Continued From: "I, the Jury"
I was six minutes late arriving for jury duty. Nobody yelled at me and the waterboarding over my "alleged" Arby's drive-thru biscuit caper delay was surprisingly convivial -- although the scrambled egg got soggy and was sent off to the Bunko Lab for carbon dating.
The courthouse agenda was uneventful, if you consider a two-hour-plus lunch break normal.
I drove to Quiznos just so I could say "Flatbread Sammie" to a sammich-erecting stranger toting guacamole in a squeeze pouch.
"Would you like chips and a cookie with that?"
"GUILTY!"
I practice in my spare time.
When the jury returned to business for the afternoon, we were soon sent home for the day. I was hoping to make it in time for my five-hour supper.
So, other than lunch, my first day of jury duty was a bust, waiting and waiting and waiting to wait some more.
--Wait.
Okay, I think I wrote that in the correct sequence.
Otherwise, I spent the morning and most of tea time wondering if the judge was wearing pantaloons under his robe.
The rest of the jury is hung on culottes.
I would have to be the lone hold out.
Furrowed brow and glistened lip reconvene at 9 a.m.
I may even wear a necktie so I can loosen it.
