Sonoma Plays the San Jose Card

There are three things that Californians hold most dear above all else in life: their undying devotion to their individual automobiles, their more recent, but just as devoted, relationship with their iPhones and their fervent belief that representative democracy means that every election cycle we must wade our way through dozens and dozens of state and local ballot initiatives or propositions.

As a registered voter in California in the twenty-first century, you are mailed so many pamphlets and voting guides for each election that engaging in what was once the simple civil act of voting now resembles cramming for the S.A.T.

The statewide initiative process in California is outlined and protected in the state constitution.  The initiative process itself in California was a reaction to the corruption and power wielded by the railroads in the state at the beginning of the last century.

Proposition 13, which capped property taxes and was passed in 1978, was the most important and far-reaching ballot initiative during my lifetime, and its success set off a wave of city, county and state ballot initiatives that seem to grow exponentially in number and complexity each election.  If an elected official wants to commit political suicide in California, all one has to do is muse about the mere thought of revising Prop. 13.

I haven't run across many people in the Bay Area who, like myself, have lived in Sonoma County during the past twenty years and notice more than a passing resemblance to rural, agricultural San Jose in the 1970's.  I didn't know anyone else in Sonoma County who had once lived in San Jose and I've yet to encounter anyone in San Jose who has even visited Sonoma County.  They're two places only a hundred miles apart, but they might as well exist in different countries.

A verdant valley with dozens of farms, wineries and open stretches of untouched landscape accompanied by a dry, Mediterranean climate and surrounded by beautiful mountains, San Jose was at a crossroads in the 1970's and chose high tech jobs, unplanned suburban sprawl and growth over preservation of any kind.  It is now, without question, the Los Angeles of the Bay Area.

An affluent city of nearly a million people that sprawls unchecked across the entire floor of the Santa Clara Valley, there isn't a notable cultural attraction - a fine museum, gallery, world-class symphony, ballet or theatre company or a notable restaurant within the city limits.  The majority of the voters in San Jose have never considered any of that important. 

The new billion dollar terminal at San Jose Airport.

The expensive rinky-dink airport, which must be one of the major civic job generators in the county because the thing has been under construction the entire two years I've lived here, only has two international flights - both to Mexico - and two daily flight to the East Coast - one to Boston and one to New York.  San Jose thinks small on a big city scale.

Since we returned to San Jose two years ago, I can't recall a conversation with someone here that even remotely touched on food, a restaurant, a play, a museum or a book.  If it doesn't have a .com at the end, it might as well not exist.  In Sonoma County, it was damn near impossible to walk out to the mail box and not have someone mention their latest meal out or what gourmet goodies were fresh that week at the market.

Sonoma County was far more rural and agricultural than San Jose in the 1970's, and it also had a more extensive wine and tourist industry, and soon would have a far greater appreciation for good, fresh food and fine dining.  But unlike San Jose, Sonoma has also always had an arty, funky and politically active side.   There's a reason Tom Waits lives in Sonoma County, not San Jose.

A flyer announcing another protest.

Let me give a simple example.  Large protests in the small Sonoma County town of Occidental each summer, calling attention to and protesting the presence of the world's power brokers at the Bohemian Grove, are as much an annual rite of Summer as swimming in the Russian River.

You move the Bohemian Grove down to the foothills of the Santa Cruz Mountains near San Jose, and nobody cares and nobody has ever heard of it.  I'm sure any longtime residents of San Jose reading this are thinking to themselves, "Bohemian Grove?  What in the hell is Bohemian Grove?"

As the inevitable growth of the Bay Area moved north towards Sonoma in the 1970's and 1980's, residents looked to what was happening on the other side of the Bay in San Jose and nearly unanimously agreed they didn't want Sonoma County to become THAT.

A greenbelt movement was born to buy farms and lease them back to farmers, use zoning regulations to try and keep the agricultural areas green and restrict building and growth to the cities.  If you drive north on Highway 101 from San Francisco through Marin and Sonoma Counties, you will notice that there are miles and miles of open space between towns and cities.  The North Bay - despite seeing huge growth in population in the past twenty years - has still retained its unique agricultural and rural feel while moving into the twenty-first century.

The only greenbelt in San Jose would be Interstate 280, which connects the bedroom communities of San Jose with the high paying dot-com and high tech jobs in nearby Palo Alto and Menlo Park.

Sebastopol, California - a Nuclear Free Zone.

Throughout much of the 1990's and up to today, many of the more prominent local countywide ballot initiatives  in Sonoma County dealt with growth and how it should be handled.  Should the freeway be widened from four lanes to six?  No, maybe and eventually yes.  Should Sonoma County have a commuter railroad?  No, maybe, Yes.  Should there be some limits on building on hillsides that surrounded the valley?  Yes.  Should a housing development be permitted in a large, open space that had been the site of a devastating brush fire twenty years earlier?  Yes, it was.  Should a shopping mall be permitted atop a rebuilt hill that suffered a massive mudslide twenty years earlier?  Yes, it could and the hill's still moving.  Should you be able to enter Sebastopol - the scenic and charming town that anchors the West County of Sonoma - with a nuclear warhead?  Build your own reactor?  Sorry, you can't do that.  The voters have spoken.

As growth continued and ballot initiatives were used more and more in Sonoma County to curb and contain growth, one tactic became the final card played in every election that featured a growth or anti-growth proposition: if we do or don't pass this proposition, we will head down the road to becoming San Jose.  Not San Francisco, not Los Angeles, Stockton or Oakland.  San Jose.  The worst possible outcome for most residents of Sonoma County is that one day it will resemble San Jose.  That was the Ace in the Hole.  It was the winning hand every time.  No card-carrying Sonoman wanted Sonoma County to bear any resemblance to Santa Clara County, and especially not San Jose.  Forty years ago they were similar; today they are nothing alike.

I take the right and responsibility to vote seriously, and usually make it a point to study the issues and vote wisely in each election, but the growing ballot initiative industry in California is making that difficult.  There are elections now when the propositions are so convoluted, or the arguments are so convincing from both sides, that as a voter you just are not sure whom to trust.

The vast majority of state government spending in California has been set by voter mandates from piecemeal ballot initiatives, leaving the governor or legislature little room to make discretionary budget decisions.  So much is approved one proposition at a time that the voters approve money for schools and hospitals in one election, jails and highways in the next election and then parks and police and fire protection in the next election.  They are all important and worthy budget expenditures, but they shouldn't be decided one issue at a time from year to year.  They need to be decided as a whole on an annual basis.  That's why we elect a governor and a legislature.

I would love to stay and tell you more about the initiative and proposition process here in California, but the next election is less than a month away and those ballot pamphlets and voting guides are stacking up on the kitchen table.  I gotta' get to work.

Jury Duty

Otto Bismarck once famously said, "If you like laws and sausages, you should never watch either one being made."  The inference being that these are two things that are unpleasant and unseemly to make, but they seem to turn out alright in the end -  just don't worry your pretty little head about it and have some Bratwurst. 

So with that thought in mind, I approached my first time as a juror in an actual trial with a mix of curiosity and dread.  Would I be exposed to the rotting underbelly of America's Legal System?  As the son of a lawyer and someone always interested in the American political process and institutions, I was eager to witness firsthand how the judicial system really worked in this country.

On the other hand, every high profile televised trial in the past twenty years seemed to reflect poorly on everyone involved - causing most Americans to just shake their heads in disgust and walk away.

Those of us over the age of 25 have probably been called to serve jury duty at some point in our lives.  When we do, we  are participating in preserving a basic right for all Americans laid out in the Sixth Amendment in the United States Bill of Rights - the basic right to a trial by a an impartial jury.  A jury of our peers.  On that end, I was proud to fulfill my civic duty.

But most of those called to jury duty never actually serve.  In some places, you just call in each day and check your assigned jury number, and you're free and clear after a few days of phone calls.

In other municipalities, you might be forced to appear in the jury room of a crowded courthouse - sitting in the same old seat all day listening to your iPod or reading the latest John Grisham novel.  And most of us are then released at the end of the day.

A rare few actually make it into the courtroom where we try and explain to the judge what a hardship it would be to miss two weeks of work.  Some of you (and you know who you are) may have even resorted to a few little, white lies - like how your father was a Nazi or how you're the Vice-President of your local NAMBLA chapter - to get out of serving on a jury.  

Finding a way to get out of jury duty is as American as ...well, jury duty.

Just over two years ago, up in my then hometown of Santa Rosa, none of that worked for me.  I showed up for jury duty at the appointed date and time stated on my jury summons.   After checking in at the courthouse, I was told I had thirty minutes to make it over to an "auxiliary" courtroom off Guernveille Road, near the ice rink.

About fifty of us showed up and sat in the rows of seats in the courtroom's spectator gallery.  The bailiff distributed questionnaires we were all told to fill out providing some personal information and any reason why we were unable to sit on a jury.  I couldn't come up with any valid reasons not to do it. 

After we all finished filling out our questionnaires, we broke for lunch while the judge and lawyers went over the questionnaires of the prospective jurors.  We reconvened after lunch and the judge called out a series of juror numbers who had successfully invented a believable excuse for which they shouldn't serve on this jury.  The initial 50 of us in the gallery was soon narrowed in half.

The bailiff started calling out juror numbers - this time in quick succession - as if we had won the lottery.  Twelve of us were seated in the jury box and they added two alternates.  I was the third person called and became juror number three.  I took my seat in the first row.

Lawyers for each side in the case had a chance to look at our individual questionnaires and ask us a few questions.  I was in the third seat in the first row.  Each lawyer asked me if I could be impartial in a case involving a car accident and some insurance companies.  I said I could.

Two or three jurors were dismissed for one reason or another during this process, and another juror number was called and another lucky winner from the gallery rose and  entered the jury box.  This entire process lasted about two hours until we finally had our seated jury.

Apparently, in the legal community, one hour in the morning reading questionnaires and two hours questioning prospective jurors after lunch was considered a full and exhausting day, because the judge dismissed the jury and told us to show up at nine a.m. the following morning - ready for trial.

I came back the next morning before nine - allowing a few extra minutes to pass through the metal detector set up in the lobby - and grabbed a cup of tea and a bagel from the juror's snack table (we had perks!).

The bailiff - a large Sheriff's deputy assigned to this particular judge (and who bore no resemblance to Bull from Night Court) - opened the courtroom doors and told us to enter.  He carefully checked all of our plastic names tags holding our official "Sonoma County Juror" slips, and told us to take our assigned seat in the jury box.  We did as we were told and then the bailiff asked us all to rise as the judge entered the courtroom.

I felt just like a guest star on Matlock.

But unlike most courtroom dramas on TV, this was all rather mundane and routine.  There wasn't anything cinematic about it.  The courtroom was furnished more in an early 1970's government bureaucracy style than grand, old oak-stained wood and banisters like what's shown on the silver screen.

The lawyers didn't appear to be heroic figures fighting for the rights of the oppressed like Spencer Tracy or Gregory Peck.  They just seemed like a couple of schlubs with ill-fitting suits purchased off the rack from Men's Warehouse.  

Except for the plaintiff's attorney - an obviously slick and successful ambulance chaser who had been down this road before.  Many, many times.  The defendants' three attorneys seemed much younger, nervous and inexperienced.

The judge made a few opening remarks to the jury and then turned things over to the plaintiff's attorney.  The whole affair was anything but compelling or dramatic theater.  It seemed muted and canned.  Had I been directing this scene on a film set instead of sitting in the jury box, my first instinct would have been to yell "Cut!" and start again.

The lawyers talked and talked and a parade of witnesses - some paid and some not - took the stand.  (It turns out there's a HUGE industry in this county of so-called experts who are paid to testify at trials.)

This was a small civil case involving an alleged injury from a car accident which had happened several years prior.  Most civil lawsuits that are initially filed  in this country never go to trial - I believe only 10% make it to trial.  And even of those that go trial, many are settled before they make it to a jury.

Lawyers hate juries.  Juries are very unpredictable. They're difficult to read and control.  That's why most cases - even those in trial - wind up with a settlement.

I didn't expect this case to reach the jury.  It just didn't seem worthy of a full jury trial.  Each morning I came into the court and took my seat in the jury box, I expected the judge to announce a settlement had been reached and we had been released - thankyouverymuch foryourtimeleaveyourbadgewiththebailiffanddon'tletthedoorhityourarseonthewayout.  Never happened.  After two weeks, the case went to the jury.  Yours truly.

There were dozens of papers and documents that were discussed and presented to the judge as evidence in the case that we thought we would have to study and examine in the jury room.  That never happened.  We were led into the jury room and found only a couple of photographs and copies of some medical bills on the table in the center of the room.

The bailiff shut the door and we were finally able to talk with each other about the case for the first time.  We quickly chose our foreman - a rare instance of a lawyer allowed to stay on a jury - and went through the case.

What surprised me the most about the deliberations was how vocal and stringent the women in the group were - this jury was evenly split 50/50 men and women - against the plaintiff.  Real vitriol.  They sensed she was lying - or at the very least exaggerating her pain and suffering - and didn't want to give her anything.  Not a dime.

The men in the group shared the belief she didn't deserve any punitive damages - that the plaintiff was going to lose this case was instantly apparent in the jury room - but the men felt some of the medical charges were reasonable for someone who was in a car accident and may have been injured (the defendants admitted they were at fault in the multi car accident).

After two hours of deliberation, we agreed to award the defendant a few thousand dollars to pay her reasonable medical bills (we refused to cover thousands and thousand of dollars in chiropractic bills) and awarded nothing in punitive damages.  Her lawyer had asked us to award her $100,000 in damages - a request which was almost met by snickers in the court room.

Everyone in that jury room seemed to be aware of runaway awards in civil liability lawsuits and that we were in a place where we could say that's enough.  During a break, I talked with the jury foreman - a lawyer - about why this case had even gone to trial.  He explained to me that there's a listing of jury awards published monthly that often sets precedents for future cases in the area.  The insurance companies most likely felt this was a good case to take a stand and have a jury's verdict on the record rather than reach a settlement.

We informed the bailiff we had a verdict and after thirty minutes were directed back in the courtroom to our places in the jury box.  Our foreman handed our signed verdict over to the judge.  It was interesting to know the decision before anyone else in the room and to be able to watch the trial's participants for their reactions when the verdict was read.  The defendants, of course, were ecstatic and the ambulance chaser seemed resigned.

The judge thanked us for our time and dismissed the jury.  Several jurors - most of the women - went over to the defendants and talked with them.  The jury foreman went over to the plaintiff's lawyer and spoke with him.  I was a little curious to hear from the plaintiff's lawyer why the case even went to trial, but that curiosity was overridden by the desire to just get the hell out of there.

I was proud of my fellow Americans who served on that jury.  We all gave two weeks of our time without complaint - well, maybe a little whining - to help administer one of our country's most basic rights.  Unlike the famous televised trials I had seen in the previous twenty years, I felt the trial was conducted in a fair and professional manner, and justice was served with our verdict.

A week later later I received a nicely written form letter from the judge in the case thanking me for serving on the jury, and a little check from the Count of Sonoma, reimbursing me for my daily mileage from my house to the courthouse during the trial. 

And that's the story of the time I couldn't get out of jury duty.