I want to sit on Jury Duty. I want to be like Henry Fonda, and convince everyone that this open and shut case isn’t as simple as it may seem, and this is a man’s life we’re talking aboutfor God’s sake and there comes a time in every American’s life when he has to stop worrying about his own convenience and stand up for Justice. Problem was, I got called in on a Wednesday, and I had a plane ticket booked for early Friday.

Talk about open and shut cases. I would go down to the court, tell them I was flying to Atlanta on Friday, thus proving the whole ceremony of selection was academic, and I would be let free. Sounds simple, yes?

I live about 12 minutes by train to the Long Island City Courthouse. So, of course, I’m called to the one in Kew Gardens. After getting all Vespucci with a Subway map and the Yellow Pages, I determine it will take three trains to get out there, at least 90 minutes. But I have to go, because I can’t plead for dismissal over the phone, and I do not want to get a $250 fine.

So, getting up dreadfully early, I head to the Court. I intend to get there at 8, figuring I could quickly speak to someone about my flight, and be told that I could go. Much like the young couple eager to get to Lisbon, I found that Captain Renault did not share my enthusiasm for morning meetings.

Come twenty after nine, the holding pen was filled to capacity. This dreadful, hazy, beige room, filled with fluorescent rays and ammonia vapor, not to mention those 50s-style glass doors with painted-on names, had hundreds of confused citizens of Queens. Finally, a woman took to a microphone.

Dozens of people stood up to ask questions, me included. “I cannot answer questions right now. Please do not ask questions. Please do not leave your seat. Please take the white and blue card you have out. Make sure you have your white and blue card.”

Nearly everyone had their white and blue card. Furthermore, nearly everyone had reason to grumble about the need to ask a question right now. None so good as flying to Atlanta in two days, though.

“Please make sure you have the final section of your white and blue cards filled out.” Everyone begins filling them out. “Now please pass this along on the person to your right.” Everyone tears the newly filled out, perforated section. “Please do not tear them,” the woman continues calmly. The whole room groans. The woman is unmoved. “I tore mine!” someone shouts. “Please do not tear them,” the woman reminds us.

The white and blue cards are collected. The woman disappears and is replaced by a gun-toting cop. Anyone who raises his hand is ignored. Anyone who gets up to try and peek around the corner to ask the woman a question is told to sit down. One is only allowed to stand if one is going to the bathroom, which is in the opposite direction of the woman.

Finally, the woman comes out to read names, about fifty of them. If your name is called, and you do not line up, you are marked absent, even if you have been waiting the whole time and are sitting on the john when names are called. The names on this list are led from this dreadful room by cops. The list is life.

She goes away again. Then she comes back, reads another fifty names. They, too, leave. More time passes, more names. The room is really starting to thin out. I feel brave, so just as a group is being led away, I zip up to the caller.

“Hi, I know we can’t ask questions. But I’m flying to Atlanta in a day and a half, so I know I won’t get picked for a trial. Can’t I be excused?”

“No excuses.”

“Yes, but I’m flying on business and I simply must go.”

“Tell it to the judge.”

Tell it to the Judge? Gee, that sounds like an insult. I think I’m insulted. I’ve been waiting for hours, patiently, playing by the rules, now I’m being insulted.

Finally, my name is called, and I am lined up by two beefy, thick-accented cops. One is stout with a mustache, one is white as a ghost and looks like the farmer from Babe. They tell us how we are going to go across the street, through metal detectors, past the East Wing, and into room 122. We do so. My Swiss Army knife is confiscated as we enter, but I am sure to get a receipt.

We get to Room 122. I expect to see the Judge. Other than my 49 other confused comrades of all ages and ethnic origins, there is no one. I’ve been at the facility for nearly four hours. As I wait another twenty agonizing minutes, I realize I’ve got a Tales of Hoffman unfolding before my eyes. And if it’s gonna be long and painful for me, it’s gonna be long and painful for you, too.

Continued next week