News, Views, and Shmooze....

Silent Nights

No jacuzzi party last night, or the night before, or the one before that. Maybe our neighbor has gone away for a few days.

Oh, and the neighborhood dog  that has been yanking out the flowers along our walkway, rootball and all, almost every day for the past two weeks is AWOL, too. I can't understand how a person would allow his pet to ruin damage someone's property. Or maybe the pet owner is the yanker. Either way, I'm bothered.

But not today. And I hope, not tomorrow.

Good Filters Make Good Neighbors

We have a new neighbor. He lives next door, but we haven't met him yet and know little about him, though we did learn from the person who fixed up the house and sold it that the buyer is young and from Chicago.

We haven't really seen our neighbor. His lawn is hedged on all sides by a wall of ficus trees, and his back yard is secluded by towering trees that hide the new pool and jacuzzi. My husband and I did catch a glimpse of him through the ficus trees this past Saturday morning as we left our house. We were on our way to shul, we were running late, and it wasn't the right moment to walk around the hedge and introduce ourselves...and mention the filter and the jacuzzi.

The pool filter--at least, we think it's the filter--is noisy and runs most of the time. If I open a window, the drone is mildly annoying. I like opening windows, airing out rooms, inhaling fresh air. I don't know if there's a solution to the noise. I had mentioned it to the seller and he promised he'd check into it. I guess he didn't get around to it. (He did, however, move the ficus trees that abut my driveway a foot back when I expressed my concern that the trees, which have a notoriously shallow root system, would cause my driveway to buckle. That was neighborly, I have to admit.) I suppose over time I'll become accustomed to the noise from the filter, which you can't hear when the jacuzzi is being used.

True, the jacuzzi motor doesn't run most of the time, but when it does, the noise is louder and jarring. And the motor runs at inconvenient times, like 2 in the morning, when I'm trying to sleep.

While we haven't met or next-door-neighbor or seen him, we hear him and his guests (some male, some female) often. Mostly late at night, when they're in the pool or jacuzzi. (Last week, they were in the jacuzzi even when it was raining.) They sound like nice people, and they're certainly having a good time, judging from the bellowing laughter and the cheery back-and-forth yelling. Saturday night they were discussing Alec Baldwin's appearance on "Saturday Night Live." Well, it was 2:48 a.m., so technically, that was Sunday morning.

I'm pleased for our neighbor that he's formed a circle of friends so soon after his move from Chicago. I'd hate for him to be lonely. And I do want to be a good neighbor, not one of those judgmental types who thinks people should be sleeping at 3 in the morning. And no, I'm not hurt that our neighbor hasn't invited us to share in the fun.

So I'm not sure what to do. Say something and create an uncomfortable situation? Keep quiet and deal with the disruption of sleep?

Wake Me Up, Please!

If you read my previous post, you know that I'll be joining eight other Sister in Crime authors this Thursday at a roundtable book fair sponsored by AAUW at the Barnes & Noble in Encinitas.

All of the authors, who are coming to L.A. to attend our national conference, SinC Goes to the Movies: Selling Your Book to Hollywood, will be meeting at my home before we drive down to Encinitas. I figured I'd prepare light refreshments before we set out.

Naturally, I had a nightmare. In my dream I'm in a mad Frasier-like episode: 

The food isn't prepared.
The table isn't set.
I'm not dressed for the book fair.

One of the authors, a male, is in my kosher kitchen making (dairy) pancakes in the frying pan I use for meat. I will have to chuck the frying pan and the pancakes. I don't know where the pancakes came from. I don't know this author and can't figure out what he's doing in my kitchen.

My sink is making gurgling noises. I run the garbage disposal and am rebuked with a rising sea of orange colored water that threatens to spill onto the floor.

I shut off the disposal and hope the churning waters will calm down.

"By the way, what's your name?" I ask the male author.

He tells me.

"You're not signing with us today," I point out.

"Right," he says, full of cheer. "I heard about it, figured I'd stop by. Sounded like fun."

That's when I wake up.

Walking to Shul on a Shabbat Morning

My husband's away on business, so I walked to shul alone yesterday morning. I exchanged hellos with a neighbor who was empying bags of fertilizer onto his lawn. The scent accompanied me as I crossed the street, where I was careful to navigate the broken, raised section of the corner sidewalk that is a roller-blader's delight.

A family approached from another direction. A husband and a child, a woman pushing a stroller. When they were closer, I could tell that the woman, in her thirties, was wearing a wig. The husband was wearing a yarmulke. We called "Shabbat shalom" to each other, and then we were walking together. They were spending Shabbat with parents in the neighborhood, they told me, and needed directions for Torah Ohr, where they would be meeting with friends who had invited them for lunch.

I gave them directions. When we reached Fairfax Avenue, we parted ways. "Shabbat shalom" we said again.

On Fairfax I waited for the traffic light to turn green. A woman standing next to me said, "Congratulations!"

I turned my head. She was wearing pants and had tied a blue sweater around her hips.

Was this someone I knew? Someone wishing me well on the release of my new book?

"Excuse me?" I said.

"I'm talking on my phone," she said.

Now I saw the cord dangling from her ear, the phone in her hand.

The  light turned green. She crossed quickly and soon she was halfway down the block. My gait was slowed by my heels.

I passed by the corner newsstand. When Steve owned the newsstand, he would close it on the first day of Rosh Hashanah. But he sold the newsstand and this past Rosh Hashanah, it was open for business.  Steve was there yesterday (we had heard that he's helping the new owner), sitting on a wicker table in front of a wicker desk.

The wicker furniture is new, and the knickknacks that are for sale. The main attraction is still multiple racks filled with newspapers from around the world and glossy, eye-catching magazines that invite you to learn more about sports and automobiles and home remodeling or redorating, about fashion, about the lives of air-brushed celebrities and pouty, anorexic models. Alongside these magazines are the ones we didn't want our young kids to see as we walked to shul every Shabbat.

Steve was reading a magazine.

"Hi," I said.

He looked up. "Hi."

He went back to reading.

J'excuse

I was bumped off the jury.

I arrived at the Temple Street courthouse yesterday at a quarter of eight in the morning, relieved that I'd made it on time (my husband had set the alarm for six; it went off at 6:30). I'd speed-walked the many long blocks (at least a half mile, I'm guessing) from the juror parking lot on Olive and 1st, but I wasn't out of breath--probably a result of my new five-times-a-week workout with Denise Austin. Thanks, Denise.

After passing through security, I took the elevator to the fifth-floor jury assembly room, where a hundred or more of us potential jurors listened to instructions delivered by a no-nonsense dark-haired woman who was followed by a buxom woman in a sparkly green sweater. She had long, black hair that bounced when she talked, and a sense of humor.

Step one, she told us, was fill ing out the forms we'd received in the mail and had been told to bring with us. There were three versions, she said.

"If you have the pink form," she began...

I was sitting in the front row. To my right was a Yahoo copy-editor who yearns to return to her freelance journalistic roots and find a project that will help children around the globe. Her husband works for the Associated Press. She had never served on a jury and was hoping to be picked. To my left was a dental hygienist. She teaches dental hygiene and practices it. She is also an avid mystery fan. (She loves Michael Connelly. Who doesn't?) She had postponed jury duty once and was resigned to being picked.

"We need an emergency contact," the instructor was saying. "Write the name and contact information on your form, and your relationship. One juror wrote, 'Rocky.' We're not interested in the gory details."

We laughed.

She talked about proper courthouse attire, something I'd heard the night before when I'd phoned the jury office and listened to the recorded instructions.

"One guy showed up wearing a T-shirt that said, Guilty," she told us.

More laughter.

Against the wall facing us was a young woman, talking on her cell phone, wearing flip-flops. The recorded instructions had proscribed beach wear or flip-flops. Now our live instructor repeated the admonition.

"Call the flip-flop patrol, " I said, sotto voce to the dental hygienist. We exchanged a smile. Flip-flop woman didn't seem worried. Her cell-phone was at her ear.

"If you're picked for a jury," the  instructor said, "you can expect to serve from five to seven days."

Not good. This was Wednesday. I had scheduled an on-line video chat next Tuesday with a library in Lima, Ohio. And the week after that, I was scheduled to be in San Diego.

"If you need to postpone jury duty, you have to let us know before you're picked."

I deliberated, and decided to take my chances.

The instructor  impressed upon us the need to be on time. "If you're on a jury and you're late, the entire trial is late," she said. "Time is money."

She told us about two women who had used their hour-and-a-half lunch break to shop at the nearby Macy's. They had a successful shopping spree--and showed up late. The judge fined them each $150.

Not so successful after all....

Based on my experience last year, I had come prepared for a long, tedious wait. In my black bag were two sudoku puzzle books (both by Will Shortz), an advanced reading copy of Jeff Cohen's forthcoming Aaron Tucker mystery, As Dog Is My Witness, an "evil" grade sudoku puzzle I'd copied from the Web. For nourishment I'd brought a plastic bag with almonds, which I supplemented with a cup of coffee and a banana from the snack bar.

Note to the city: I understand charging for snacks, but please consider providing free coffee for people doing their civic duty.

During the first call for jurors, I listened for my name and wasn't surprised when I wasn't called. Last year I'd sat the entire day and hadn't been selected. I finished my coffee and tackled the "evil" sudoku puzzle. Three times I thought I was making significant headway. Three times I had to erase and begin again. (Later that night, I gave up. Whatever.) Several rows behind me I heard someone explaining the puzzle he was doing--sudoku.

Another call for jurors. This time I was called. With a quick goodbye to the Yahoo copy-editor and the dental hygienist, I left the room with a handful of other jurors and took the elevator to a seventh floor courtroom, worrying about my Tuesday on-line chat and my San Diego event.

We sat on uncomfortable benches lining the hall outside the courtroom until the bailiff ushered us in. It was a fair-sized room, but not enormous, and had all the requisite players: The judge, a tall woman with curly blond hair, was sitting behind her elevated bench. To her left behind a desk was her assistant. To her right, a handsome court reporter who reminded me of an actor whose name I can't recall. He always plays bad guys.

Standing in a respectul but somber welcome were two suited men--the defendant and his attorney--and a young woman, the prosecutor. The defendant was wearing glasses and a cream-colored suit.

We filled the rows of spectator seats. When my juror number was called, I stood and took a seat in the jury box. I was juror 10. Clipped to the seat was a steno pad, labeled Juror #10, and a pen.

This was real.

The judge introduced herself and the others. She told us the defendant was charged with domestic violence against his spouse--two counts of battery. There would be an interpretor and six witnesses. She expected the trial to take at the most two days.

Two days was fine, I thought. Minutes before, worried about my commitments, I had hoped to be excused. Now I was eager to stay.

The judge conducted a voir dire, asking us one by one our city of residence, occupation, marital status, number of children (if any), previous jury experience (and if so, whether a verdict had been reached). The occupation of spouses or ex-spouses, children.

"I live in Los Angeles," I said when my turn came. "I'm married with six children."

The judge asked me theire ages and occupations. Then, "Your occupation?"

"I'm a writer."

"What do you write?"

"Mysteries."

I had worried that this wouldn't sit well with the prosecution or the defense. I glanced at them, but could read nothing from their expressions.

"Are there crimes in your mysteries?" the judge asked.

"Yes." And bodies, I refrained from saying.

"In your fiction, have you ever written about domestic violence?"

"Yes."

Dead Air, one of my Jessie Drake mysteries, deals with domestic violence. Speak No Evil, a stand-alone legal thriller, centers on date rape.

"And do you think what you've written would prevent you from being an objective juror in this case?"

"No."

The judge then addressed several questions to the entire jury:

"Do you all understand that the defendant is innocent until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt?"

Juror #16, an Asian UCLA microbiology instructor, voiced a concern about the vagueness of "reasonable doubt" and didn't seem completely satisfied by the judge's promise that she would be issuing jury instructions at the appropriate time which would explain "reasonable doubt."

He'll be bounced, I knew. So would Juror #1, a man with an accent I couldn't identify. He told the Court that if the defendant was on trial, he was probably guilty.

"I was on trial once," he said. "I was guilty."

The judge asked whether any of us had relatives or friends who were in law enforcement. Some did. The judge asked them more questions, always ending with: "Would this relationship prevent you from being objective...?"

Next question: "Do you ever have occasion to talk to the police?"

I raised my hand. "I contact detectives for research."

"Would this relationship prevent you from being objective...?"

"No."

The judge said, "Has anyone here been a victim of domestic violence, or know someone who was a victim, or who was convicted or charged with domestic violence?"

There were many hands. I listened as Juror #5,  behind me, revealed that during an ugly custody battle, her ex-husband had accused her of abusing and sexually molesting their daughter.

"One time the police put me and my daughter in a squad car for half an hour," she said. "They knew he was lying. They didn't care."

"Do you think your experience would color the way you viewed testimony by police?" the judge asked.

"I don't know."

Juror #13 told the Court that a cousin had served time for domestic violence. Juror #15's ex-wife had been raped. The rape, he said, had destroyed their marriage. Other jurors spoke of their connections to victims or perpetrators of domestic violence. I was surprised by how many people have been touched by domestic violence in one way or another. It was eye-opening, disturbing.

When the judge finished, it was the turn of the defense attorney and the prosecutor.

The defense attorney remained seated. In a soft voice, he asked us whether we understood that it was the prosecutor's duty to present evidence that would prove beyond a reasonable doubt that his client was guilty.

"I'm ready to be convinced your client isn't guilty," said a juror.

"That's not my duty," the defense attorney cautioned. "I don't have to present a case. I don't have to call any witnesses. It's the prosecution's job to convince you that my client is guilty. Are you comfortable with that?"

It's the law," the attorney added.

It may be the law, and I believe in the presumption of innocence. But if the defense presented no case? If the defense didn't rebut the allegations and evidence presented by the state?

The prosecutor approached a podium. "If the alleged victim doesn't want us to prosecute the defendant, if the evidence proved that the defendant was guilty of domestic violence, would you be able to convict? Or do you think that the State shouldn't be involved in domestic issues?"

This raised some disconcerting views. More than one person questioned the necessity--or authority--of the state to poke into private matters.

"Do you think that domestic battery is less of a crime than battery against a stranger?" the prosecutor probed.

"Couples fight," said Juror #15. "And a fight doesn't mean something's going to turn ugly. If someone's killed, then of course, the state has to step in."

"So you think the state should wait until there's a dead victim?" the prosecutor asked.

"Yes."

I don't think Juror #15 picked up on the prosecutor's sarcasm, which was subtle. And I don't think he meant to say exactly that. But he did say, and he was seconded by Juror #14, that "a slap" shouldn't bring the police. "If that's the case, you'd have to station cops in every home. My girlfriend slapped me, " he added. "An hour later, we went out to dinner."

The prosecutor posed another question. "Would any of you find it difficult to view photos of a woman with her female parts exposed?"

The juror whose ex-wife had been raped admitted that he would.  "But it wouldn't affect my objectivity," he said.

The prosecutor informed us that a child would be testifying. "Would you have any difficulty believing the testimony?"

A number jurors said they would have difficulty. "Children are easily manipulated," they said. "They want to please their mother. They're gullible."

Not surprisingly, several jurors were excused "for cause." Next came the peremptory challenges. Jurors 1, 5, 14, and 15 were thanked and instructed to return to the juror assembly room. Other jurors--some who hadn't said anything that rang alarms--at least, to me--were excused, too.

I had made the cut.

The judge released us for a twenty-minute break. When we resumed, new jurors filled the vacated seats and were questioned first by the judge, then by the attorneys.

I eyed with anticipation the spiral steno pad clipped to my seat. From the opinons expressed about domestic violence, I sensed this would be an interesting and challenging case.

So I was taken aback when, fifteen minutes later, the prosecutor said, without looking up from her yellow pad, "The State thanks and excuses Juror #10."

I was bumped. I picked up my bag, stood, and left the jury box. I nodded at the bailiff as I headed for the door. He nodded and smiled.

Behind me, I heard the judge.

"Do you think this would prevent you from being objective in this case?"

I, the Jury?

Next week I'm scheduled for jury duty at the C. Shortridge Folz Criminal Justice Building in downtown L.A.

Last year I had jury duty, too. As it turned out, I was exempt Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday of my week of service, but on Thursday I had to report. So I showed up, listened to the drill (long, repetitive), and finished reading two books before I was officially dismissed for the year.

To tell you the truth, I was a little disappointed. The crime fiction writer in me would like the experience of sitting on a jury, especially for a criminal case.

So now I have another chance to do my civic duty and learn the behind-the-scenes action of jury deliberation.

But timing is tricky. On September 13 I'm supposed to be interviewed by the Jerusalem Post about Now You See Me... So if I do have to go in Tuesday, the interview will have to take place before six in the morning. Not my idea of fun.

And what if the trial extends past Friday?

The week of August 19, I have a scheduled book chat with a library in Lima, Ohio. The week after that, a Hadassah season kick-off event in San Diego.

I just phoned and learned I don't have to show on Monday. Monday after 5 PM, I'll find out about Tuesday...

Towing the Line

Last night my husband and I had dinner at a restaurant with our daughter and son-in-law. Our table was next to the window, and we couldn't help notice the tow truck that clanked into the parking lot of the mini-mall across the street. Minutes later,  a hapless car was pushed out of  the lot, then dragged off.

The owner of the car, we guessed, was probably dining in the restaurant, happily unaware of  the fate of his automobile.

"Poor guy," my son-in-law said, with feeling.

A month ago he and our daughter had been enjoying a dinner in the restaurant at a window table, too. He had noticed a black Honda being towed, had realized seconds later with dismay that it was his Honda. $256 dollars redeemed the car, but didn't dispel the aggravation.

"The guy in the laundramat reports the cars to a private towing agency," our son-in-law said. "He gets a cut of the action."

A sign in the mall warns non-customers of the mall stores that their cars will be towed. I can understand the need for limiting parking to those who patronize the mall's stores during the day, when parking spots are at a premium.

But at night, only the laundramat is open. And it isn't busy. Lots of empty spots...

The proprietor of the laundramat, we learned, owns the entire  mall. He receives $50 per towed vehicle. The employee who reports the car gets $20. Last night, while we were there,  he earned at least $40.

Another car pulled into the mall lot.  We kept our eyes on the driver, saw her cross the street.  Then she entered the restaurant.

My husband called over the waitress. "See the woman who just entered?" he said. "She parked in the lot across the street. She's probaly going to be towed. Can you warn her?"

"I wish I could," the waitress told my husband. "The liability is too great. What if we didn't warn everyone? What if a person was towed anyway? But it's awful, isn't it?"

She pointed to the diners at the table behind her.  "It ruined their evening."

By now the woman we'd spotted had been seated somewhere in the crowded, noise-filled room. My husband left our table, looked around, and approached someone who he thought was the woman.

It wasn't.

He sat down again, unhappy. "I'm going to talk to the laundramat employee. "

"Not a good idea," my son-in-law said before I could.  "I talked to him when I got towed. You don't want to mess with him."

The tow truck reappeared - or maybe it was a different one. We watched as the driver latched onto an SUV and maneuvered his prey out of the lot.

Slowing Down After the Fast

Last night, for the first time, I followed through on my good intentions and didn't overeat after breaking my fast a little past eight-thirty. I had a mild headache throughout the afternoon (in spite of the preemptive Advil tablets I took just before the fast began on Saturday night, and a Tums), but as usual, by the time fast ended, I wasn't ravenous or thirsty and could easily have abstained from food or drink for several more hours.

I ate sensibly. Fresh-baked challah my daughter had sent over before Shabbat,  a bowl of celery-potato soup I'd cooked in the afternoon. That, and lentils with rice, for protein and fiber. Some chunks of honeydew and canteloupe, and I was done.

Well, except for a quarter pocket-cheese Danish, to go with the cup of coffee that kept me up into the night.

If not for the coffee, I probably wouldn't have heard thunder rumbling in the distance.  I wouldn't have noticed the flashes of light through the window.

Or the barking of the dogs.

It was two in the morning. I nudged my husband, who wasn't quite asleep.

"Do you hear the thunder?" I asked. "The dogs?"

"Uh-huh," my husband said.

"What do you think it means?" I said. "The dogs?"

"Nothing."

"There's no rain," I pointed out as I heard another roll of what sounded like thunder.

I was thinking, earthquake. Animals are known to act strangely before a temblor.

"Could be an explosion," my husband said.

That kept me up. And the dogs, and the repeated rolls of thunder, and the wail of sirens. Fire engines or ambulances?I told myself that if there were some city-wide emergency (I didn't even want to articulate the words "terror attack"), we would be informed. I contemplated turning on the radio or TV, told myself I was being silly.

The dogs quieted down. The lights stopped flashing.

It was three o'clock. Unable to sleep, I went downstairs to my study, where I worked on two Sudoku puzzles.

Back in bed, I mentally wrote the opening sentence for MIND GAMES, the stand-alone I'm about to start when I get up the courage to commit words to paper.

I'm not sure when I finally fell asleep--sometime after four. I woke up a little after seven, dragged myself out of bed, grabbed my weights,  and laced my tennis shoes in time to exercise with Denise Austin, who is eternally cheerful, but not in an obnoxious way.

"Big storm last night in the mountains," my husband told me when he returned from shul.

EncROACHED No More

Microwaves, as it turns out, are not warranteed against roaches.  That's what the repair service center guy informed me this morning, after he disconnected me twice.

"The microwave works fine," he told me. ""The smoky odor is from the roaches. We can't take care of that. Can't touch it."

  "I know about the roaches," I replied. "I told you about them when I brought the microwave in."

"Yeah, well."

"Why didn't you say so when I came in last week with the microwave?" I asked. No response. I pictured a shrug. 

I phoned Sharp. They couldn't help me. "Phone the dealer where you bought the product," the customer service rep advised.

I phoned Target and explained my plight to a customer service surpervisor who said, sorry, there was nothing she could do.

Minutes later I phoned Target again to find out if they would sell me a microwave at the (sale) price I'd originally paid in late December. I spoke to an assistant store manager, prepared to argue my point, but it wasn't necessary. He not only sympathized with my situation ("Geez!" he said), but offered to let me exchange my roach-infested microwave for a new one.

So all is well...for now.

By the way, crime fiction writer Laurie King, it turns out, blogs about her first encounter with a roach.

Not in her microwave...

Why I'll Never Be on Fear Factor

Michael (our exterminator) called.

He came. He sprayed. He conquered.

Not just the roaches.

A rat, too.

My husband found it in the basement on Sunday--dead, in a trap Michael had set months ago--when he changed the air-conditioner filter.

"Give me a plastic bag or something," Michael told me.

I gave him a thick bag, the one the L.A. Times arrives in daily.

"Another bag, please," Michael called from the basement. "A big one."

I handed my son a large supermarket bag to give Michael. I walked into my office, directly across from the basement door.

"He's a big one," my son said, peering into the basement. "Wanna see?"

"No," I said. 

I have offed dozens of characters in my mysteries. I have described crime scenes and, sometimes, gore.

"No, I really don't."