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I saw the expressions on the faces of the other potential jurors, and wondered if I was wearing that same look. The case involved a local resident who had been stopped and cited for DUI. The judge had just passed out the juror questionnaire and immediately adjourned the court for lunch. Like most people, I wasn’t thrilled about doing jury duty, but having to deal with this homework assignment during lunch in order to return the questionnaire when we got back later that afternoon was particularly annoying.
I found an empty bench just outside the courtroom and began looking over the questionnaire. The questions seemed fairly straightforward – have you ever served on a jury? Will serving on a jury create a hardship? Do you feel you can be impartial? But a question toward the bottom of the page, though probably a somewhat standard question in these types of cases, seemed to be directed right at me: have you or a relative ever been charged or convicted of drunk driving?
I was not prepared for the memories and emotions that this question had triggered in me . . .
Christmas night, 1964. Mom and Dad had once again made this a special day for all seven of us siblings, starting with Mass that morning (Mom, being the stronger Catholic parent with the kind of unwavering faith that to this day we still marvel at, never would allow us to miss Mass, especially on Christmas), then gifts when we got back to the house, and culminating later that afternoon with a trip to our aunt’s house to visit with our cousins. While we kids played outside on that visit, Mom and Dad spent the time in my aunt’s kitchen relaxing, drinking beer, talking with my aunt and uncle, and breathing a sigh of relief that Christmas was finally over.
“Time to go kids. Let’s get in the car.” The permission slips to have our three cousins spend the night at our house that night had already been negotiated and agreed to by the parents earlier that evening. All ten of us kids piled into our 1960 Ford Falcon station wagon. Mom got in next, Dad got behind the wheel, and we were on our way for our 10-minute ride back to our house.
It was quite loud in the car, as one would imagine with ten young children all talking and laughing excitedly, but Mom and Dad never seemed to mind. It had been a good day.
In no time we were on the main boulevard, just minutes from our house. The laughter and the chatter inside the Falcon suddenly stopped when we heard the siren and felt the bright light shining on us. Dad slowly pulled the Falcon over to the side of the boulevard, and Mom ordered everyone to be quiet. We all obeyed like good Catholic children do, at least these particular Catholic children if they knew what was good for them.
One officer got out of his squad car and approached the Falcon on the driver’s side as the other officer remained behind. My dad rolled down his window, and the officer peered into the car, seeming somewhat shocked at the number of people we easily crammed into the trusty old Falcon. The subsequent discussion went something like this:
Dad: Good evening officer. Merry Christmas!
Officer: Sir, I pulled you over because your left tail light is out. Did you know it wasn’t working?
Dad: No sir, I did not.
(The smell of beer on my Dad’s breath was unmistakable, and every occupant in the Falcon, regardless of age, knew what question was coming next.)
Officer: Sir, have you been drinking tonight?
Dad: I’ve had my fair share.
Officer: Sir, please get out of the car. We are going to have to administer a sobriety test.
Dad: Don’t bother Officer; I won’t pass it.
Dad’s honesty seemed to catch the officer off guard. He stepped back, paused, and slowly walked back to his squad car. Dad sat quietly. It was now time for Mom to leap into action and try and take control of the situation that Dad had been unable to.
“Everyone start praying!” she commanded all of us, including the cousins. We all obeyed dutifully. Instantly rosaries appeared – out of the ashtray, from the rearview mirror, from coin purses and various pockets, and, I heard later, one training bra. Our praying, though quite loud, was certainly not in unison; it was off-key and out of tune, creating sort of a high-pitched buzzing sound which now emanated from the Falcon and spilled into the night air, easily in earshot of the officers.
Moments later the officer who had spoken to Dad re-appeared.
“Sir, please get out of your vehicle”.
As Dad and the officer walked toward the squad car, my first thought was: da*nit, Dad’s going to jail; maybe we hadn’t prayed hard enough, but in any case, the praying hadn’t worked this time.
A few more moments passed, and the same officer returned to our vehicle, said something to Mom which we couldn’t quite hear, proceeded to get into the driver’s side, turned the ignition, and started driving. We quickly realized that the squad car, with Dad in the back seat, wasn’t heading to the police station but was instead following directly behind us.
I immediately regretted having questioned Mom’s faith in prayer. As our car pulled into the driveway, we saw the squad car pull in front of the house with Dad still in the back seat. Mom ordered us all inside. Dad got out, went inside the house to join the rest of us, and shortly after, the squad car drove off. Miraculously, Dad did not get arrested or convicted of DUI.
I completed the questionnaire, grabbed a quick sandwich, and returned to the courtroom. Later that afternoon I was selected to sit on the jury. The Judge promised the case would last no more than a couple of days. He was right.
The man accused of DUI had a very good lawyer, but he didn’t have a time capsule to take him back to 1964; or a Falcon station wagon; or a wife like Mom, of such faith that we were convinced she had a direct line to God.
The Ventura County resident was found guilty.
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Photo: Getty Images