Nando & the Judicial System

We all subscribe to various life theories. I firmly believe that in life, at least my life, there are things I "have to do" in order to do the things I "want to do." This fact was proven true when I received a letter from the Brooklyn court system. Bright purple text on the envelope read: JURY DUTY SUMMONS. Yes folks, me—your friendly neighborhood Mexican was asked to serve on jury duty. Thank God Netflix had "Law & Order Special Victims Unit" seasons 1-7 available for instant viewing—or else I'd be clueless when the big day came.

The day before serving, I was flooded with panic-stricken thoughts. My mind filled with questions, doubts, and worries—all the usual stuff that runs through everyone's mind. What will the process be like? What if I screw up? What will I wear?

I woke up that morning surrounded with feelings of hate, disgust, and resentment—just my typical morning to be honest. Then it hit me; today is the day. I went to the shower and with gusto I pulled out my mint infused body wash that claimed to penetrate my skin to provide an energetic boost in order to start my day. After my boring shower, I stumbled over to the closet and found nothing appropriate to wear. What should I put on that would deem me as a law abiding citizen, a person of dignity, a guy worthy of serving on a jury yet single and available?

I got dressed and headed out. I took the Q train to Atlantic Ave then transferred to the 4 train towards Borough Hall. As I approached my destination, I saw signs that read: Supreme Court "to the left." It hit me: I'm going to serve on the Supreme Court! Then another thing hit me—a large Haitian woman with her fake Prada bag. (I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to take it all in and I was obviously standing between her and her White Castle breakfast egg and cheese muffin.)

As I got closer to the entrance, I thought to myself, "What kind of case will I serve on? Will it be murder? Rape? What about a murder and rape case—wouldn't that be fun?"

I remembered reading about a famous hairstylist found dead outside her boyfriend's apartment building over the weekend. But that was in the Bronx. Why do all the cool murders happen in the Bronx? Brooklyn hasn't had a fun murder in a while; seems like the criminals in Brooklyn are slacking.

As I went through security at the Supreme Court, I realized that if I did get on a jury, my decisions would be responsible for someone's life. I would be among 11 other people who would bring their prejudice, their disabilities, and their baggage to the courtroom and decide: Guilty or Not Guilty. I thought about the people who had been convicted because they were misunderstood. I remembered Margarita.

Recently, my friend Nathaniel had his father (Kurt) and sister (Maya) visit from L.A. After attending Nathaniel's sparkling performance as musical director in an off-Broadway musical and catching a bite to eat in the East Village, we rode back on the 1 train headed uptown. It was midnight on a Friday and the trains were almost empty except for us. We were close to our destination when the subway doors opened and in came Margarita Rosa Estella De La Luz Arias Chaparro.

She was a 40-year-old Puerto Rican woman wearing pink jeans, a white tank top, high-top Adidas, and a pink bandana on her head with a few pink bracelets dangling from her wrists (I guess the bracelets offered a much needed feminine touch). She looked like a Latin Hostess snowball cake.

Margarita: Ah right listen up, if there are any women, animals or children in here that need help with a muthafucker—I will help you. God placed me here to help out women, children and animals. So ladies, if there is a muthafucker on the train bothering you—I will slap the shit out of him right now!

Nathaniel, Kurt and Maya perked up and watched as Margarita paraded up and down the train helping empower women, children and animals.

Nando: (To Nathaniel) Dare me to talk to her!

Nathaniel: Don't. I don't want to freak my family out.

Maya: (Staring at Margarita with amazement)

Kurt: (Nervously looking away)

She sat down and began to drink out of brown paper sack. She hopped out of her seat and walks over to me.

Margarita: (Flexing her arm) Feel my muscle.

Nando: (Scared she would slap me but felt her up regardless) Wow.

Margarita: (Flexing other arm) Feel this one.

Nando: (Still scared of getting slapped but felt anyways) Wow.

Margarita: Now show me yours.

Nando: (More frightened because I have no muscle) I don't have any.

Margarita: Stop the bullshit and flex!

Nando: (Immediately flexing) See, I don't have anything.

Margarita felt my nonexistent muscle then walked over to Maya who was ecstatically entertained by the action.

Margarita: (To Maya) Feel my muscle.

Maya: (Gladly reaches over and touches the bicep) Nice.

Margarita: (takes another sip from her brown paper sack and swallows hard) You see that I'm strong, right? I was placed here to help women, children and animals all over the world—especially on 135th Street. (She walked to the center of the train) I was just at the liquor store and this bald Chinese muthafucker said, 'Can I see your ID?' and I reached over the counter and "POW!" let him have it! You just can't disrespect me like that I told him! And that's why ladies, I am here to let you know, God put me here to help you out. Just like that movie with the elephants.
By this time, I didn't think Margarita was dealing with a full deck of cards—so I decided to have fun.

Nando: Is that the movie with J-Lo?

Margarita: (Turns to me and gives me a dirty look) J-Lo? Are you fucking with me?

Nando: I think I saw that movie—yeah, With J-Lo.
Margarita walked towards me. 

The train jerked and she sat down but never let go of her bottle. Just then, the trained reached the 96th Street stop and she left.

I thought her type of street justice was too much. Although I wouldn't mind seeing that elephant movie she was talking about. Maybe it wasn't J-Lo after all—Kim Basinger, maybe?

As I entered the waiting room, I was disgusted with the other "possible" jurors. They wore cut-off jean shorts, flip-flops, and had no moisturizing routines; it was like being at a gay bar in Brooklyn. I object! If had to sacrifice days of my life to be in a room full of weird strangers, I'd at least like some eye-candy. A lady dressed in red took command of the room and prepared us for the video, "So You Were Selected to be a Juror."

The video explained the judicial system currently in place and how it compared to the past. Cheap dramatic re-enactments written by 1st year writing students at the BMI workshop were displayed on an enormous screen. I was not amused. I learned that 'trial by ordeal' was once used to establish justice.

If you were convicted of a crime—they would stick your hand in boiling water. If your hand healed in three days—you were innocent. If it didn't, you could wave good-bye to your precious loved ones using your one good hand and were sentenced to death.

Can you imagine if that system was still used today? I can't even get a simple pimple to heal in three days, much less an entire hand with 3rd degree burns!

As I looked around the room, I saw several guys worthy of my mind, body and soul. I was excited.

The lady in red: Anyone under 18 years, please leave using the door to my left.

That left me with about 20 hot guys.

The lady in red: Anyone with a felony, please leave using the door to my left.

That left me with 6 hot guys.

The lady in red: Anyone who can't speak English, please leave using the door to my left.

That left me with 3 hot guys. And things weren't looking too good for me.

As I endured my stay in the waiting room, I couldn't help but wonder if my judgements could truly be based on the evidence alone. Could I be impartial? Objective? Could my thoughts really be free of prejudice? And then I remembered a situation that occurred the past weekend that would have insulted and upset the masses—but I saw past the obvious and reached within the depths of my soul to see the light.

I was hired to photograph a birthday party at B.B. Kings in the city (I walk by this dance club several times a week when strolling through Time Square) and never imagined I'd ever be inside.

Arriving at the club around 1:45 a.m. on Sunday; the lines to enter the club were overwhelming—at least a 45 minute wait.

I phoned the birthday girl, who was already inside, to get me in. It was a mystical land where African Americans went to celebrate, dance, and have fun. They had a general rule there: the larger you are the shorter your shorts and tops must be. I thought I was at a family reunion except I was the only Latin guy there. And since I'm a lighter shade of pale (sometimes mistaken to be a Geisha-in-training)—I was the only "White" guy in the club. I stood out.

I was taking photos of the birthday girl and her friends dancing, laughing, and enjoying themselves when a song came on that made the crowd go wild. I listened. The song had a nice hook and excellent lyrics: "All you ladies in the house with tight pussies put your hands in the air." The woman obeyed. This lasted five minutes. I was amazed.

Another song blasted through the club asking the ladies with high school diplomas to put their hands in the air. A large female crowd screamed "Hell yeah!" and complied. The song then went on to say, "All you ladies with a college degree put your hands in the air," and the screams were not as audible and not so many hands were waving—but I applauded those women jiggling about. I thought to myself. "Wow, so this is what Harriet Tubman was fighting for when placing her life in harms way and freeing the slaves." I'm sure she and the other abolitionists would be filled with joy knowing that their people finally reached a point in time when they could freely rejoice un-stretched genitalia and higher education.

This birthday party extravaganza proved one thing; I could be objective.

Back at the room, I waited and waited to be called but the lady in red never did. She let us out for lunch at 1:00 p.m. and urged us to return by 2:00 p.m. When 3:00 p.m. came, the lady in red called my name.

I jumped up from my seat and my heart began to race, my hands to sweat, and my head to throb. This was it. I'd be representing the very foundation of our democratic society, to uphold and protect our most basic human rights—I only wished I wouldn't have used so much mascara—don't judge. I walked up to the podium and reached the lady in red.

The lady in red: Can I see your form?

Nando: Sure, here you go.

The lady in red: Mr. Rodrgiuez, we do not need your services. You're free to go.

Nando: What? I won't get to serve on a murder case?

The lady in red: Most people would feel lucky.

Nando: How about a small rape case?

The lady in red: Mr. Rodriguez, you are free to go and since you came in today, you will not be summoned for another eight years.

Nando: Eight years?!

The lady in red: Mr. Rodriguez, is there a problem? Do I need to call Larry, the heavy-set guard?

Nando: No, it's all right, leave Larry alone.

I walked out of the Brooklyn Supreme Court and it was raining. How appropriate. Not only did the justice system fail me, the Lord was also taking his vengeance; I had no umbrella. I walked in the rain and took the train home. As I reached my apartment, soaked, I found solace knowing that even though the America Court System has its flaws, Law & Order would prevail—even if it was through Netflix.