"A jury consists of twelve persons chosen to decide who has the better lawyer." - Robert Frost It was 9:40 a.m.  I sat on the hard wooden bench in the hallway of justice.  I was late.

“I would have been here earlier, your honor,” I rehearsed, imagining the chastising that was to come,  “But the kids had to be woken up and lunches had to be made.  The dog threw up on the carpet and my youngest couldn’t find his other shoe.”

Having arrived about a half an hour late, hair uncombed and still wet and clutching my county issued parking pass in my left hand, I drove around in circles in the parking lot for 30 minutes, searching for the one remaining, empty and very hidden space.

The parking lot was like a maze.  I drove around and around, from lot to lot, never quite sure where I was and where I should go next.  I began to talk aloud to myself which is never a good sign.  I glanced down at the parking instructions, written in the tiniest of print, but as is typical these days, I couldn’t read them.

What kind of welcome was this for someone who was here to do their civic duty?

I called the telephone number after 5:00 p.m. the night before, as instructed by the letter highlighted in bold red ink.  Sunday night I had gotten off easy.  I was on standby.  I liked standby.  I could do standby.  Standby was something I had perfected.

Monday night my luck changed.

I found a spot next to a dented blue Dodge whose owners were reminiscing about the smell of barf.  A mile from anywhere, I began the trek to find the hallway of justice.  With a certain amount of trepidation, I managed to find my way into the Jury Assembly Room, 102J.  A mass of people awaited me, sitting in chairs and facing the blank white wall at the front of the room.  What were they looking at?

The woman at the back of the room greeted me and instructed me to sign the slip and leave a daytime phone number. I fought the temptation to give her the wrong number, fearful that someone would notice.  Italian Catholic guilt is a powerful thing.  “You missed the orientation”, she said.

“I was searching for a parking space for 30 minutes,” I replied, “Are there actually parking spaces out there?”

She was not amused.  “They’ll call you by name into the courtroom.  There are too many of you for numbers.  If no other groups get called in the next few minutes, I’ll let you all go on break.”

I could hardly wait.  I found my way back out to the hallway of justice and located about twelve inches of dark polished oak what would be my home for the next few hours, at least.

9:40 a.m.: The first 15 minute break begins.  “Now would be a good time to put anything in your cars,” she said.

Yeah right.

10:00: The break must be over but no one said anything.  My butt was starting to hurt.

10:15:  A perky little voice came over the PA system.  What was it she just called us?  Victims?  The list began.  100 names.  Smith, Joseph 14350, Wilson, Ann 22456, McCourt, Jill, 33456.  My chair mates both got called.  I listened intently, as did the others.  She finishes this list.  I caught a fist pump from the good looking guy on the next set of benches.  We’ve escaped, for now.

11:00  “I’m baaaack!”  There she was again.  “The good news is, you are all on lunch break.  The bad news is that when you return from lunch you will all be reporting to Courtroom #1.  You are expected to be in the courtroom no later than 1:30.  If you are not there at 1:30, you will be held in contempt of court….. and that’s not a good thing”

To quote my 14 year old, “Ya think?”  Not only do we get to have lunch at 11:00 in the morning, but we have the pleasure of looking for yet another parking space as there is nowhere to eat within walking distance.  I can hardly wait.

12:45  I pass through security.  Getting to the checkpoint early was the key.  I set off the alarm, but after waving the wand over me from head to toe, the guard seemed unconcerned about the potentially lethal hairclip used to hold back my graying locks.  Who says homeland security isn’t working?  I made my way to the plush accommodations of Courtroom #1 by 12:50 and sat on the shiny dark oak benches in Judge Daum’s neighborhood.

Sometimes anticipation is better.  Before something happens, you can fantasize, imagine, and worry.  Nothing has occurred, and yet the impact of that nothingness can be exciting.  Shortly after 2:10 p.m., the nothingness ended.  As the 10 foot oak door swung open and the bailiff emerged, that nothing turned into something.

We sat like kids waiting to be chosen on the playground for kickball.  All lined up, looking fit and ready to go.  In grade school, not being chosen meant you were not popular.  Not being chosen meant you were not competent.  Not being chosen was an embarrassment.

In grade school, no one wanted to be the kid who wasn’t chosen.

On this day, I was praying not to be chosen.  I wanted to be the unpopular one, the one that nobody wanted.  “Please.  Don’t pick me.  I can’t kick.  I’m wearing the wrong shoes.  My glasses fall off when I run.  Please don’t pick me.”

OK, so I wasn’t picked.  I breathed a sigh of relief.  But this is no ordinary kickball game.  The captain gets to pick and then he reviews the pick.  And then he gets to change his mind.  Unfortunately, the captain changed his mind one too many times.

“I can’t kick,” I told the judge.  “Your honor, I’ve never been good a kickball.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine”, he said with a smile.

‘I have the wrong shoes on,” I pleaded.

“They will work,” he assured me.

“But, my glasses will fall off.”

“No problem, lots of kid’s glasses fall off.  You just put them on again.”

The selection process was relentless.  Now it was time for the attorneys to review the picks. They ask you lots of questions that you have no idea how to answer.  I hadn’t been that confused since 8th grade Algebra.

“Do you agree that a person is innocent until proven guilty?”

“Have you ever met my mother?” I asked smugly.

“What if the people can not prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant is guilty?”

“Whose people?”  I wonder aloud.

By the end of the day, I found myself sitting in the seat that was supposed to be occupied by Juror # 6.

Did it matter that I didn’t want to be Juror #6?

At 5:40 the next morning, I switched on the bedside lamp.  Did I really have to play?  What if I talked my Mom into letting me stay home from school?  I felt a sore throat coming on.  My stomach already hurt.  I was sure I could come up with something.

I dragged myself back to the hallway of justice.  My hairclip did its job once again, but homeland security again dismissed it as if it is nothing.  If only they knew what danger lies within that hairclip.

I caught the eye of another chosen one.  Did he want to play?

I took a deep breath.  The excuses continued to flood my brain.  “I have a sore throat.”  “My mother doesn’t want me to get my dress dirty.”  “I think I have to make up the Algebra test.”

“Come on in,” the bailiff called.  We filed in like lemmings and sat down.

“Thank you for coming,” said the judge.  “We want to thank you for your time and service.  There has been an unusual turn of events…..”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

The game had been cancelled.