Hippocrates In San Diego

Juris Impudence

I’m sitting in the “Jury Lounge” (I expected couches and smooth jazz) at the county courthouse, waiting to hear my name called to enter a jury pool. It’s been nearly three hours since I arrived; half a Diet Coke and 40 pages of “Young Stalin” down so far. Unfortunately I can’t watch my newly ripped copy of “No Direction Home: Bob Dylan” on my iPod since I need to hear when my name is called. Stalin it is, then.

UPDATE (December 10, 2008 at 12:48 pm): I sat in the Jury Lounge until 3:20 pm, and was finally called into the Jury Services office to meet my doom. I couldn’t believe how close I was to getting off scot-free… another hour and they would have released uncalled jurors to the streets, no parole, no nothing. I checked in and went upstairs to Courtroom 63 with 17 other jurors, joining another 10 or 15 that had already been called. A court bailiff checked attendence by roll call, then left us waiting outside, expecting to be involved in a selection process late into the night. She returned, apparently after talking to the judge. The judge clearly wanted to be there late as much as we did — we were excused, and with a groan and smiles all around, we checked out, turned in our jury badges, and went on our way. Strangely, I feel a little disappointed — I think if I didn’t have work obligations, it would have been an interesting experience to serve on a jury.