The new President called us all to service.
So on Inauguration Day I reported for jury duty. I saw his swearing-in at a crowded bar, which had no room to feed me. As he recited the oath I had a peculiar feeling, because that morning I had been chosen. For the first time in my life I was a juror.
It was a civil case. Comforting that no one would go to jail (except, as it turned out, for me).
We heard the evidence over a day and a half, and I was awed with the great majesty of our democracy. Lawyers on both sides put their spin on the facts. The judge kept them moving, sometimes urging a needed objection. The plaintiff and defendant sat at opposite ends of the room, glaring at everyone but each other.
Then there were we 13 "volunteers." Jury duty barely pays you lunch money and while we had been called we had accepted, we had not weaseled out. We listened to everything. Many took notes which were left in the jury room at night. No one discussed the merits of the case, just as we had been told.
Then, as we were about to go decide, just as I was about to go on stage, came the announcement from the bench. I was the alternate juror, the 13th, the extra. I would be taken next morning to an empty room, this room, my cell until the others could come to unanimous agreement, and rescue me.
My cell measures 8 feet by 10 feet. I measured it just as a prisoner would. It contains a table, five chairs, and a set of plastic drawers containing forms. Two small trash cans, a telephone, and a few old newspapers and magazines, along with your humble prisoner-of-the-bar. On the walls are two prints with platitudes, and on the far wall a plastic holder contains some sad forms in Spanish, meant for criminal defendants. Next to me stands a sign which can be placed in the hall, urging quiet.
Were I a free man there is much I could say, about the case. It seems simple enough to me, the proper verdict obvious. I am certain I could sway my fellow jurors if I were free, and so return home.
But I can't. I'm not. They will do as they wish without me, taking whatever time they deem necessary, while I sit here in my cell, alone but for this pad, a book, some papers, and my iPod, where Norah Jones sings sweetly of patience.
This is the way the system works. I have done nothing wrong. I have done my duty. I am not a party to this dispute, although I have heard all the testimony. Yet I remain in my cell, unable to work, or to even (I think) go to the bathroom, until the others settle on their decision, and I am released, to hear it and then to return to the wider world.
It's a small act of submission I make. I realize it is being made, simultaneously, by hundreds of others, in courtrooms across the land. And this humbles me, this willingness of other men and women to also let themselves be imprisoned for a time, that others might find justice.
But it's the least I can do, for my country, and for my own liberty. I'm certain that, were I harmed or facing charges, you would do the same for me.
It is this willingness to serve that makes America special, and I hope that as the President moves forward to save this land, we are all willing to heed the call to service.
UPDATE: As you may have guessed, the jury has returned its verdict. They worked right through lunch, releasing me just as I was about to faint from low blood sugar. I ran to a fast food joint and wolfed down a sandwich, then accepted a ride home from my daughter. God bless America.
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