Bush
is the nation’s BMOC, swaggering around as if the world were his campus,
despite record high disapproval ratings. The Republican-led Congress, also
tanking in the polls, is a bunch of power-drunk frat boys who can’t keep their
wandering hands off the Constitution. But the judiciary? The third branch of
government? That’s the branch for me.

The
judicial branch — as I saw it when I arrived for jury duty last month — is
the 90s male of the three branches of government. It wants you to know it
cares. It doesn’t swagger. It doesn’t grope. Eager to please, thanks to
sensitivity training by the American Bar Association and some states’ efforts,
the jury system is more user-friendly, accommodating.

Sitting
in the jurors’ lobby on a sunny Friday morning, surrounded by 125 people in
various stages of misery, I twitched with excitement. Finally! I’ll get to be a
juror. I’ll mete out justice! I’ll sway 11 angry men with my brilliant liberal
arguments. I will — dare I hope? — change the world.

Like
a desperate contestant on The Bachelor,
I had dressed to seduce: in this case, bland “normal” clothes. I feared my
typical look — vintage-dress-over-jeans or fuck-you all-black — would
surely get me disqualified during the voir
dire, when both lawyers interview potential jurors. In beige and pink with
a touch of lace, I was an open-minded flower, the kind of girl defense
attorneys and prosecutors crave.

The cheerful
jury administrator welcomed us and listed the many ways jury duty has become
more efficient. But first she said all legal excuses for avoiding serving had
recently been abolished, as if every person in the room didn’t already know
that.

“I’ll
bet this is the first time for most of you,” she said. The unwilling jury
virgins — mostly white, mostly working-to-middle-class — slumped lower in
their seats.

Not
me. “Pick me, pick me!” I urged her silently. The people beside me edged away.

She
continued. Not long ago jurors had to sit in a smaller, windowless room for two
weeks waiting to be picked. Now we have all this. With a Vanna White sweep of
her hand, she indicated the dozen windows, the lunchroom, and the photographic
history of Rochester on display. In addition, she said, jury duty now lasts
only one week. And you can call the night before to see if you’re needed. We
don’t waste your time!

“If
you have any comments or questions, please let us know,” she said sincerely.
“We’re here to serve you.”

Then
the TVs flickered on for a video presentation. You can always tell how much an
institution wants your love by how well-produced its production is. Bush’s
Social Security tour, or his Mission Accomplished debacle, or his ; the TV-and-Internet campaign by GE; and
now the jury system’s ads and video.

Harrison
Ford stars in ABA ads nationally and Ed Bradley of 60 Minutes narrates the slick, 20-minute film shown in the Monroe
County jurors’ lobby. It starts with a scene of medieval justice — a grimy
mob throwing a man into the river. If he sinks he’s innocent, if he floats he’s
guilty. The poor guy sinks and has to be dragged out and revived to celebrate
the verdict.

The
video goes on to appeal to our sense of history (the Ancient Greeks thought up
this nifty system!), our self-interest (that could be you up on the stand
someday!), and our egos (your vote means more here than in elections!).
(Actually, wiping my ass meant more than my vote in 2000.)

We
were divided into four groups. Three groups were whisked off to courtrooms. The lucky ones would go on to
brilliant futures as jurors. Maybe they’d even sit on the trial of a celebrity
molester, a murderer ex-Klansman, or a serial killer.

There
were 30 of us left. We would be called to our courtroom soon, the cheerful
administrator promised.

We
were not called in the first hour.

We
were not called in the second hour.

We
were not called in the third hour.

By 4 p.m., my
group resembled
that medieval mob we’d seen in the video six hours earlier. All day, while we
waited to be called, we’d watched the others come and go. Some had sat on
juries and decided their cases already, others swapped tips for flunking the voir dire. (Say all rapists should be
castrated. Say some of your best friends are the defendant’s
sex/race/religion/shoe size.)

As
the hours passed, my mood had gone from eager to contemplative to bored to
drooling. At this point my mind was moving in lazy loops around the words
“jury” and “duty.”

Jrr-ee.

Doo-ty.

Duty
sounds like doo-dee.

Reporting for
duty.
That’s what John Kerry said at the Democratic Convention. John Kerry said
doo-dee!

Then,
the cruelest cut: Everyone was dismissed — except for my group, of course.

“Come
on, let us go!” one woman shouted toward the desk where the administrator
cowered.

“Tell
the judge we’re not happy,” a jocular man in a golf shirt said, not sounding
very jocular. “This is a waste of my time.”

I
worried the mob would throw her into the river and not wait to see if she sank
or floated. I worried I’d never get my chance to sit on a jury.

Wedding bells
tolled at the church across the street as, moments later, we were summoned to the
courtroom. This was it! I refreshed my lipstick and patted my hair the way I’d
seen older women do. I think it’s for good luck.

Two
male lawyers watched as we entered the courtroom. This was my Miss America
Pageant moment. I held my head high, like Lady Justice herself, except without
the blindfold. I tried not to look too smart or dumb or tall or fat.

Wait.
Which is more average — fat or thin? To cover all the bases, I alternated
between sucking in and pushing out my stomach as I walked.

I
was in. How could I not be? It was a match made in heaven. The jury system,
remade as an eager-to-please groom, weds the ultimate citizen — a blandly
attired bride with a bit of drool dried on her cheek.

But
what was this? The groom stood me up at the altar? It couldn’t be! Rather than
choosing the 16 potential jurors based on their desire to change the world or
their unique ability to morph between thin and fat while walking, the court chose them alphabetically.

How
arbitrary. And typically male. Through tears I watched as Abrams, Agnello, and
the not-so-jocular man in the golf shirt were called to the jury box. What does
he have that I don’t have? I sniffed.

What
he had, it turns out, is the perfect name. His name was America. Had he changed
his name? Or just been born lucky? Either way, Mr. America had it all:
alphabetical dominance, patriotic appeal, and he’d even played hard to get
earlier when he yelled at the administrator. I never had a chance.

This article appears in Jun 29 – Jul 5, 2005.