Chapter Five: The Hunger
I have already eaten one bag of raspberry filled cookies, and worry about seeming gluttonous if I get something else. I haven’t seen any other potential jurors eat two things from the vending machine.
The clerk told us that the three jury selections occur at 9:00am, 10:30am, and 1:30pm. The first two have now passed, and no one from my room has been called. It is now 11:30 – will they give us lunch? I heard mention of a cafeteria. I wonder if they might have egg salad. I would like egg salad on toast, and perhaps an iced tea right now. That would be very nice.
Why aren’t more people eating snacks? Are they trying to prove a point? I think about the two peppermint patties in my backpack and wonder if they are smushed. No matter, I will still eat them. But I must hold out a bit longer. A foreperson is strong of will.
Chapter Six: The Fatigue
Lack of sleep due to workmares and late-night phone conversations has left me weak. As I look around the room, I see I am not the only one. A young man in a pale blue polo shirt has stretched across four seats and is napping atop a pile of newspapers. A middle aged woman in a mustard-colored sweater set sinks deep into her chair, trying desperately to find a comfortable position. Heads are bobbing as people doze off.
Why won’t someone turn on a TV? The lady said we could, as long as we were respectful of our fellow potential jurors. Doesn’t anyone want to watch daytime television? The news? Inside Edition? A PBS nature show? Why are you all so quiet? No one is talking! How will we ever deliberate if you are all mute?!
I am screaming inside my head right now I am screaming inside my head right now I am screaming inside my head right now.
Chapter Seven: The Recharging
I have to get away. I just need my space. I feel so trapped.
I look down and notice that my laptop battery is about to die. I have to find an outlet qui
Chapter Eight: The Eating
A kind-eyed woman with short reddish hair grabs the PA microphone and tells us all that we can leave for lunch now if we like. We have to be back in time for the 1:30pm jury selection slot. She then warns us that they often “lose” jurors during lunch. She tells us that abandoning your civic duty is an offense punishable by a fine, or even by prosecution. I nod my head in agreement as I glance over at the woman in pink. She’s a flight risk. A foreperson never leaves her post.
Four hours of not speaking has taken its toll on me, so within minutes of leaving the courthouse for lunch, I start calling my friends. Dee-Dee and Vivian do not pick up, so I leave messages. I resent that they are not available.
Next, I call my friend Georgia, and when she picks up, I don’t say hello. I just sigh and say, “Jury duty is boring.”
She laughs, “Is it? Why are you calling me? Are you done already?”
“No, just on lunch break. They haven’t even called anyone from our pool yet. I’m driving around the metropolis of Rolling Meadows to find somewhere to eat. Oh! Hey – there’s a Pizza Hut. Oh – and a Quizno’s!”
“Ooh – Quizno’s is good. I love their ads with the little hamster guy.”
“Me too. I mostly like when he says, ‘They got a pepper bar!’ I thought they took those off the air?”
“Did they? Well, it’s still a great commercial.”
“Yeah. Okay, well, I’m gonna go get a toasted sub. It’s the toasting that makes all the difference, you know.”
“That’s what I hear. Good luck!”
“Thanks. Talk to you later.”
Chapter Nine: The Disappointment
It’s 1:43pm. The third and final jury call has come and gone, yet we all remain. We are told that we need to stay here until 2:30pm just in case, but then we are free to go.
A wiry man with an eagle tattoo on his hairy forearm turned the TV on about an hour ago, and the entire room flocked toward its warm glow. We all sit transfixed, watching Ambush Makeover and Live Like a Star. An episode of Texas Justice comes on, and we see the case of a woman whose hair was burned off when a beautician tried to straighten it.
She is suing for $2,500 and the beautician is countersuing her for $500 because the stress of the lawsuit has caused her to miss work. It makes me wish I were on a jury right now, because even I know that this countersuit has no merit.
A news blurb comes on about Andre Agassi’s latest victory at the US Open, and the tattooed man leans over and tells me that he watched Agassi’s match yesterday. His voice carries no inflection when he says, “I saw him play last night. It was amazing. He was down two games, and then came back to win it all. He’s 35.”
I open my eyes wider and nod as I say, “Really? Yeah, he’s really good.”
“My neighbor is a tiny little Chinese man and he plays tennis three, four times a week.”
“Wow. That’s great exercise.”
“Yeah. Especially for an 83 year old guy. He gets around, I tell you. Tiny little guy.”
“Wow.”
I hesitate to offer any more than this because my instincts tell me that the tattooed man could be a talker. He may have been waiting patiently for the past five hours for someone like me to engage in conversation. I can’t be that person. Not now. Not at 1:57pm.
As the clerk informs us that we are free to leave, she calls us up to the desk to collect our paycheck for the day. I have mixed feelings as I accept my check for $17.20. I haven’t really done anything to earn this money. I didn’t even get interviewed. My company paid me for my time, and I wasn’t even able to help forward the wheels of justice.
I would have been a good foreperson. I just know I would have.
But now I am leaving the courtroom feeling a bit rejected. It’s like being stood up for a date. I was so ready to finally make a name for myself in the Cook County justice system. I dressed nicely, but not too nicely; I read the summons three times, taking care not to miss any important details; I even brushed up on my shorthand skills so that I could quickly take down all the critical notes from the trial.
I am the last person to leave the room. I carefully fold the check in half, and then in half again. As I unzip the pocket on my backpack, I discover the two peppermint patties I had been rationing all day. They are not smushed. I pause to look back at the jury room once more before exiting through the glass doors, then slowly unwrap my candy as I ride the escalator down.

Filed under: General on September 13th, 2005