Lament of a Legal Leftover

Last week I had to serve jury duty. Lady Justice decided to send me an invitation during the busiest time of the year at work, so I wasn’t exactly thrilled when I opened the envelope. It’s been many years and hundreds of miles since I was last called for jury duty and I thought I’d developed immunity.

I was torn between wanting to be picked – any mystery writer worth his or her salt wants to see the inner workings of a jury trial – and not wanting to be picked. What if I ended up on one of long trials where you have to live in a Holiday Inn Express for months on end? Worse, what if I ended up on some boring civil case?

However, on the appointed day, I headed off to the courthouse, ready to do my bit and hoping for an exciting trial.

Going through security at the tall brick courthouse amped up the anticipation. Serious looking men and women in gray suits hurried past, leather soles ringing on the marble floors. Officers of several kinds – police, sheriffs, bailiffs – passed by. I cruised past the legal library, which was stocked with oversize, leather-covered books that deserved the name “tomes.” There was a quiet electricity in the air, a seriousness that said, This is no television show.

I passed electronic docket boards hung high on the wall, listing potential cases and the location of their courtrooms. One case included fourteen counts against the defendant. Another potential juror pointed at the board and whistled. “That’s the one to get.” Several cases were local government-type things – snooze. I knew which case I wanted - the more nefarious the crime, the more complex, the better. I haven't been reading John Grisham all these years for nothing.

As I entered the jury waiting room, I imagined the judge resplendent in black robes, but with a glint of steel in her eye. The prosecuting attorney, perhaps a Sandra Bullock type, overworked but passionate. The defense attorney, a Bradley Cooper type with a killer smile, all slick confidence….

But after an hour sitting in a stiff plastic chair, my dreams of seeing a real life Perry Mason at work dimmed and faded as the reality of jury duty sank in. Jury duty was several dozen people shifting uncomfortably, texting, reading, surreptitiously snacking, and catching up on sleep. Not so different from sitting in the dentist’s office, but with older magazines.

After the first two hours, most of us were bored enough to chat. The young man sitting on my left was engrossed in Frogger on his phone. I struck up a conversation with the woman on the right, another (ahem) middle aged woman with a book. Middle aged women will always chat, and people with books are usually interesting. We chatted about how most cases nowadays are settled out of court. Probably good for all involved, but hard on those of us who want to see a juicy case.

We returned to our routines.

I checked Facebook on my phone.

Checked email.

Read blogs.

Snacked.

Read M. C. Beaton’s new novel, but even Agatha Raisin couldn’t make the hands on the clock move any faster.

We waited. And waited some more.

After another hour, the bailiff arrived, sidearm and handcuffs glinting in the fluorescent light. A jolt of anticipation – and trepidation – coursed through the room. The bailiff cleared his throat and read off the names of the chosen. Drat, not me! The chosen jurors shuffled through the door. The room exhaled and then the next bailiff came in.

My turn, I thought, coiling my feet beneath me to spring when my name was called. Can’t keep Justice waiting.

The bailiff called twenty-four names and those potential jurors shuffled out.

I shifted in my chair and looked around. Twelve of us remained, legal rejects, jury duty wallflowers. I checked my outfit. Even though I knew jurors were chosen by a random computer sort, I wondered if I had chosen the wrong outfit: a floral sheath with matching cardigan. OK maybe not jury material. I should have worn something navy blue or gray.

But I was being silly. A guy in a black Megadeth tshirt and a sleeve of tattoos was chosen. In jury duty, clothes don’t make the juror.

An administrator told us we were excused and would not be called for jury duty again for three years. I walked slowly out the courthouse doors, wondering what could have been.

Have you served jury duty?