When I walk into a federal building, my heart races and hands go clammy. Something to do with the austere, authoritative atmosphere, the stench of gray, the chairs of a thousand butts. Erase your face here. You are nothing but another foot of the great shuffling public.
I've been on juries before, but only vice. I can do vice, I mean, I can sit in apparent judgement of what is considered vice, because I think (perhaps mistakenly) that no one ever died from vice.
But this time it was criminal justice, where all the cases, apparently, were the Big M or attempted M, and could last for weeks if not months. We saw an orange jumpsuit escorted down the hall. I kept swallowing The Scream. We Norskis invented The Scream. I'm a skip-in-the-sunshine girl, I can't do this.
How can a blithering pool of jelly do this?
Jean and Miss H were in for jury duty lately, and neither of them blubbered (internally or at least bloggedly) about it. In fact, Jean took the time to work on some sketches. How did she do that? I tried an essay, for like five minutes. Here it is: Oh please, not me, not me, not me, not me.
Then I got called to a panel. And eventually got off the panel. (No, I didn't act like a fool, it wasn't for emotional reasons.)
I met a lot of nice people today; always do in situations like this. Funny, how with people you've never seen and will never see again, you both share some intimate thoughts. Like your plane is going to crash or something.
And the judge seemed suitably judicial, but thoughtful and even sweet. Not everyone got excused.
I'm excused. It wasn't me, it wasn't me, it wasn't me.