Jury Duty (...continued...)

Each of us had been given a card on which a number was printed. After politely asking that we stand and raise our right hands, he asked, "Do you know the defendant?" and "Are you more inclined to find a policeman's testimony truthful than a member of the general population?" amongst others. He then summoned potential jurors in numeric order.

Before being admitted into the jury box, one would be asked, "Did you answer 'yes' to any of the questions we posed?"

Those who had, were called over to the side of the judge's bench for a whispered conversation between the soon to be excused juror, the defense attorney, prosecutor, and judge. Curiosity ran rampant during these conversations. This entire process was alien to me. As such, I wanted the entire experience. What the hell were they talking about?

Eventually my number was called. As I took my seat in the jury box, I was a mixture of excitement, uncertainty, and dissapointment. Only one seat remained unfilled.

"Number 37," the judge offered.

An African woman dressed in African garb approached the bench hurriedly and without a word. As the judge's voice immediately shrank to a whisper, a court officer went and got a glass of water and brought it to the woman. As she drank, her hand trembled with fear. Curious and sympathetic at the time, I am pretty sure now that she simply didn't speak English and was nervous about the entire process. Moments later she was gently dismissed.

Eventually, the blonde who had shown up an hour and fifteen minutes late, and whose cell phone rang while the court officer took attendance, sat beside me. The jury had been selected. "Who shows up an hour and fifteen minutes late for jury duty," I wondered indignantly as she took her seat.