Jury Duty

After gathering my things as they came through the metal detector, I put my watch back on and looked straight up to the roof of the 9 floor Sulfolk County District Courhouse. This wasn't what I had expected. This courhouse not only looked brand new, it was brand new.

"Third floor?" I asked the security guard seated a few feet to my left.

"Fourth," he responded. No coffee makes Seamus a dull-witted boy.

I walked over to the elevator and waited....still unsure of what to expect.

In a large waiting room aptly designated "Jury Pool", I sat with some of my peers and read. Most read in fact. Some stared off into space. One particularly well-dressed gentlman worked on a shiny laptop computer. Another, seated in front of me, read the Wall Street Journal. A college student had a frenzied text message conversation from her cell phone. From time to time, the court officer who had checked each of us in, that sat in the front of the room behind a desk, stood and, accompanied by a tragically unfunny joke, tried to explain to us what we could expect out of the day. Intermintent forced laughter would soon again fall silent as everyone went back to what had previously occupied their attention.

An outdated instructional video regarding our civic duty, a 45 minute break, and some nervousness about the state of affairs in my stomach that kept me from buying a Dunkin Donuts coffee, later, I found myself in a nexus of time. When I looked up from my book, seated beside me, I found a pensive Abraham Lincoln. Beside him sat a now/formerly extinct link in the chain of human evolution.

"Ok, they're requesting a jury in one of the courtrooms. Please gather your belongings as I am unable to lock the door," the court officer directed. "And besides, some of you won't be coming back," he added while simultaneously laughing at an apparent double meaning.

As I sat in the jury pool in the back of the courtroom, I took note of the defendent. My peer, as I would be reminded on more than one occasion by various court personnel, was wearing baggy khacki pants that sat just below his ass. A white button down shirt was just long enough for most of it to be tucked in. A black tie went down around the belt line only it looked to be much shorter because of the height at which he wore his pants. He was young. Maybe 17, maybe 19. His vacant expression distinctly indicated absolutely nothing. I saw no fear, no anger, no resignation. I saw nothing. This was something that would occupy my attention for much of the trial. His hair was in a poofy pony tail. From a police photo the assistant DA would soon hand me, it was apparent he usually wore it in corn rows. Behind the defense sat members of the Boston Police Department. As would later be confirmed, their collective lineage could easily be traced back to a little island just west of England. This was already no secret, however, upon first glance. My attention was briefly rattled as the man beside me \nrepositioned his rear end on his seat. The stench of a poorly wiped ass hit my nose like a mack truck. Instantly, I stopped breathing and turned away. I'd learned a valuable lesson already. Guy next to you moves, hold your breath and turn your head.....TO BE CONTINUED.