I’ve been summoned to jury duty four times.

The first three? I didn’t serve.

Two of those times, I didn’t even get the chance.

The first time, the City Courthouse called. I sat, waiting with the hoi polloi in the Jury Room which doubled as the Courtroom doubled as a holding room. The pool, sitting as spectators to the goings-on. It was a drug case; a sixteen year old, caught with a joint in a park.

A whole joint.

The prosecutor was looking to define his career and send this kid to prison. Not county jail, prison, Federal Prison. A point he made quite clear during the very aggressive voir dire.

It took two days, but with the twelfth juror chosen, without my name being called, I said aloud to no one, “I’m golden” and started to gather my things.

I spoke too soon; alternates were still needed, the first name out of the drum was mine. “Oh no!” I thought to myself. “I wasn’t going through all this rigmarole to not get a say in the outcome.”

I was, after all, the Floral and Craft Manager at the local Treasure Island, a most unusual store and giving up two weeks in December, my busiest time of the year, for a bullshit drug bust which I felt was only going to trial because the DA had a hard-on for this poor kid…

Sitting in the witness stand, the Judge asked me, “You’ve heard all the questions and you know the details of the case, is there any reason you shouldn’t serve on this jury?”

“Yes.” I stated simply. “I think this whole thing is ridiculous. We’re talking about one joint, right? No. I won’t convict this kid for doing something I partook in last night.”

“Thank you, Mr Costa. You’re excused.”

Ten years later a summons came from County Court, but a required phone call to the court’s dedicated information line the night before I was to begin, automatedly informed me, my services were not required. I’ll admit, Jew and Gentile Readers both, I felt a little unwanted.

When Federal Court summoned me only a few years ago, I thought, “Finally, the chance for a Martha Stewart-like media-whoreish case.” Alas, t’would not be…I was on a luxury cruise-ship in the middle of the Pacific Ocean ten months into an eighteen month contract. The HR Manager write a letter to the court on my behalf stating, among other things, appearing to serve was not cost-effective and quite obviously a hardship if I was to fly in from Bora Bora. I never got a response. For all I knew, I had a bench warrant out for my arrest…

This time, when the Federal Court  MUST ATTEND summons arrived, I’ll admit, I got excited.

To no one in particular, I said aloud, “Why the hell not? You’ve got nothing else going on and who knows, it could be fun. Let’s get on a jury…”

I hadn’t been inside a courtroom in twenty years. In fact, I’d only ever seen the Federal Courthouse on Law & Order. But there I was, snaking through the security line, surrendering my phone, iPad and MacBook Pro and waiting in holding with now, nothing to occupy the time. Who owns a real book today? A few hours later, I and thirty-two others heard our names, vocally responded, lined up two by two and went to courtroom 11A. It was a big-time murder case, just what I was hoping for.

Ushered in, seated and told the details of the case, the cliff notes version; murder for hire, creepily smiley hit men, Russian mobsters and an uber-attractive DA.

I wanted in. I mean really, who wants get judged by a group of people not smart enough to get out of jury duty? I wanted to do my civic duty. Predicted to last only two weeks, it felt like just enough excitement. And well, it might be fun.

When the Judge questioned me, I gave the right answers, added a wee bit of needed comedy relief and freely admitted there was no reason I couldn’t be impartial when deciding the case.

I didn’t get picked. I don’t know it I seemed too eager or as one of the girls in the pool with me mentioned, “I’d vote anyway you told me. I bet they thought you’d influence the rest of the panel. For whatever reason, it was back to holding for me.

Justice

Us rejects, excused for the day, left with a phone number and instructions to call it in two days time seeking further instructions. Two days later, the message told me to call back, again, in two days time.

Two days later, I call, “You are to report to 500 Pearl Street…”

Fuck.

Now, a week had passed, I wasn’t up to doing my duty anymore. I didn’t want to snake through that security line, surrender my electronics and wait for hours in holding or Gods-forbid, get chosen and serve. Why didn’t I try harder to get out of it in the first place?

Twenty-four names got called, to sit on a civil case. I counted along with each person; twenty-one, twenty-two, Vincent J. Costa, twenty-four.

“Faaah!” I vocally responded when called and thought to myself, “Really? Watch, for this, for this, I’ll get picked…FUCK!”

The Judge, thanked and briefed us; wrongful termination. Union organization, Doormen, superintendents. Corporations are people. Then she asked if we could be impartial. My hand shot up.

“I’m a card-carrying member of not one, but three unions. My father was a union man. I will always vote in favor of the little guy. No amount of argument or persuasion would change my mind. Corporations are not people.” I did not throw my fist in the air and shout, “Fight the power!”

“Thank you for your candor. You’re excused. Please head back to jury holding room, until dismissed.”

“‘…until dismissed.’ Any idea when that would be?” I asked when handing my juror card to the clerk.

“Maybe before lunch, maybe after lunch, just have a seat. We’ll let you know when we know.”

“I heard a rumor,” I started, “that we’re getting dismissed right after lunch ‘cause they don’t want the other non-rejects to know they’re still needed…am I close?”

“Maybe…”

Right after lunch they called out the names of all of us who hadn’t been called before lunch, lined them up two by two and led them away. The moment the door closed the clerk announced, “You’re all dismissed.”

“Whoo hoo!”

“Thank you for your attendance, you’ll be getting your service letter and check in the mail shortly. See you in four years.”

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