So Much For Camaraderie

Saturday's summons for jury duty brings back a scary-ass time of police escorts and other fun jury-related activities.  Here's something I wrote a while back just to capture the insanity: 

The summons arrived in my mailbox and I stared at it in shock and disbelief.  How dare they send me another summons for jury duty? Those bastards tried to trick me into jury duty just last year. It took me days to come up with a believable excuse that got me out of it.  Just holding the envelope filled me with dread.  It was tempting to rip the thing up or feed it to Dusty. But I'm such a good girl at heart, so easily guilted, that I decided, oh eff that, might as well suck it up.  Hubby, a veteran of jury duty, humored me. “Don’t worry, they won’t pick you.  You’ll be home before lunch.”  Okay!  I can do this!  Bring it!

I wasn’t dismissed before lunch.  I wasn’t dismissed after lunch.  I was picked.  I hoped for a nice, friendly civil dispute.  Neighbors duking it out over property lines, overgrown bushes or barking dogs.  I got a lengthy gang-related criminal trial instead.  The first witness came to the stand and I was hooked.  I took notes, I hung on every word, I couldn’t wait for the next day of the trial.  My fellow jurors came from vastly different walks of life and we got along beautifully.

Until deliberations started.  So much for camaraderie.  Once we sat across from each other in the jury room and could finally talk about the case, out came the clashing personalities.  At times, it got ugly.  Just sample the dialogue:  “Pass the donuts.”  “Are you out of your @#$%'n mind?” “Were you paying attention?” “What courtroom were you sitting in?”  “Where should we go for lunch?”  Such sentiments were uttered in the same breath, at the same time. By the SJG.

A few of the jurors wouldn’t budge, no matter how persuasively the rest of us made our case.  I wanted to maintain my dignity, but ultimately found myself losing control and yelling my head off.  I couldn’t help myself.  I turned red, pounded the table, and got mean.  For the first time in my life, I didn’t care what people thought of me.  These folks weren’t my friends, I didn’t have to work with them and best of all, they weren’t my relatives. Their opinion of me meant nothing.  It was liberating.  In the end, the hold-outs came around.  The verdict: guilty!

Would I do it again, God forbid?  Much like giving birth, I’d probably say no way, I’m not going through that again, and then I’d show up anyway. Sometimes you’ve got to do the labor if you want to make a difference.