1/3/2011 5:24:51 AM: One of my pieces for those with too much time on their hands.  There will be a quiz on Friday. Hard Time Security was tight.  A stack of green dog food bowls awaited my wallet, cell phone and keys.  Then they asked for my belt.  Ordinarily, I find the prospect of a strip search liberating but, since the Tampa air temperature was 49 degrees, I balked.  I believe they wanted to check my belt for weapons of mass destruction.  Reluctantly, I complied.  I asked the attendant how often people’s pants fall down.  After evaluating me as a potential security threat, she replied, “Its happened.” They ran my meager offering along the conveyor belt through the x-ray machine.  I hoped they couldn’t detect how little money I had in my wallet.  Poverty is not pretty.  If only I’d stopped at the bank first.  I walked through the magic rectangle that, I imagine, detects terrorist leanings.  I passed without incident, with my pants still on.  Far from flying down to Rio, my destination was the Jury Auditorium at the District Courthouse.  I took the escalator to the second floor and gave my summons to Sandra.  She seemed happy to see me.  I scanned the room looking for a comfortable chair, preferably next to someone impartial.  These were my peers?  They seemed mostly white, overweight, and unhappy.  I settled on a fifty-something woman named Karen who was reading from her Kindle.  Just when I was going to pepper her with questions about this sexy reading device from Amazon, a video started playing.  It was part pep talk, part information, and part therapy.  They told us that, in case the attorneys approached the bench and whispered among themselves, “nobody is trying to hide anything.”  I learned not to take it personally if they excused me.  I wondered how many went home bitterly disappointed at not having to spend the next three months sitting in a jury box listening to testimony.  If they excused me, I planned to celebrate by knocking over a convenience store. Tons of well-read magazines weighed down the tables between the chairs.  I considered American Baby, but settled on an Esquire magazine with the recipient’s address ripped off the cover.  It had been years since I dared to venture through its pages.  Billed as a men’s magazine, it had an appalling lack of nudity.  The current iteration promised me fifty-one pages of fall fashions.  Given the magazine is six months old, I’m sure the styles are now passé. I turned the glossy pages with a mixture of curiosity, amazement, and shame.  I had no idea Rolling Stones guitarist Keith Richards peddled Louis Vuitton luggage.  Condoms seemed like a better match for him.  As I viewed the products and models in the ads, I felt embarrassed at my own lack of sophistication.  The men were so pretty I thought the publisher should consider touting it as a woman’s magazine.  I searched for the index hoping to find the piece on cover boy, Tom Brady.  The index was on page thirty-five.  Why even bother with an index if you have to paw through half the magazine to find it?  Just when I was about to learn about the Patriot quarterback’s glamorous lifestyle and fine threads, my name was called.   After three hours and three roll calls, forty of us went to the fifth floor to continue waiting.  As I looked around at the granite benches, grey walls, and stainless water fountains I noticed something was missing.  Entertainment.  Courthouses could turn into profit centers by simply adding a few arcade games.  Talk about a captive market.  I’m sure, if you look up boredom in the dictionary, there’s a picture of a jury pool standing around waiting to be called.  Had anyone considered the appeal of a petting zoo to ease the tedium?  I was about ready to give Esquire another stab when they lined us up and marched us into the courtroom. Finally, some action.  Unfortunately, after explaining the judicial process and our important role in it, they returned us to the halls of boredom.  I’m sure this is done to make whatever case they’re trying seem more interesting to the jury. To pass the time, I wandered into an adjoining courtroom.  I watched as the judge lifted restraining orders and gave defendants a choice between jail or anger management classes.  I thought about the classes.  Did they advise throwing paper plates instead of china?  Was there a discussion of the strike zone when hitting your significant other with a bat?  If you’re throwing someone off the fifth floor balcony, should you make sure there’s a pool directly below?  Worried that I’d miss my call to service, I returned to the halls to wait. Later in the day, I slipped back into the same courtroom.  This time, it was a completely different cast of characters.  I discovered my seatmates were mostly criminals awaiting justice.  My eyes lit on a group of seven dressed in bright orange county jumpsuits.  They wore shackles on their arms and legs and identical beige sandals.  I didn’t think the sandals went with the jumpsuits at all. One of the defendants kept looking at me.  He was a young, thin Hispanic guy with pencil line beard, short dark hair and olive complexion.  He was silently mouthing something to me.  To help me understand, he used his shackled hands to pantomime.  I couldn’t tell if he was miming in Spanish or English, and the hand gestures only clouded the message.  Perhaps he was asking if I brought the hacksaw.  I wanted to signal something back, but thought I’d get busted for aiding and abetting.  I turned away. When I looked back, he was still trying to communicate with me.  What could he possibly want?  Perhaps, this was part of his insanity defense.  As a juror, I’d have bought it.  He really wanted me to know something.  Was he unhappy about the sandals?  Did jail food disagree with him?  Were his cellmates snoring?  I turned around to check the clock and discovered an older Hispanic woman, right behind me, mouthing and using hand signals too.  Much as I was curious about the conversation, I refrained from asking her for details.  If they were planning to bust him out, things could get dicey.  I returned to the waiting area outside the courtroom and thought about my new friend. One member of the jury pool worked for Carnival cruise lines.  It surprised me when he said business was booming.  According to him, it’s cheaper to take the family on a cruise than to go to Disney World.  Parents love the way their kids can be in a contained space while they slam back rum punches at the poolside bar.  I asked if any of the kids ever fell overboard.  He said no but that adults did.  I thought it would take a good deal of effort to fall off an ocean liner.  What could you possibly need to see leaning that far over the rail?  The water looks the same against the ship’s hull as it does twenty yards away from it.  One passenger fell in the water from eight floors up.  After a pleasure boat grazed him, he clung to a buoy until they rescued him.  Some people have a way of delaying judgment day.  Our defendant wasn’t one of them. When we were finally back in the courtroom, the prosecution and defense did their best to agree on twelve of us.  I worked on developing a facial tic.  I’d forgotten to wear my, “Guilty Until Proven Innocent” t-shirt.  Many in the pool had novel excuses.  “I’m a single parent and my child is scheduled for a brain transplant tomorrow.”  Excused.  “I’m supposed to appear in court on another matter tomorrow.”  Two for two.  They let me go after I mentioned my ride back to Mars would be leaving the following noon.  I left with a mixture of emotions.  I’m sure release from prison feels much the same.  There’s elation at being, “on the outside” but regret at the loss of free room and board.  At least felons are exempt from jury duty.