I left home this morning en route to San Diego’s downtown Hall of Justice. The night’s rain hadn’t clogged the cement arteries as expected, leaving me enough time to do my signature get-lost-everytime-I-go-downtown routine.
After some tired opening remarks, my fellow potential jurors and I waited for our names to be called. Two and a half hours later, I closed another losing game of Vegas-style three-card draw solitaire on the Treo, unplugged the shuffle’s earbud from my left ear, grabbed my $1.50 bottle of water, and made one last pit stop to blow my stuffiness into a paper towel before heading up to a courtroom.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t among the first 18 selected for questioning. I watched the process alongside the other spares. The lawyers didn’t dismiss enough people to give me my shot, so the rest of us went back into the jury pool for another run after lunch.
The post-lunch waiting room was thin enough to find a seat near the TV to watch CNN’s version of presidential race. Another hour later, an amplified female voice fell from the ceiling tiles, “The docket is now clear. You may all head home having completed your service. Thank you.” I stamped my receipt and let myself out, disappointed.
