*Who doesn’t LOVE jury duty? Me, that’s who. The below first appeared on Hey Holl on August 18, 2010. Enjoy!

I approached my mail that day like any other day. I came home, set my lunch tote down, and proceeded to flip through the stack of junk mail and bills that were strewn about the counter. Then, I saw it…it was my issue of Los Angeles Magazine that I had been anxiously awaiting (hey, it was the Best of L.A. issue okay!). Though my euphoria quickly dissipated when I saw what was underneath my magazine. One of the most dreaded pieces of mail one can get: a jury summons.

August 17: the day of my civil servitude. I could already feel the anxiety building in my chest as the alarm blasted like a bullhorn to wake me from my slumber. For the first time in months, I actually WISHED that I would be going to work. (Yikes!) I ventured out into the mean streets of BrowCo well before my normal departure time of 7:40 a.m. in order to make my 7:45 a.m. call time. Annoyingly on time as always, I made my way into the Jury Assembly Room along with my 300 new friends, took my seat, and waited for the festivities to begin. Comfortably nestled into my seat and enjoying my book, I shot out of my seat after a loud and unexpected “ALL RISE!” and in came the man in black. No, not Johnny Cash or Mr. Death himself (though it may have been death seeing the way I felt about being here at all), but merely the judge here to give us a oath to be truth-tellers, a history lesson on the judicial system and lead us in the Pledge of Allegiance. After a short video about what it means to have “jury duty,” the fun was about to start. Did I mention we said the Pledge of Allegiance? That was a flashback to the first grade for sure!

The panel assignments, or the “unlucky lottery” as I like to refer to it, began by our half deaf “leader” MaryLou. She slowly called number after number, all the while I’m sitting there thinking “please don’t call my number. please don’t call my number.” “24….6…..7.” Too close….I don’t think anyone had ever heard a sigh filled with more relief. “2457?. . . 2462?” Sweet mother of God, she’s getting closer. . . this computer must have had it out for me. Then I heard it. . .”2463?” (insert barrage of profanity here) With the most disgruntled and disgusted tone that I could muster, I announced my presence: “here.” I’d like to note that out of all the times that I’ve waited for my numbers to be called, this. . .THIS is when it happens. For real?! Hey number pluckers in the sky, how about calling my numbers the next time I buy a lottery ticket? That’d be swell, thanks.

Another 40 minutes or so ticked off the clock and then my panel was called. We assembled with our clerk and made our way up to the 7th floor courtroom where we were lined up once again by our new caretaker, Deputy Juan, who by the way MIDDLE NAMED me and no one else. What the hell? I’m already singled out as the “naughty juror.” Arranged into our lines, we were announced to enter the courtroom, which by the way is NOTHING like Law & Order. It took every ounce of self control for me not to yell out “You can’t handle the truth!” I think that random outburst may have gotten me excused from jury duty instantaneously. I should have acted on impulse.

What followed for the next few hours was the judge’s “E-harmony questionnaire” and the attorney’s social studies lesson/interrogation of those that they felt they needed more information from. When the defense attorney, Shady Shaderson himself, set his rifle of questions on ME, he may as well had been shining a bright light in my face DOWNTOWN! He wanted answers and damnit, he was going to get his answers. With the fluorescent lights beating down on me, he was through with me, acquiring all the information he felt he needed to determine my impartiality. Wishing I had my invisibility cloak, I made my finest attempt to lay low for the rest of the inquisition. Once again excused from the courtroom, a mere 30 minutes stood between us and the sweet taste of freedom.

Paraded back into the courtroom once again like cattle, we were seated this time in the back of the cracker box courtroom rather than in the jury box. There were thirty of us anxiously awaiting our fate. Juror #1. . . not me. Phew. Then, there it was, like a door slamming in my face, the door to freedom had been closed: he called my name. Remember that barrage of profanity from before, insert that here, but with more emphasis. I stood up, made my way to the jury box, picked up the button that was on my seat, sat down, and waited for the accompaniment of my five other friends. There we were. . . the magnificent seven all together, all having been stripped of our potential freedom in a matter of moments. As the twenty three others were kindly released from their day of servitude, I looked down at the button in my hand that solidified my two day sentence: “JUROR.”

This did NOT just happen.