Civil-licious Baby!

Monday, I was called to serve jury duty.

In truth, I was called to sit in the "Juror Lounge" and wait to serve jury duty. I decided to chronicle this little adventure for your benefit and that of all posteriors.

7:47 am - I arrive at the parking garage and secure one of the 150 juror parking spots. Juror parking is on the roof of the garage. Sherpas assist me in hiking back to the ground level.

8:31 am - We are advised that things will start shortly. It is Juror Appreciation Week. Free donuts and coffee abound.

9:12 am - Orientation starts. We watch as a lady blathers on and on about things that have already been addressed: be nice to the Sherpas. Don't hit or steal. Sit quietly with your hands to yourself. This goes on for an hour.

10:22 am - We go on our first break. Low jacks are stapled under our skulls, and those jurors who appear to be a flight risk are escorted by heavily armed guards dressed in black.

10:38 am - Roll call is taken. We are advised to answer "here" when our name is called. I suddenly feel like I'm back in high school. Not in a good way either.

10:53 am - The first fifty jurors are called and the rest of us are waiting.

11:27 am - The second group is called and those with enough influence, or money, or luck are allowed to leave the "lounge" or as I like to call it Free French Morocco. The rest of us must sit and wait, and wait, and wait . . .

11:45 am - We are released for lunch. Between now and our break, barb wire and machine gun towers have gone up. Also, someone is giving orders in what sounds suspiciously like German.

1:32 pm - Some fellow dealing in "letters of transit" approaches me, speaking in a strange, European accent that I can't place.

2:18 pm - As a demonstration of efficiency, the little European fellow is captured. He calls out, "Rob! You must help me! Rob!" But I stick my neck out for no one.