Oh, No, You Didn't!

The summons arrives in my mailbox. I stare at it in disbelief. My brain fills with dread. Anxiety swoops down for a landing. “Oh, no, you didn’t!” I say. I mean, seriously. I just did freaking jury duty three years ago. A scary, criminal case. Attempted murder. Very “CSI.” Guys with tattoos. Gunshots. Gangs. Contentious deliberations. Lots of shouting. I screamed the loudest. The experience left scars, people. Deep ones, on my hands from all that table-banging. For three weeks, or was it four, I was one angry gal. Oh, the trauma. Oh, the police escorts to the parking lot. I ask you: Haven’t I done my civic duty? Don’t I deserve a lifetime pass?

Apparently not. The court wants me back. I’m that good. I stare at the summons and will it to go away. It doesn’t. I decide not to open it. If I don’t open it, it doesn’t exist. Aha! But if it doesn’t exist, then why is it still in my hand? Clearly, I suck at this sort of logic. I move on. I turn to God. I figure, hey, I just put in all that time at temple. I bow my head. Once again, I promise to be a better person – as if that’s even possible. My basic plea comes down to this: Don’t make me serve on jury duty! Again!

My religious phase lasts a minute and a half, before reality takes over like the swine flu we recently endured. I whine. I pout. I need a cup of tea and a warm blanky and a good cry. My dog looks up at me and wonders what’s in it for him. Not much. I show him the source of my pain. He sniffs the summons. It fails to impress. He rolls over and goes to sleep. For comfort, I turn to chocolate. I prefer dark, but I’ll settle for what I can find. I grab a handful of mini Oreos. It gives me the courage to open the summons and read it. I look at a date and time and number to call. I consider a menu of excuse options. I can’t pull the “young mother” alibi any longer. I can’t milk my dad’s hip surgery or my nearly-broken foot. I’m so screwed. I have no choice but to show up, armed with magazines and a granola bar.

On Tuesday, I enter a room full of germy humans I have no desire to meet, and look for a seat. I plant myself next to a nice woman who tells me, in no uncertain terms, “I can’t do this.” I nod, sympathetically. I’ve been there, girlfriend. I get it. On and on she goes, as if I have some power to help her. “I’m claustrophobic,” she says. “I can’t sit in a room with the door closed. Do they close the door?” As a veteran of jury duty, I must tell her the truth. “Yes, they do.” “I can’t do it, then. I’ll freak out.” I know a little something about claustrophobia. I’m about to give her some life-changing advice when they call my name and direct me to go to Jury Pool Selection on the seventh floor. I offer her a heartfelt “ba-bye,” and off I go to meet my fate.

I learn the origin of the trial. It’s civil, not criminal. No gunshots. No DNA. The judge tells us it’s a one-week case, a contractual dispute. Homeowners versus contractors. And soon, I’m answering questions and getting myself into trouble. I’m making the judge laugh. I’m entertaining the room. At the break, prospective jurors come up to me like I’m a celebrity. “They’re going to pick you, you’re fun.” “I’m not trying to be fun. I’m trying to get out of this.” “They’re going to pick you, for sure.” A cute, muscular dude comes up to me. “I really liked when you said you were opinionated, but could be objective. That was hilarious.” A young woman hands me her business card. “I’m an actress. If you ever have a part for me –” A part? She must think I’m a successful producer. I run with it. “I’ll definitely keep you in mind.”

In the end, I come “this close” to jury duty. It’s a difference of two seats. By some miracle, I’m free to go. I practically dance out of the court room. I don’t look back, it would be rude, but I know the jurors are sad to see the fun chick go. I think I hear sobbing as the door shuts behind me. These poor deluded people. They actually think I’d be a kick to have around. Of course, that’s what the jurors thought three years ago, until I turned on them.