There is a letter we all dread receiving, the one marked in capital blue letters, “Jury Summons.” I've had several in my time. In Washington State, it's generally no problem to plead self-employment and get out of the fix.
But I've always felt a certain amount of civic guilt at begging out of such a basic task of citizenship, so I asked the scheduler at the Municipal Court, “Can I put this off until summer, after my busy season?”
Not a problem. I think they're grateful for anyone who doesn't immediate try and squirrel out of the responsibility. It gave me the warm fuzzies yesterday to report for jury duty. I was ready to participate in a basic bedrock task of democracy.
Seattle has a shiny new Municipal Court building, and a plush, top floor jury pool room for us to wait in. There are comfy chairs, free coffee, wi-fi and land line phones, four computers, and floor to ceiling windows on two sides for a stunning view of the waterfront.
But after two novels, two newspapers and a crossword puzzle, the novelty had long since wore off. Two juries were empaneled in the morning, taking about two-thirds of the room. I was a leftover. The afternoon came, and the warm civic fuzzies were long gone. By the time we were were dismissed, 7 hours later, I felt mostly like I had been in high school for the day, specifically, in study hall detention. I had done something bad. I couldn't leave without a hall pass, but now my sentence was up.
Postscript. Last night my back hurt like it hasn't in weeks. The sedentary life doesn't fit me well at all. When I arrived this morning, I said, “You know, I'm really in pain.” “Are you asking for a dismissal?” “I suppose I am.”
We discussed the ergonomic issues at her desk (“They did an assessment, but said it will be two months before I get anything”) and then I was free.
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