The letter looked ominous. I kept it on the fridge for a month, and the anxiety built every time I read it. I was called for Jury Duty, and the penalty for ignoring it sounded fierce. It was a scramble to find a sub for my three hour stint at Lunch Bunch, especially since I might cancel the night before if I phoned in and was not required to show up in Philly. When I called the recording commanded jurors 1- 234 to come. Anything higher was excused. My number was 232. Since my daughter was home on spring break, and my kids are well versed in child care, I was rescued from dire consequences. 

 

I had brought sewing for the inevitable wait time, but needles do not make the cut for security. Hence I relied on my book Gifted Hands to absorb the time which turned out to be ample enough to finish it. 

 

The hours I spent in a courtroom were a mix of interesting and dull. Fifty people sat in silence while we all waited. At least a few of us were on the clock and if rumors are true were handsomely rewarded for doing nothing. The judge was friendly enough, asking the required questions which have been deemed imperative for eliminating faulty jurors. They told us the particulars of the case and my heart froze. Sitting twenty feet from me was an alleged distributor of child porn. I stared at him, and grieved over the mass destruction of innocence rampant in our broken world. Would I be chosen to decide his fate? Could I even bear to hear the horrific nature of his crimes? Would I be forced to look at evidence of this travesty?

 

I glanced around. No one gasped audibly. There was no head shaking. Could anyone near me hear the screaming in my head? The FBI agent looked like he wished he could be at a stake out, instead of listening to the drone of courtroom preamble. 

 

After lunch the lawyers did their whispering barter, passing notes and vying for the people who seemed sympathetic to their side. Finally the numbers of the selected jury were announced. I had an inkling the girl who looked like she knew her way around an inner city brawl, with a logo announcing it, would be passed over. She was. The silver haired man who had read about the case two years ago was also an unlikely choice. I was the thirty fifth of forty five potential jurors, and wondered if I looked impartial. Was I impartial? Simply hearing the charges I was ready to lash his arms and feet with barbed wire and drop him in a pit of cottonmouths. The judge went on about "innocent until proven guilty" but I cared more about the innocence of five year olds than of a balding middle aged man with beady eyes.

 

It had been that close. I was next in line to participate in the process of justice. 

As I walked out of the courthouse I wondered what my contribution to the integrity of marriage really is. I guess it is better spent upstream. 

 

Photo by Jenny Stein

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