Adrienne Writes

The summons arrived. I called to verify my presence was needed. I drove out to the outer reaches of Cook County.

I brought my own sandwiches, apples, peanut butter for dipping, thermos of chocolate-flavored coffee, potato chips, sunflower seeds, bottles of water, blanket, the latest issues of EBONY and Esquire and pop. I was prepared. I also threw my netbook, mp3 player, Nook, Blackberry and Evo into my purse for good measure.

Of course, all of these items are BANNED from the Maywood courthouse, per the sign hanging outside the lobby. But Aunt Donna, grandma Madear and my dear mummy Melva said that I would thank them later for packing my own personal winter picnic in preparation for jury duty. I arrived at the courthouse at 8 a.m., parked and walked – heavy bag in hand – to wait in line with the other 100 jurors.

Security was tight, or at least they barked a lot. Some evil chick with a dirty blond pony tail and a gun told me to stand at a yellow line – even though said yellow line didn’t exist. Whatever. I didn’t respond to her antics, instead noting her badge number.. On to the next one.

I’m searched, poked and prodded.

OK. That’s a lie. They had me walk through the security machine/metal detector wearing my puffy winter coat. They waved a wand between my legs. The wand beeped and chirped. They looked me up and down and said “Go on in.” I picked up my bag. Then a deputy stops me and asks: “where ARE you going? Jury duty?”

Ah. He’s familiar with the ritual of what’s in my bag. “Yes. I say. Jury duty.”

So much for that “Take these items back to your car immediately” sign. You were a fool if you brought your water back to your car because, here, once you get inside that jury room, you can’t leave.

I walk down a flight of stairs, into the basement of the courthouse and THAT’s when the fun begins. I was instantly transported into 1985, and the surroundings reminded me of a few scenes in Ghostbusters. Key points here: The chicks in the jury room had big, Dynasty hair and were wearing acid-washed jeans rolled up at the ankles. The Italian dudes wore gold chains, gold glasses and velvet track suits. The Harley Davidson biker was all leathered and tatted up. The waxy plastic mouthwash-gargle sized cups near the water fountain were yellowed and cracked.

Popular Chicago newsman Lester Holt appeared on a tinny TV screen, talking about “This video will explain to you why you’re a juror and what to do if you are selected for a jury.” Lester had an ’85 ‘do and an ’85 mustache and his hair was all black. Jet black. The video cracked into white for a moment. Then the tape (I’m assuming it was tape. After all, I timewarped…) fixed itself.

This video explained key vocabulary such as plaintiff and defendant and attorney. I wondered if they might’ve done better to just show an episode of Law & Order: SVU. But anyway… The video went on for 15 minutes. Then CBS daytime TV was the background noise of the day: The Price is Right, Let’s Make a Deal, The Bold and the Beautiful.

I’m in panel 7. I’m to listen hard for my number. So I listen and don’t hear anything. I pop in my mp3 player. It doesn’t quite drown out the TV. I walk to the “quiet room” which is really a closet with no door that is adjacent to the TV room. There’s no seats in there. I go back to my cushioned red chair. I’m waiting for the Stay Puft  Marshmallow Man to burst out the vending machine and slime me.

I had to get on Twitter. Was I hit by a Mack truck on the way to jury duty and now I’m in some sort of holding cell before final judgment? My followers assured me that I was alive, but that hell probably did include endless daytime TV.

10 a.m. passes. I eat a sandwich.  Read a few magazines. Respond to several emails. 11 a.m. passes. I drink a cup of coffee. Noon passes. I kill a bottle of water. 1 p.m. passes. More coffee. Chips. Write a story on the computer. Dance in my chair to Little Brother. Write some more. And so on and so forth and so on and so forth.

I didn’t get picked. I knew I wouldn’t get picked. I’m a journalist, I’m the daughter of a person who is in court all the time and I was the only person not looking like I got dressed in a vintage store. I was also the youngest person there, and only one of a handful who actually brought reading material. I was the only one with food – that’s for sure.

Finally they handed me a check for the grand total of $17.20 and told me to go home.

So I did.