I am the Susan Lucci of Jury Duty. Really. One day I’m going to open my mailbox and see a summons to come to the Stepford County Courthouse to pick up my lifetime achievement award—which we all know is code for you’re-never-really-going-to-win-but-your-repeated-attempts-are-getting-awkward.
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve received a jury summons from Stepford County. And not once, have I been seated as a juror (I know, I can’t believe it either). I’m always very excited when I open the mailbox and see a summons addressed to me. (Shut up. I know it’s a little weird.)
I always diligently respond to the questionnaire. I never claim an exemption. Even when I was a stay-at-home mom, I would hire a baby sitter so that I might be given the chance to perform my civic duty. I’m always hopeful that by being eager, prompt, and thorough, I’ll receive some sort of favor from the karma that governs jury duty and this time, finally, I’ll be seated as juror number whatever.
Truth be told, the reason I have not so far and most likely will never be seated as a juror is because ... wait for it, wait for it ... I’m too smart (and I have big mouth). Really. Attorneys do not want jurors who are extremely bright. Bright people think for themselves. Bright people have well formed and thought out opinions. Bright people are not easily manipulated by emotionally charged arguments delivered upon silver tongues. Because of this blatant discrimination against the intellectually superior, someone always has a problem with me. Okay, okay ... the prosecutor always has a problem with me. And so it was for the billionth time last week. I had promised myself I would be as silent as a Republican at a Fourth Amendment Convention (which I’ve determined is the easiest way to get on a jury short of being stupid). And perhaps, just this once, I would slide under the radar and into the jury box.
No dice.
The morning started out well. The case I was assigned to would have six jurors. I was number seven out of a twenty member pool. This meant that as long as I could keep my mouth shut, I just needed someone numbered one through six to say something that would get their ejector chair to fire. I was hopeful.
Number six, who was sitting to my right, pulled out some reading material while we waited to be called into the courtroom. Being curious (okay, nosey) I couldn’t help but notice when he cracked open Glenn Beck’s Common Sense: The Case Against an Out-of-Control Government, Inspired by Thomas Paine. (I suddenly felt a need to bathe, vomit, bolt from the room, whack Number six about the head and shoulders— you get the idea). Unfortunately, Number six took my discomfort as interest and spoke to me. (Damn. It. To. Hell.)
Number six, “Ya read Mr. Beck?”
Me (stifling an eye roll), “Oh, um, no.”
Number six, “This book here, Common Sense, is really a good ’un.”
I just gave a thin lipped smile in response. There was no way I was getting booted from this jury pool by getting into an argument over Glenn-the crazy train-Beck.
Number six, “Ya know who Glenn Beck is?”
(Good God. Why does this ALWAYS happen to me?)
Me (deciding that just this once honestly was not the best policy), “No.”
Number six, “Not much on politics, eh? A lot of women ain’t. That’s why I thought Sarah Palin would a been good for the country. Ya know, would a given you ladies a gurl to look up to an all.”
(Father in Heaven ...)
Before I can appropriately respond to Number six (because I was going to respond), we were called into the courtroom and Number six’s life was spared and I still had a chance to be seated on the jury.
