Before we moved up to the mountains, DW and I had been summoned maybe twice each in the 30 years we lived in a west Denver suburb and raised a family.
Within weeks of moving to the mountains and registering to vote, we both had jury summonses. I asked the court clerk when I showed up the first time, "So, do you have some sort of Fresh Meat list of potential jurors?"
"Oh, no, sir," she replied. "It's absolutely random which citizens get summoned."
We live in a county the size of Rhode Island with fewer than 15,000 permanent residents, so I suppose I should have believed her, but I didn't.
That first time in the County courtroom was illuminating--and so much fun! The judge, a self-important little man with some weasel DNA in his genome, in an effort to incite the jury pool to ever greater heights of civic duty, proceeded to declaim the Gettysburg Address. But the experience got better:
The Voire Dire was worthy of its own reality TV show. Question by the defense attorney to a potential juror:
Q: "Do you know the defendant personally, or have you ever had any contact with him or knowledge of his behavior that might influence your opinion in this case?"
A: "Not really. Him and my scumbag ex-boyfriend used to smoke weed in my trailer, but I never saw him again after my boyfriend slapped me around so I cut him with a steak knife and put him in the hospital."
I would so have loved to have been on that jury, but I was rockin' the mountain-man beard and long hair and wearing a suit--and I forgot to take my earrings out. Neither the defense nor the prosecution was willing to trust me.
--Tom.