Jury Duty

Jury Duty 

I got my notice to appear for jury duty one day, which felt like a cosmic joke. I have trouble judging people even in the privacy of my own mind, let alone in a courtroom where the whole point is to decide someone else’s fate. The idea of participating in punishment was so far outside anything I wanted to involve myself with that I briefly considered pretending I’d moved to another dimension.

But there I was anyway, sitting in a courtroom while a man up front lectured us on the responsibilities of being a “good juror.” When he reached the part about whether anyone felt they wouldn’t make a good juror, my hand floated up like it had a will of its own.

He did not look thrilled.

He motioned me over for a “little talk,” the kind that already felt like trouble. I told him, as calmly as I could, that serving on a jury was against my religion. His eyebrows climbed. Next thing I knew, he was escorting me to the center of the courtroom where the judge was conferring with the defense and prosecuting attorneys. My escort whispered something to the judge while pointing at me like I was a suspicious package.

The judge finally turned to me. “What seems to be the problem?”

I told him I didn’t think I could handle the karma of the situation.

“Karma?” he repeated, like I’d just introduced a foreign object into his courtroom. So I started to spell it for him—K-A-R—but halfway through, his face turned red. He’d figured it out. And he did not appreciate the revelation.

He jabbed a finger toward my seat. “You’d better get back there.”

He clearly didn’t want to hear anything else I had to say, so I went back to my chair in the jury box, trying to shrink myself into invisibility.

In the courtroom, the prosecuting attorney was asked whether he thought anyone on the jury was unfit. He looked at me, then at the judge, and said everyone was fine.

I shook my head and muttered, “Oh brother.”

Finally, the defense attorney was asked the same question. He didn’t even scan the room. He just pointed straight at me and said, “You’re out of here.”

I stood up, relieved beyond measure, and mumbled under my breath, “I would like it if God didn’t always wait till the very last second to make His move.”

I did not look at Mr. Judge on my way out.