It was a hot summer day, and the old courthouse was just as hot. The air was thick and humid, and the jury was having a hard time staying focused. One of the jurors succumbed to the heat, falling asleep just as the victim was being questioned by the prosecutor.
“The defendant is accused of making obscene phone calls to your home. Would you please tell the jury precisely what the defendant said when he called you,” asked the prosecutor.
“I can’t do that,” the victim replied. “It was so crude and disgusting. I can’t use language like that.”
“Would it help to just write it down?”
The victim wrote out every detail of what the obscene caller had said, and passed the note to the judge. The judge read the note. It was then passed to the prosecutor, the defense attorney, and finally to the jury.
The sleeping juror was seated at the back corner of the jury box, and was the last to receive the note. He was awoken with a nudge from an attractive young juror, seated next to him, and she passed him the note. He read it, gazed in awe at the woman, and read it again. He turned to her, smiling broadly, and winked. He then put the note into his pocket.
The judge demanded, “Please pass that note to the bailiff.”
“But your honor,” the juror protested, “It’s a private matter.”