When you ask about jury duty, all  anybody ever tells you is how awful it is, so on my way to the courthouse for my first-ever call to jury duty I wonder if I’ll try to disqualify myself during the selection process. I suppose if you went in there and answered the first question with “She be a witch! Buuurn her!” you’d probably get dismissed. But that would be dishonest, and besides, if I weren’t on the jury, someone with terrible judgment might end up in my place, which would really undermine our entire judicial system. What if I were replaced by some moron who didn’t know that a mustache is often the sign of a conniving, sneaky murderer? Then a mustachioed killer goes free. I can’t have that.
    After waiting in an 80-person line to get my number, I choose a seat in the immense waiting room. I end up sitting between two guys who apparently work together. I consider switching seats with one of them, but I keep hoping I’ll be out of here soon, and so I sit and read while they talk across me. Their conversation seems to focus on friends or co-workers who have befallen some awful fate. “Joe got his car repossessed.” “Sally’s divorce is getting messy, what with the custody battle.” “Dick’s cancer wasn’t actually in remission—he’s dead, you know.” I am glad I’m not friends with these guys.
    An hour passes. Then we turn our attention to the TVs at the front of the room, where an instructional video is just starting. I don’t recall the name of the video, but given its cheesy production quality and bad synthesizer soundtrack, let’s call it The Hung Jury.
In the following 17 minutes, concepts such as “defendant” and “plaintiff” are explained. I am incredulous that people who are so stupid that they’ve never heard those terms are allowed to decide whether or not other people should spend the rest of their lives in jail. But if you doubt that juries can be formed entirely of people who make Billy Bob Thornton’s Sling Blade character look like Stephen Hawking, allow me to remind you that right now OJ is probably worrying about whether to use a 3-iron or a 5-wood for that long approach shot, when he should be worrying about how many cartons of cigarettes it will take to keep from becoming Big Bubba’s man-wife in Cell Block 5.
    After the video, about two hours pass before more entertainment occurs. Some woman who was obviously a hall monitor in high school accosts a guy talking on his cell phone. “Sir, if you’re going to use a cell phone, go out in the hall,” she commands. “Do you work here?” the guy asks. “No, but the sign says to go out in the hall if you’re going to talk on your cell phone.” The guy says something to the effect of “mind your own business and get a life,” and Hall Monitor marches up to the front desk and tattles. This prompts the jury-room police officer to get on the intercom and admonish the cell-phone user to go outside while Hall Monitor glares righteously. You can tell she wishes that she, too, had access to an intercom. I personally can’t decide whom I dislike more—the cell-phone gabber or the tattletale. I start thinking that everyone in the room should put the two of them on trial and get the verdict-rendering juices flowing with Inconsiderate Guy v. Woman Who Got Made Fun of a Lot in High School.
    Unfortunately no other fights break out, and after four hours there is still no word on whether my services will be needed. I think through the recent news stories and try to figure out if I might get assigned to something interesting. If I get any cult members abusing their kids, they’re definitely going up the river. I’d also like to get my hands on the shoe bomber. But I’d have to act impartial, which would be difficult. I decide that if they ask me if I’ve heard of Richard Reid, I’ll say “He was awesome with Jethro Tull in the ’70s, but his solo albums leave  something to be desired.” Then I’ll get on his jury and it will be Mr. Sparky for him.
    However, after yet another hour I am dismissed. One might complain that this was a huge waste of time, but the way I look at it, I got to read a book for five hours on a Tuesday. So if any Massachusetts jury-picking people are reading this, I want to let you know that if there’s a mistake and I draw jury duty again within three years, I just might show up.*