Frontier Justice

Three 12-hour night shifts, three hours hard sleep, then on the road for Law and Order. Last time I was called for Jury Duty, I was busy goofing off and “ditched,” so they sent me a threatening letter. Better go this time. Civic Doody.

Extreme sleep deprivation is a mild hallucinogen. You see things in your peripheral vision that aren’t there, laugh at your cracking dashboard, leak tears over a sappy country song about Amer’ca. This didn’t keep me from speeding--breaking the law--to ensure punctuality.

Always thank gods the Owners keep coffee legal. For the shift worker it is the juice of life. On this day, it was the only thing that kept the van from zipping off cliffs along the winding road over Mingus Mountain to Prescott. That and a couple cigarettes I bummed off the wife, they’re like crack if you hardly ever smoke.

Another country “classic” on the Amplitude Modulation receiver--

”...you still want to hold her, you must not be drinking enough....” (--Earl Thomas Conley.)

Then on the grassy flats near Prescott, Linda Ronstadt singing the Lowell George truck-driving anthem--

”...if you give me weed, whites, and wine

and you show me a sign,

I’ll be willin’...”

A teenage crush, now we’re old, but I’m still willin’ Linda darlin’!

Nowadays we are all assumed to be armed criminals. In my case the grumpy “security” cop confiscated the little pen knife I forgot to leave behind, then made me unfasten my belt, show them the inside of it, and turn around with my shirt pulled up. Later, after a break, the same dance for a grumpy lady cop felt almost lewd. Forgive me, terrified Amer’ca, I prefer the old way: a well-trained, preferably well-paid, well armed cop at the door, giving everyone The Eye. This worked just fine for many decades.

Prescott was the original Territorial Capital after enough Natives were run off or murdered. I was going to research and tell why the Capital moved to Phoenix, but why bother, it’s always about money. Now the old building is a bad-ass old courthouse for Yavapai County. The west men’s restroom on the third floor is huge and marble, bright from a giant window. The glass is lined with wire mesh; expecting well-hurled rocks in 1906 or what?

Helpful hint for potential jurors: get high first, the process is stupefying. (None for me, work checks my wee-wee, I brought a book.) They take roll and read a bunch of rules, twice, slowly. Everyone acts like they’re in church (not the one where they holler and roll on the floor.)

We all got a chance to say why we should not be on the jury. Last, I told ‘em the cement mine had just started full production and I would be working 60-70 hour weeks, all night shifts. “I could do it,” I told the Judge, “but I won’t be no ball of fire.” I was just stating a fact, but the whole court cracked up, and a while later he excused me and a few others. Never underestimate the power of a good laugh. Didn’t have to use my self-important speech about never convicting anyone for a drug “crime" ’cause they’re a cultural and mental health issue.

So in the end, justice was done. Retired people, of which there are plenty here in Olfart County, will serve on the jury and hopefully put only bad guys in jail. The working man gets to work. I ate my peanut butter sandwich on the mountain top, drove the switchbacks home, and slept 12 hours.

“They still fly Old Glory down at the courthouse,”(--Merle Haggard,)

But the Chevy dealer’s got the biggest flag of all!

(And, Merle, insisting that white lightnin’ [illegally distilled booze] is “still the biggest thrill” is an insult to fine distilleries and Haggard Groupies everywhere.)