murderer. I mean, seriously, you're killing us.

And don't stare at me! Seriously, whatever-your-name-was! Mufasa... Morrisey... sorry, it wasn't a common or catchy name. The lawyer from Chicago. You stared at both me and the guy in front of me the whole time. When we broke for lunch, Tony and I looked at each other and said, "That was creepy!" Your eye-contact was not helping your case. Neither was the ashen-black jacket and bright blue tie you were wearing. What the hell was that about?

That reminds me. I have prizes to give out.

BEST SUIT AND TIE AWARDS!!
#3 Officer Fiacco's dark grey suit with a leprechaun green shirt and tie. You made that work and I thank you for it.
#2 Sargeant Kennedy's steel grey suit with lavender shirt and matching purple-blue tie. Great job! You were a scary no-necked cop that I hope to never see again, but you wore a heartbreaking suit, so points for that.
#1 MR. TOM MURPHY!! For the 3-piece light grey suit with the smashing grey, black and bright pink tie. That was my runaway favorite. You looked like the most dashing lawyer from Alabama I've ever seen. (Note: He's from Syracuse. Just didn't look like it.)
HONORABLE MENTION: Tony! The only juror to dress up. He wore a shirt and tie everyday. Sometimes with a V-neck sweater over it. The rest of us dressed like we normally do for our jobs. Jeff wanted to wear sweatpants and bring some popcorn and Blue Light into the courtroom. Jeff and I think a lot alike.

DISCLAIMER: The awards played no part in determining the outcome of the case. We spent a lot of time in the courtroom listening to and watching these people. The mental fashion show kept me from screaming out, "I DON'T WANNA DO THIS!" and just bolting from the room.

Let's get right to the best part...

THE AWESOME-EST MATLOCK EPISODE ENDING NEVER BEFORE SEEN ON T.V.

Ok. I might have hyped this up too much, but that's how I feel about it.

On Friday afternoon at approximately 2:30 p.m., we'd received all of the information about the case and instructions from the judge on how to proceed. We left the courtroom for the jury room and started deliberations. On the table before us was a stack of papers with all the police reports, investigation drawings and findings, the hundreds of photos taken of the evidence and scene. Our job was to talk amongst ourselves, debate the facts, decide which witnesses to believe and who not to believe, and render a verdict.

As I saw it, it all boiled down to one thing...

Was Officer Fiacco in front of the car when Mr. Hicks stepped on the gas? Or was he on the side of the car? If he was in front, he was in imminent danger and both he and Sgt. Kennedy were reasonable in their use of deadly force. If he wasn't in front, the shooting was unlawful.

It's easy to get embroiled in the other facts. Hicks stole shoes... he ignored the officers' orders to stop... he ignored all their orders to show his hands, to turn off the car, to get out of the car. You could easily say he brought this upon himself. You could also say in hindsight it was excessive to shoot a guy five times for the misdemeanor of petit larceny. But the facts before and after don't matter. We were instructed clearly about that. The law states a police officer can only pull out their gun and shoot someone if their life is in danger or if someone else's life is in danger. Everyone, including the cops, agreed that being in front of the car when he accelerated made the shooting lawful, being to the side was not. So, that was the question.

Unfortunately, not an easy question to answer. The facts could be interpreted in different ways. There were too many things that relied on witness statements.  "He hit me."  "I didn't hit him." Who do you believe?

Just to get the ball rolling on the deliberations, we took a vote. "Was it unlawful?"

Yes - 1, No - 7

There was one hold-out. I won't say who it was because he was an intelligent man and he had a right to his opinion. And his opinion had a lot of validity to it! Like I said, this wasn't a clear-cut case. Many, many times over the days my opinion swayed with the evidence we were given. By the time we got to the end, I felt it was clear to me. (That answer was No, by the way.)

"Ok, let's talk it out."

To everyone's credit, they were empassioned in their stance but they were also polite and open-minded with regards to people's opinions. Everyone got to talk about the situation as rational adults. After a few minutes, it became clear that the issue for the one hold-out was the positioning of the trajectory rods. And honestly, he had a damn good point about them.

Trajectory rods are used by the State Police Department in determining from where bullets are shot from. In this case, they were used to determine the angle the two bullets from Officer Fiacco's gun entered the windshield but could not the distance from the windshield. The photograph the plaintiff's lawyer showed us time and time again was from the front of the car. The rods looked kinda high and to the side. It would have been extremely awkward, if even impossible, for Officer Fiacco to be in front of the car and take those shots. But other evidence -- the tire marks, the handprint and polished spot on the bumper -- proved the Officer was in front of the car and did get hit.

Those rods though. No one could explain them.

The author's artistic rendering of a photo. 

I know. She has no talent for this.

Except maybe one person. Juror #7.

I have a damn-near-useless Associates Degree in Math because that was the subject I excelled in. When State Police Inspector Ryan gave testimony on day one about the trajectory rods, I was really into it because it involved mathematical equations. At the time, I thought, "Dammit. I could have been a crime scene inspector. That job sounds fascinating!" As a result, I remembered one super-important fact.

At the point of entry, the trajectory rod for the first shot was at a 46 degree horizontal angle to the windshield.

I asked for the stack of evidence photos. I flipped through them. I found the photo we'd been shown so often. Then I found more photos of Mr. Hick's car with the rods in them. Inspector Ryan had taken over two-hundred photos of the car. Almost all of them were unused during the witness questioning but were still entered into evidence, making them just as important... if not more... to the facts of this case.

There was one particular photo that I prayed someone had taken. A photo I thought might clear this up. And I found it.

"Um, guys. You might want to look at this. It's a photo of the car from overhead showing the true angle of the rods over the hood. The photo we saw in the courtroom has a misleading perspective. The first trajectory rod isn't as close to the windshield as you think. It actually travels out to the right corner of the car. And considering Officer Fiacco is left-handed..." I left them to figure out the rest as they quickly passed the photo around. Even people who were already in agreement with the No-answer were stunned. This photo was the missing piece we all needed.

Seriously, her artistic skills suck!

I will remember until the day I die when the hold-out looked at the photo. He set it on the table, sat in a chair and stared at it with complete wonder.
"I would like to change my decision. I see now that you were right. I really didn't know. It looked so far out to the side in the other picture. But it clearly wasn't."
He seemed almost embarrassed. He didn't need to be. We were all fooled by the first photo.
"Dude. It's ok."
"We couldn't explain the rods before this either."
"This is what deliberation is about."
"Jeez. What else didn't they show us?"
"I think this firmly settles it in everyone's mind now..."

Office Fiacco was in front of the car when Wayne Hicks tried to drive away. Fiacco was in danger at that time. The use of deadly force was lawful.

I looked over at Jeff, who had been sitting back in his chair mournfully wondering if we were going to be stuck in this room all weekend. He tipped his head to the side and gave me a smile.
"Cool."
"I've watched a lot of Matlock over the years."
"I think we're gonna get out of here soon."
"You're welcome."

Jim, our jury foreman, filled out the paper and the clerk gave it to the judge. Deliberation was over. And we did it in less than forty-five minutes. After a quick reading of the verdict in court, we were sent back to the jury room one last time. Judge Sannes came in to thank us personally and answer any questions she could. She was the nicest Judge and she always had a smile for the jury. I hope I'm never in court myself, but if I am, I hope it's hers.

At 3:45, I passed through security for the day. I wished the boys on guard a farewell and thanked them for being so awesome. To my favorite guard -- whose name I regretfully never got -- the one who jokingly picked on me every morning -- I said, "See you in two years!" If I do get called again in two years, I have a feeling he'll still be there. And he'll still pick on me for being early for breakfast.

I happily skipped out of the building... a building I loathed to enter everyday... a building that caused me a lot of stress... and I thought to myself...

I cannot believe I'm going to say this, but I'm so fricking happy I got picked for jury duty. It's taken over 28 years, but I finally got to use my math degree for something important. The Universe did have a reason for me to be here. I AM THE MATLOCK OF SYRACUSE!!!

Admit it. You want to see this show.

Author's note: I have no idea why I was so obsessed with Matlock throughout the deliberation. Matlock wasn't a juror. He was a lawyer. But honestly, Matlock is just really fun to say. Matlock!
Maybe I should have gone with Rockford.

Did you hear that? She thinks she could be me!

Some things still seem a little unsolved to me. We came up with a lot of questions about the night of the incident that no one ever answered... nor would ever answer as we had to use what we were given.

How could the plaintiff have claimed to have never seen the second cop when he was standing slightly before him? How about his cop car which was right up close to the side of the plaintiff's car? With the lights on? At night? How do you miss that? Where were the photos of the tire marks? All we had was the expert's word for it. We wanted photos. Are court cases really all about which lawyer can outsmart the other one? This is effed up.

But for me, there's one question that will burn in my brain forever. And one day, maybe this summer, I will go to Vestal, I will visit the Police Department and I will request to see Officer Fiacco. Then I will ask him ... WHY IN THE HELL DIDN'T DEFENSE SHOW US THAT OVERHEAD PHOTO OF THE RODS?!?!  It would have cleared up the mystery of the shots. It negated everything the plaintiff was trying to prove. They purposely tried to mislead us. 

And he'll probably say, "I know. They're lawyers. That's their job."

To be fair, Office Fiacco probably has no idea what the defense was going to do. The lawyer was likely involved with the D.A.'s office, who led the criminal grand jury case about this back in 2012 where Mr. Hicks was found guilty of assaulting an officer and sentenced to 6 years in jail. (Something I googled after the fact. No googling allowed during the case. And no one brought it up during our week in court.) To be fair, maybe defense wasn't allowed to admit the photo. There were some really weird things going on with this case. It seemed like defense was limited in what they could do. Or maybe that lawyer was just an idiot. I don't know.

I do know I would have been a kick-ass crime scene investigator. Dammit.


SOME ADDITIONAL INFO YOU MAY OR MAY NOT WANT TO KNOW...

The Pros of being a Federal Juror in Syracuse

They treat you like Royalty!
Seriously. You were a lanyard that says Juror everywhere you go and people you don't know and who have nothing to do with the case are super-nice to you. I had total strangers, who obviously worked in the Federal building, say to me, "Thank you so much for serving." And they say it like they mean it. After five days, I know why. (See the Cons below.)

You get breakfast, boatloads of snacks, a stocked fridge of non-alcoholic beverages, enough coffee and creamer to drown yourself in.

I won't kid you. I can be bought with a basket of vending machine food. And we had it available 24/7. You name a snack, it was probably on that jury room table.

Security knows you. I mean... THEY KNOW YOU.
Why is this a pro? Because it's kinda cool to walk into the small entrance area that resembles security at an airport and have security say, "Come on around. Your early today. How was the drive from Auburn? We don't need your I.D., Ms. Deal. We know you." Meanwhile, my brain is going, "I have never met you before!!"

The security and court clerks in the Federal Building are made up of retired U.S. Marshalls, troopers, and ninjas. They are the coolest guys and gals on the planet. They talk to each other constantly and they remember everything. Serving as a juror can be unsettling at times because you have to be wary of the people around you. You cannot come into contact with either parties in the case and it can make you a little nervous, or at least awkward. With the clerks watching over me, I have never felt so safe in my life. Plus, they're pretty funny guys. I admit it, I'm gonna miss those smiling faces in the morning who are just waiting to razz me. "You're two hours early. It's not snowing." "Shut up! It might!"

My fellow jurors were hilarious!
I don't know if it's the situation we were presented with (being trapped in the Federal Building together), or if I just got lucky, but all of the jurors were funny. I had a good time with them!

I conversed mostly with Jeff. (I noticed I've got a lot of funny friends with that name.) He was going on 30 and kind of a tall guy. We were the early birds because we liked to have breakfast in the jury room and get settled for the day. Tony would come in early too and we'd all sit around talking about our favorite places to eat and what we liked to drink. (Life is all about food and drink, folks.)

I was juror #7 and Jeff was #8, so we sat next to each other in the courtroom. If he started to click his pen, I threatened to stab his leg. If he thought I was falling asleep, he'd nudge my chair then tell me the judge told him to do it. We debated if our shared monitor was touch screen like the witness one was. For five days, we were dying to drawing a dick on the monitor. When the older defense lawyer couldn't get the projector to work and had to get the young plantiff lawyer to help him out, we'd break into giggle fits.

The sidebar music they played was John Denver and everytime it came on, all of us would groan. Judge Sannes apologized to us for the music. We were using another judge's courtroom because hers was currently under construction and she didn't pick out the music.

There was one juror that deserves special mention. Her name is Laura Wright. But you might know her better as LAURA HAND. She's a journalist and has been on WSTM for over 45 years. She's a local celebrity and a true inspiration for any woman --- anyone at all, actually --- who's interested in a career in journalism. The fact that she was picked to be a juror on this case was bizarre. SHE'S A JOURNALIST. SHE KNEW THE CASE. SHE REPORTED ON IT SIX YEARS AGO. SHE REMEMBERED IT. Laura has an amazing memory and she's still sharp as a tack. She's also incredibly heartwarming and witty. It was a pleasure to meet her and work with her as a juror.

The Cons of Being a Federal Juror in Syracuse

Driving to Syracuse... in February.
If you get summoned, I suggest you request to be deferred to a less snowy month. And they will do that for you! They are actually extremely accomodating. At least in the Federal courts. I can't comment about the County courts.

Sitting... forever... listening to lawyers... omg.
It's not like TV or the movies. No one really gets in each other's faces. It might get a little tense, but it's short and non-confrontational. And while that's good for a nervous person like me, it's boring AF.

We (the Jurors) heard the same questions so many times that we started answering them.
"Did he have a gun?" NO!
"Did he have a knife?" NO!!
"Did he have a weapon on his person at all?" FOR THE EIGHTEENTH-HUNDRED TIME, NO!!!

And if a lawyer says, "I'll be brief," be forewarned! It's going to be a minimum of twenty minutes. When you enter lawyerland, time is not held in the same regards as in the rest of the world.

And honestly, if I hear "Can we agree that..." or "With regards to..." or "...am I correct?" one more time, I'm gonna start twitching convulsively. We started using it when we talked to each other.
"Can we agree that the cafeteria on the 5th floor sucks?"
"Objection: Hearsay."
"Overruled. You may answer the question."
"My sandwich was good."
"You got a grilled cheese and you ordered a grilled chicken, am I correct?"
"Yes."
"I rest my case."

You're going to physically and mentally shit-the-bed.
When my stomach started rumbling during the first morning session, Jim (juror #6) would snicker at me. He said it was far more entertaining than the case. After that, I ate two breakfasts just so it wouldn't happen again. In fact, I ate constantly. Sometimes to make sure my stomach wouldn't bitch at me, and sometimes out of stress. I gained five pounds this week. FIVE EFFING POUNDS.

Plus, leave the fitbit at home. You are not going to get your steps in. You sit in a courtroom for 6-7 hours. On breaks, you hang out in the jury room. There's no room to walk around in there. You could try, but do you really want to be that asshole? During lunch, you could walk around the building or downtown. But did I mention it's February? We had two storms during our stay there and the other three days, it was bitterly cold. We usually went to our section of the cafeteria and ate. (Yes, we had our own section of the cafeteria so people wouldn't interact with us. Felt like I was in some kind of zoo. It had real purpose, but still... awkward!)

As for the stress... holy cow! As I've mentioned before, I was nervous throughout this. Not just about the weather and driving, but about the case and the people involved. Serving as a juror is about three light-years outside my comfort zone. The Pros I mentioned above definitely helped a lot.

~~~

If anyone gets summoned to Federal Court in Syracuse and has questions about the process, (ie. jury selection, what you can do or can't do) I am more than happy to talk about it. The court provides you with great information when you're summoned. I had no problems parking or finding my way. It was super easy; no confusion. But sometimes it's nice to hear about it ahead of time from someone who went through it. Especially if you're a mental case like me.

~Steph