Order in the court

My round-the-world trip ended with a summons for jury duty. Because nothing says “Come home!” better than a letter that threatens to put me in jail.

I’m actually one of those weird people who doesn’t mind going to jury duty. While it’s not my ideal way to pass the time, I do think it’s my civic duty and it’s an integral part of my country’s justice system. Plus, if I ever land myself in court, which is a good possibility, I would want a smart gal like me deciding my fate.

However, there was a little matter of me being in Bolivia.

My husband contacted the county court and notified them that I would be out of the country for at least one year. My date was postponed.

Two months later I was summoned again. This time I was in Uganda.

My husband contacted the courts yet again and told them I was out of the country. He was told that we had to provide my itinerary, scans of my passport stamps and details of confirmed flights. We did the best we could, but as a free-form traveler, I didn’t have all of that information.

Unfortunately, the court-bots didn’t understand the concept of travel without a return date. Or travel without a set itinerary. Or travel without pre-booked flights.

A few months later I was summoned again. This time it was for real. I was told that my date, now set for early July, couldn’t be postponed again. Failure to appear would result in a fine, a jail term or some wonderful combo of both.

It somehow felt like an appropriate way to end my trip. What’s more American than serving on a jury right after Independence Day? Throw in some apple pie, and you’ve got yourself an Uncle Sam orgy.

So I flew from Seoul to San Francisco to Palm Springs, arriving home two weeks short of my one-year goal.

Yesterday I drove 45 minutes to the courthouse. I was directed to a beige room and plopped in front of a flat-screen TV to watch “LIVE! with Regis & Kelly.” It was scintillating programming, of course. You know a TV show is good when they include an exclamation point in the title.

A judge thanked us for being good Americans. He also said they would pay us each $15 per day, starting on the second day.

$15? Heck, that’s the best job opportunity I’ve had since returning to U.S. soil. And it’s definitely better than selling blood.

I was determined to get selected. Looking around the room, I didn’t have much competition.

The woman seated to my left told me she breeds miniature dachshunds. She trains them by repeatedly slapping them with a sandal until they behave. She dreams of visiting Italy, but she has a fear of bridges and believes Italy will have too many of them. She travels to Mexico on a monthly basis to buy pharmaceuticals.

The woman to my right sat with her legs spread, both hands jammed inside her stretchable denim pants. She removed one hand long enough to eat a small bag of SunChips multigrain snacks.

The chatty duo behind me said they wanted to serve on the Casey Anthony jury, so they could “fry” her. “I’d give her the death penalty just for getting’ a tattoo,” one lady said.

Out of everybody there, I was certain to be picked. I was a picture-perfect juror. Not only am I bright, attentive and interested, but I’ve been out of the country for a year and haven’t kept up with any local news. It would be 11 Angry Men and One Completely Unbiased and Slightly Uneducated Woman.

Two hours later, I was excused from jury service. They didn’t even interview me.

What a travesty of justice!

 

By the way, if you’re looking to get out of jury duty — (shame on you!) — I learned a little trick when I was part of a jury selection two years ago.

A judge asked a potential juror if there is any reason why he shouldn’t be selected.

“Yes. Because I can read minds,” said the potential juror. “It gives me an unfair advantage.”

“Fine. If you can read minds, tell me what I’m thinking,” challenged the judge.

The potential juror replied, “You’re thinking that you don’t believe me.”

He was excused.