The letter remains unopened for the time being. It sits still on top of the dresser drawer. I still don’t know what rests in this envelope, but I can put two and two together. I come up with
four. But that still tells me nothing about the contents of the envelope. So I open it with a great expectancy. And there it is, an invitation to the county courthouse. “Great, a gathering,” I think to myself with glee. Then I read more. ‘You have been selected to participate in jury duty.’ As you can imagine, my shoulders drop in disappointment. The one time I get picked for anything, it turns out to be jury duty. The feeling is similar to the one I get when I receive the letter with a picture of Ed McMahon on the front. He must have lived in my house before I got here, because I get more and more of his mail, and frankly, I’m sick of it. The information set in the letter attempts to be appealing. ‘You will be rewarded with $10.00 per day for participating in jury duty.’ This dollar amount is the teaser. It isn’t until I read on to the next line that really convinces me. It clearly reads, ‘plus mileage’. I am so excited I run to the closest calculator and tally up the round trip. Eight miles, round trip, that’s an extra $2.40, at $.30 per mile. Not so amusing after all. So I mark the date on the calendar and wait for the honorable day.

The day before jury duty, I call in to see if I will be needed. After all, my juror number is 156,
and the typical jury is around 12 people. Maybe they won’t need me. I enter the number into my phone and find a recording. “If you are in the range of 1 to 300, you must report to jury duty.” And if this isn’t bad enough, it’s repeated, just in case I didn’t hear the range, as if I’m
drilling into cement the first time around.

The day of jury duty, I call my employer to inform him I will not be in. I then head down to the county courthouse. To my surprise, I find 299 other people with the same expression. The one
that says, almost got out of it. I make my way to the end of the line, one that expands so far that I’m actually in another county. With nothing to do, I stand quietly and move with the rest of the people. One step, stop, one step, stop, one step, lie, “Yes, this will be a great experience.”
Stop, one step, stop. Until I finally reach the beginning of the line.

“Sir, do you have your jury summons sheet?”

“No, I tossed it in the garbage can.”

“You need to go see Carol, so she can print you out a badge.”

I turn to find this Carol person, as if she holds the key to the wonderful world of jury duty. I smile, hoping to relay to her that I am a complete moron, and that I really don’t want to be here. She gives me my printed out version of my jury summons paper, and I return to the back of the line. One step, stop, one step, stop.

When I reach the front of the line for the second time, I hand over my piece of paper, just so this woman can cut it out and place it into a generic badge, so the whole courthouse can see that I’m a juror. And a prospective one at that.

The administrator informs us jurors that he intends to make this experience as less of a burden as possible. His words, not mine. So he cramps all 300 jurors in this little courtroom to watch a 20 minute video on being a prospective juror. I must admit that being confined in between two men is far from a burden. The video wants you to think that being a prospective juror is very glamorous. Maybe its intention is to have people voluntarily step forward and say, “We’ll do it, you can send everybody else home.” Phrases such as, it is your duty as citizens to participate in jury duty, and this is one of the benefits of living in America.

The next process includes a smaller room with the 300 people split randomly by a computer. Thirty or so goes one way, thirty goes another, and so forth. This information is specified to us,
maybe to alleviate the question, “How did you arrive at this selection of people for this particular room?” It’s done by computer, so they don’t know. The atmosphere of this room is
similar to a man waiting for his pregnant wife to deliver their child, which entails a lot of wondering and watching the time pass by. The only difference is, there are 29 other people
experiencing the same thing. So the effect is enhanced, probably similar to high definition television. When the time is right, a clerk of the court, which translates that this woman works
at the courthouse, and happens to be a clerk, acknowledges us. Maybe she rings up groceries on her down time, I’m really not sure.

The group of anxious, prospective jurors moves into an actual courtroom, with a real judge,
lawyers, and the defendant. This is where the moment comes to determine whether or not who is a qualified juror. Attorneys ask the same question, a thousand different ways, just so I can repeat, “I told you I don’t think it’s going to rain tomorrow.” You see, lawyers like to use various techniques to figure out qualities of an individual. This certain lawyer picked the weather. He says, “If the weatherman says there’s a good chance of it raining tomorrow, will it
actually rain?” I tell him that I don’t think it will.

“But why, if you don’t mind me asking, won’t it rain tomorrow if this trained person says it will?”

“Because,” I say, “the weatherman is about as accurate as Shaq’s free throw shooting.”

“So you’re saying it might not rain?”

“Probably not,” I remark.

“So there’s a difference in saying it might rain, and it will rain?”

“Is that what you’re asking?” I question the lawyer.

“Yes,” he tells me.

“Why didn’t you just say that in the first place? Why did you have to go off in circles? If I’m hungry, I say that I’m hungry. I don’t go on about the effects of a beached starfish to the population.” This process occurs for an hour or so. Each juror is examined for quality. As this
goes on, I think to myself how lucky I will be if I escape jury duty. Don’t get me wrong, it’s my
duty as a citizen, but who wants to serve jury duty?

After the questioning from both sides, the lawyers decide who makes the cut and who doesn’t. That’s after a short recess, of course, which only adds fuel to the fire, which is ironic because the man is accused of arson.

Then, finally, the clerk reads the names of the jurors who will spend the next week confined in
uncomfortable chairs, listening to one case, and having to avoid the dreaded question from nosey neighbors of, “So what’s the case about?” I cross my fingers on both hands and other body parts, but am forgetful that if I cross too many things, it’s bad luck. So I uncross my legs, not realizing that I have a rip in the crotch of my pants, which was the reason I was crossing my legs in the first place.

“And the 12 jurors are, not me, not me, not me, not me, not me, not me, not me, not me, not me, not me, not me, not me, and the alternate is, not me.”

After hours of sitting in a courtroom, I find out that it really is good to be a citizen. I’m free to go home now. And to be honest, I don’t know if the picked jurors had to watch another video on being selected as a juror, because the first video was on being a prospective juror, two different things.

This was certainly an event for me, and the only thing I have to show for is my check for $12.40. I don’t think I will cash it, but frame it to remember doing my part as a citizen.

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