The summons came over Spring Break: Jury Duty was in store for the first week of my summer vacation. I was actually, secretly, excited. Not that I could share my excitement with anyone, oh, no, I had to sigh and say "can you believe it?" The day had finally come. I woke up at 6:30 and begin the perils of public transportation in a city whose public transportation system, the Metrorail, is habitually referred to as the greatest public works failure in Florida. Harried, I arrive at the courthouse at 8:03, just three minutes late for my scheduled appearance. The baliff is very welcoming and jovial and ushers me into a room that is a cross between a massive lecture hall and a giant airplane interior--there are fixed seats too close together and television screens that pop down periodically.
"Let the duties commence!," I'm thinking. But first, a video. Ten people leave the room when the video judge asks who has trouble understanding the English language. Then the film begins: a waving U.S. flag and a photo of the constitution quickly fade to the stern countenance of our chief county judge, who informs us that we are the third largest court in the nation and that I am, personally, "an indispensable part of our justice system."
At this point my mouth is watering with the possibility of a trial. The competition is slowly whittling down: we lose 10 prospective jurors to the language problem, 4 to the residency requirement, and 3 to the whole convicted felon issue. I come to a realization: I don't want to be the failure who doesn't get placed on a trial. The televised judge (we have been watching this video for 33 minutes) says that if you're not selected, "it's not a reflection of you personally." Soon, visions of Jourdan the 19-year-old foreperson dance through my head.
Our video finally ends, and our first feature film, "At First Sight," begins. I traipse off to the quiet room, "quiet" only in that the sounds of the movie are muffled by the glass door. The tables are just high enough to make typing uncomfortable. There are four of us here in this space for meditative reflection: three women, one in her 30s, one in her 40s, and one in her 50s, and me. We are all wearing various shades of pastel cardigans. Lime, violet, turquoise, and pink. I glance out the glass doors and up at the screen: Val Kilmer is rubbing down Mira Sorvino's naked back. For a jury duty video? I'm shocked.
I waltz into the coffee room and a gallant old gentleman offers me the last half-cup of coffee. I split it with him, and approximate how much sugar and cream-powder I should put in my cup. I've perfectly balanced the weak coffee flavor with the artificial creamer and sugar when the movie stops. Is it my turn?
No, no, it's just time to swear in. Except we don't get to swear in. We "reply to" an oath. One hour has passed. They've called three groups of potential jurors out of the jury pool. Not me, though. There are less than twenty of us here. I don't deal with rejection well. I can't believe I won't make it into the jury pool against these peons. I can take them. I've got an astrologer in a gold turban and matching sandals to my left and a man wearing a hearing aid and muttering about paid vacations to my right. Clearly I am the candidate of choice.
A problem comes up at 11:30: all of that coffee has caught up with me. Peeing involves packing up my computer and asking the baliff to escort me to the bathroom, like in elementary school. Instead of a hall pass, I get to wear a cool "Miami-Dade County Official Juror" tag on my lapel.
At noon we have lunch: I snag a sandwich and a caf con leche from the Cuban cafeteria across the street. When I return to the jury room at 1, we begin watching "My Best Friend's Wedding." At 1:30 the baliff tells us that we, the rejected souls who were not jury-picked, are free to go home. We are not needed. I silently remove my "Official Juror" nametag and reluctantly toss it into the bin as I exit. On my way out of the courthouse I see all those chosen jurors, mocking me. I hop on my train and return home, dejected, internally weeping. When I get home, I put on a smile and say "Mom, guess what? I didn't get picked!" My yearning to fulfill my civic duty will just have to stay hidden for now.
