Whatever you do, please don’t sequester me
When it came in the mail, I reacted like the female co-dependent that I am.
I saw “State of Connecticut” and “Summons,” and immediately thought: “What did I do wrong, now?” Transgressions of the past ran through my mind like a teaser for the six o’clock news. Had the recycling police gotten wind I let one teeny can slip into the trash? Did the trooper who caught me making a curtsy at the full-stop sign, snitch?
I ripped open the envelope and swallowed hard. I wasn’t being hauled off to the hoosegow, as I feared. It was worse: It was my first call for jury duty.
Now all I know about jury duty is what I see on the TV and in the movies, and those portraits aren’t pretty ones. Jurors are tempted with bribes or threatened by bad guys. They or their loved ones get kidnapped, tortured, and even, if it isn’t too early in the plot, bumped off. And those are the lucky ones.
Others find themselves “sequestered” in tiny rooms with one overhead fan and a bunch of sweating people — none of whom can agree on a verdict. They go on for months without seeing family, friends or felines and are forced to eat Weight Watchers’ no-no’s like cheese pizza with anchovies and pineapple and Chinese take-out with MSG. Even worse, there is no cappuccino.
Then, too, anytime you hear people talk about Jury Duty, it’s in the context of how people can get out of it. It’s hearsay, of course, but a common notion is jury duty is worse than a bad case of poison ivy.
People use work or family matters to get themselves excused. When that fails, they dig deep. Doozies I’ve heard include women sitting in the waiting room reading “Ten Ways to Get Out of Jury Duty,” and men who bring their daughters along and play “Hang the Man.” An acquaintance of mine went one better. She stayed up all night, then came to court, eyes red as a road map, in clothes splattered with sauce from an eggplant gyro. She dabbed rum on her pulse points and left her hair uncombed. Alas, lawyers that day — looking for an “earthy” type — chose her inspite — or maybe because — of her antics, though a concerned woman guard did slip her a card with the number of a local AA rehab house.
According to my jury duty notice, there were some options that would excuse you. However, none seemed to apply to me. There was no disqualification category for “Conscientious vegetarian.” Nor were there any for everyday hardships such as “Interferes with aerobic schedule;” or “Cat recuperating from being spayed,” or “Husband putting up wallpaper.”
And, even if I stretched the truth by a mile, there is no way I could legitimately check boxes marked: “I am the Governor, Lt. Governor, Secretary of State, Treasurer, Comptroller, Attorney General or a Judge of the Superior, Appellate, Supreme or Federal Court,” or “I am a member of the General Assembly and the General Assembly is in session” or “I am under the age of 18.”
I could always defer to a later date, the notice informed me. That would allow me time to rent “The Juror,” and re-read a few John Grisham novels. On the other hand, why postpone the inevitable? I’m current with my writing obligations, I thought to myself, and my schedule is open. I could be up to my eyeballs in book offers next year —(from my mouth to God’s ears).
Besides, who knows if they’ll even select me? Though I don’t know why they wouldn’t. I got straight A’s in Social Studies; I can recite my “Pledge of Allegiance” by heart, and my taxes are all paid. I’d make the perfect juror.
Come to think of it, I could wind up on a really important case. I could be famous with reporters following me everywhere. I wouldn’t give them so much as a sound bite, though. I’d want the public to know I’m trustworthy. Why, I’d even turn down offers to write a blockbuster (at first). And people would know I’m on the up and up. Later, after the screen rights are sold, I could start my own late-night talk show. Maybe even replace Stephen Colbert.
Hey, anybody know where you park for the courthouse?