Jury Duty at the Old Municipal Building, Not for the Faint-Hearted
by Paula Bosse
Sad and gloomy, yearning for restoration (2007)
by Paula Bosse
Several years ago, I maintained a long-running personal blog (back in the days when everyone had a blog — now everyone has a podcast). A recent comment on my Patreon page reminded me of an old blog post I wrote in 2010, several years before I began Flashback Dallas. I thought I would share it here (slightly rewritten). It’s a different sort of thing than I normally write on *this* blog — it’s pretty long and only tangentially connected with Dallas history — but it made me laugh to reread this 13 years later. (I have to add that since I wrote this back in 2010, the Municipal Building has been lovingly, *dazzlingly* restored by the University of North Texas and is no longer the hellhole I describe below! I haven’t seen the restored interior in person yet, but photos show some unbelievably amazing work! Thank you, UNT!)
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October 27, 2010
I’m one of those people who receives a lot of jury summonses. I swear one year I got at least 3. Maybe 4. Do they keep sending them to me because I always report for jury duty like a responsible citizen is supposed to do? Is this good behavior working against me? So when I got a jury summons last month — a mere 4 months after my most recent jury duty on Cinco de Mayo — several unladylike words spilled out of me as I stood at the mailbox. I scanned the list of acceptable exemptions — there was a little empty checkbox next to the statement “I have been convicted of a felony.” Instant exemption! My first thought was, “Hmm. I’ve got six weeks….” It was tempting.
But I was still felony-free by the time I had to report yesterday (Oct. 26, 2010), so I somehow got myself up at the crack of dawn after only 4 or 5 hours of sleep and pointed my car in the direction of downtown. Most of my jury duty has been at the criminal courts building, which is easy to get to, and the chairs in the central jury room are plush and fairly comfy. This time, though — for the first time — I was summoned to a municipal court, where I guess they try people for non-death-penalty offenses like traffic tickets and zoning violations. If this day had any upside, it was that it would be my first visit to the beautiful Municipal Building. I couldn’t wait to see what that building — arguably the grandest building in Dallas — looked like inside.
But first I had to get there. I had to travel what felt like the entire length of downtown before I was able to turn left on Main and loop back to Harwood. I was sleep-deprived, caffeine-deprived, and just generally cranky, knowing that this whole thing was unnecessary, as I would no doubt be let go by noon, after having sat around for hours doing nothing but thinking unladylike things and wondering the whole time how this inefficient system keeps going.
Convenient parking? Ha! Fend for yourselves, suckers. At least Frank Crowley has a parking garage. Somehow, I found an unattended, cash-only lot along Commerce for the surprisingly affordable price of $2.00. My luck continued when I found that I actually had two one-dollar bills, which I stuffed through the narrow slot.
Despite my lengthy detour, I had arrived a little early and enjoyed a leisurely walk down Commerce. As I passed the building’s parking garage entrance/exit, I wondered if that was where Lee Harvey Oswald was shot. (It was.) I took my time, taking in the lovely, stately Municipal Building, which opened to rapturous acclaim in 1914 — it’s one of those cool old buildings that Dallas loves to tear down. I was really looking forward to stepping inside that grand palace, imagining an interior of marble, brass, etched glass, and ornate, highly polished, hand-carved wooden banisters.
I headed up the elegant, wide steps, walked in, and… oh… my… god. It was awful. AWFUL! But before I was treated to the full force of its awfulness, I was first greeted with the de rigueur metal detector. Which I set off. I stepped back and the officer asked me to raise each pant leg so he could see the tops of my shoes. I must have looked confused because he said, “We just want to make sure you’re not wearing an ankle holster.” Without thinking, I stupidly replied, “Pfft — I WISH,” and I instantly regretted it. But he laughed, and I continued on my way.
The Beaux-Arts-style Municipal Building, designed by architect C. D. Hill, is beautiful and stately. …On the outside. Here’s what it looked like almost 100 years ago:
Inside? Dear god. Depressingly institutional. Last “updated” circa the ’70s/’80s? Cramped and claustrophobic, bad paint, fluorescent lights, drop ceiling tiles, and absolutely no signage. I had to ask three people how to get to the central jury room! It’s a shame I found it, because I am going to have nightmares about that horrible place for a long time. There were about a hundred of us sitting on folding chairs in a room with dingy cream-colored walls trimmed with flat-turquoise paint. It reeked of the thousands of cigarettes which had no doubt been smoked over the past century by thousands of long-dead civil servants. The smell of stale smoke was embedded in every nook and cranny of that room. I think I would have preferred to serve my civic duty by picking up Miller Lite cartons from the side of the highway.
The worst thing about the room? The blaring TV. I don’t know why this has become acceptable, but it’s everywhere: in every waiting room there’s always a TV now — always on, stuck on a program you would never choose to watch. My fellow captive good citizens and I were subjected to a chirpy morning show (“Sweaters: to tuck or not?”) and lurid Hollywood gossip. I wondered if I could leave the room to get a breath of fresh air — it would be sheer relief to stand out in the hallway with the slumlords and the red-light-runners waiting their turn to go before the judge and take on City Hall. But I didn’t see anyone else doing that, so I sat, defeated, involuntarily learning about the finer points of sweater-tucking.
After an hour and a half or so, the marshal — who had a shaved head and wore taps on his shoes — announced that we were allowed a half-hour break. I hot-footed it out of there and left the building (I had to ask how to get out). I walked around the building admiring it, then walked across the street to a new park that’s sprung up since I was last downtown — a whole block of a park, lined with trees and terraced walkways — in downtown Dallas — with grass and everything! It’s cool. Here’s a photo I took of the municipal building from across the park (Main Street Garden):
Oct. 26, 2010 / photo: Paula Bosse
I saw several young hipsters walking their dogs. I bounced across a small playground, built on some sort of weird, springy, spongey surface. I thought how unusual and how nice this whole “open space” thing was. My half hour was up too soon. As I walked back, a possibly homeless man joined me and chatted with giddy enthusiasm about the Rangers being in the World Series, insisting to me that they were Going. To. Win. I laughed and said I believed him. It was such a beautiful day. How sad that I was heading back to the dark dungeon of the central jury room. I waited to cross the street with a couple of women I recognized as fellow potential jurors. They decided to blithely cross against a red light. There were six police cars parked in front of us, but not one cop to bust these scofflaws! I crossed on green, because I’d used up my luck finding a convenient parking spot, and as sure as the Rangers are Going To Win the World Series, I knew I would be instantly cited for pedestrian incivility the second I stepped off the curb to a flashing red light.
Back inside, I set off the metal detector a second time and showed my holster-free ankles to a different officer and followed the trail of breadcrumbs I’d left earlier. In the jury room — where women outnumbered men 4-1, and the median age was 60 — the two women who’d crossed on red were talking about the Laura Bush autobiography one of them was reading. Two other women were talking in excruciating detail about deaths of beloved pets. The guy next to me was nodding off, somehow oblivious to Wendy Williams chattering excitedly about Charlie Sheen and a hooker. A guy behind me had a laptop which kept making clanging sounds and which he’d plugged into an extension cord that snaked its way into the bowels of a mystery room behind an intimidating door marked “Private.”
There was no coffee in the building. (“There is NO coffee in the building,” the marshal had informed us earlier. “If you want a cup of coffee, you’re going to have to exit the building.”) HAD there been coffee, it would have been thin and stale and cold, and the powdered artificial creamer would not have dissolved, no matter how much you stabbed at the globules with a plastic stir stick. Like in the movie “Joe Versus the Volcano.” I kept thinking of that movie, because that godforsaken central jury room I was trapped in could have been the inspiration for the scene in that movie which my brother and I often reference:
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I was so miserable. I contemplated committing some sort of petty property crime to relieve the tedium but reconsidered when I realized I’d only find myself back in the same building when my trial date came up. I was going to have to tough it out like an adult.
A middle-aged woman who looked like she was probably a hardcore, high-powered North Dallas realtor sat a couple of rows in front of me and seemed to be able to read only a sentence or two from her book (Famous Soviet Spies) before she grew bored and slipped her “We the People” bookmark back in and closed it, only to stare off into space, gathering the energy to raise the book again and read from it for 20 or 30 more aggressively-anti-Communist seconds.
The youngest person in the room sighed frequently and played a game on her phone.
An older Black man in a gimme cap and an older white man who had probably left his gimme cap in his truck talked together absolutely without pause for the entire time we were there. I couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but I have a feeling they’ll be spending Thanksgiving together this year.
Throughout my ordeal, I had longed to hear the snappy taps on the shoes of the marshal. He would be our savior — the one who could let us go. Finally, he returned. He called maybe 10 people and sent the rest of us on our way. It was 11:00 AM. I had been there only two and a half hours. It felt like a lifetime.
I got in my car, stopped for a burrito, headed home, and fell asleep on the couch. Civic duty done. I only hope I’m never called back to that depressing, confusing building. Pray you’re never called for jury duty there.
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Sources & Notes
Blog post by Paula Bosse, originally published on Oct. 27, 2010 (revised July 2023).
Photo of the sad, dark Municipal Building at top is from Google Street View, Aug. 2007; photo from 2013 by Paula Bosse.
The City of Dallas and all of us who live here, should fall to our knees to thank the University of North Texas Law School and the team of incredible people who restored and renovated the former Municipal Building. Thankfully, all of my sarcastic descriptions above are no longer accurate. I mean, look at this photo of what a hallway looks like now:
That photo is one of several showing the restoration in the article “Bringing Historic Dallas Back to Life” by Preston Pressley, on LinkedIn, here (possibly behind a subscription wall).
See more photos — as well as the film “Restore” by Mark Birnbaum — on the Phoenix I Restoration and Construction site, here.
Look at this photo of the revitalized building today — more beautiful than I’ve ever seen it. Every inch of its exterior has been cleaned, spruced up, and restored. I kind of wish I could be called to jury duty there now!
How it all began: my Flashback Dallas post “The Elegant Municipal Building — 1914.”
Lastly, if you would like to support me on Patreon, pop on over. I post daily.
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Copyright © 2023 Paula Bosse. All Rights Reserved.
A beautiful building. It’s wonderful that it was restored. Architecture makes a powerful statement and implies that the occupants of a building have the strength and integrity of the structure.
I see that they altered the entrance leading from the basement parking garage into the building.
Why would someone change the place Jack Ruby shot Lee Harvey Oswald?
Maybe because that’s where certain members of the Dallas Police set Lee up to be shot?
For years I thought Lee was brought down the inner main hall to his death. And Detective Jim Leavelle promoted that idea in an interview in the newly renovated basement hallway.
Watch “Captain Fritz signaling Ruby to move in” on YouTube. “We were coming down the hall” Leavelle tells the interviewer.
You can see how it looked in 1963 on YouTube at “Jack Ruby’s Timely Time Stamped Visit To Western Union” start at 13:00.
Then watch “That Day In Dallas by Steven Cooper” on YouTube. Leavelle brought Lee down the elevator in the booking room.
There are a number of videos that show Detective Leavelle doing some fancy side stepping out of that side door to get into the middle of the entrance way. That door is blocked over now along with the door that was across from it. They removed the original double doors and installed glass double doors further out into the garage area.
Leavelle is right in one thing he says. The lights were very bright. The lights were coming from behind where Ruby was standing. It looks like Lee spotted Ruby but then the lights hit him in the eyes and he looked away, Ruby moved in. Then they took Lee back in that side door and behind the booking desk. Tending to him.
Don’t be afraid. The Kennedy assassination is complicated because it was so well choreographed. Just like Leavelle’s fancy footwork out into the entranceway. This case is begging to be solved.
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Best part: “I wondered if I could leave the room to get a breath of fresh air — it would be sheer relief to stand out in the hallway with the slumlords and the red-light-runners waiting their turn to go before the judge and take on City Hall.” 😂
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Haha. Thanks!
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Hi Paula,
What a fantastic post you wrote in 2010 concerning your tortuous experience at old Dallas City Hall. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed reading it. I’m still laughing pretty hard. (Although, at the time, I’m sure it wasn’t very humorous to you.)
BTW / FWIW….
I fear that fellow commenter Steven Uanna has been reading too many JFK conspiracy books (and watching way too many YouTube videos filled with more crackpot JFK assassination theories than you can shake a stick at). Because there was, of course, nothing even slightly sinister or covert about the way that Dallas Homicide Captain J. Will Fritz and Detective James R. Leavelle behaved as they escorted Lee Harvey Oswald into the basement of Dallas City Hall on November 24, 1963.
Captain Fritz most certainly was not “signaling Ruby to move in”. And the “fancy footwork” that Mr. Uanna thinks was being exhibited by Jim Leavelle is something that exists only in the fertile imaginations of many inventive conspiracy theorists.
Mr. Uanna thinks the assassination of President Kennedy is a case that is “begging to be solved”. But, in reality (i.e., here in the “real world” where outlandishly improbable conspiracy theories are never taken seriously by reasonable people), the case *has* been solved. And it’s been solved, just as it should have been, by utilizing and properly evaluating the *actual evidence that exists in the case* (with virtually all of that evidence, of course, pointing directly at one person—Lee Harvey Oswald).
In fact, for the most part, the murders of both John F. Kennedy and Dallas policeman J.D. Tippit were solved even before Oswald took his last breath at Parkland Hospital on 11/24/63.
Anyway, putting the constant “Conspiracy vs. Lone Nut” controversy aside, my thanks (again) go out to Paula Bosse for not only this fabulous “Municipal Building” blog post, but also for all the other many interesting and absorbing posts she has written over the last several years at her “Flashback: Dallas” blog site. And I’m going to be adding a link to this hilarious post at my own “JFK Archives” site right now.
Best Regards,
David Von Pein
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I’m glad you liked the post, David. Thanks!
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BTW —
Extended coverage of Lee Oswald being shot by Jack Ruby in the basement of the old Dallas City Hall building can be seen at my website below:
http://Oswald-Has-Been-Shot.blogspot.com
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Oh gee, here we go again, people are just unable to grok that a scrawny little loser crouched behind a pile of cardboard boxes could kill the most powerful man in the world on his lunch hour, then walk down a couple flights of stairs and get a Dr Pepper out of the vending machine, walk out on the sidewalk where people were running and screaming every which way, then step onto his getaway car – a CITY BUS..
Nahh, it’s got to be the Mafia, no it was the Russkies, no it was the Republicans, no it was the Viet Cong, no it was clearly Abbie Hoffman and George Wallace….
At any rate, I’ll never be able to think of that building as anything but the MVNICIPAL BVILDING.
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The renovated hallway has a little UNT green in it I see. Very nice.
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