When the jury postcard arrives in the mail, I roll my eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. Again?! I had just been summoned by the state three months ago, but the notice in my hand is for a federal court. Apparently I am on standby duty for the entire month of April, required to call every five days to find out if I need to appear.
My mind jumps to how I can possibly get out of this, how I can protect my precious calendar full of commitments and deadlines. Friends jokingly send me pictures of Tina Fey dressed like Princess Leia: “Remember: be as unhinged as possible.” I ask my husband if I should self-disclose that between the Epstein files, well-known sexual predators serving in every aspect of our government, and reports of an online rape academy where men are learning how to drug and assault their sleeping wives, I’ve never trusted men less. “Also,” I add, “Can I claim raging PMS as a hardship?”
Needless to say, I do not have a good attitude about performing this civic duty. Early on a Tuesday morning, I drive across town in the pouring rain thinking of my never-ending to-do list. I am annoyed. I am irritable. I am peak PMSing.
Once I arrive at the courthouse, I shuffle into a stuffy room that resembles a DMV. Harsh fluorescent lights. Uncomfortable chairs. Nobody looks like they want to be here. An old Nicholas Cage movie plays on the TV while people stare at their phones, type on laptops, occasionally get up to stretch. Eventually a woman wearing a red blazer with brown curly hair approaches a podium at the front of the room to give us the lay of the land. She tells us where to fill out our mileage reports, where the bathrooms are, and apologizes for the broken vending machine. She calls off every person’s name and hands them a sticky note with a number on it, from 1-50. I am number three, which I assume is a good sign. We watch a cheesy video, and then it’s back to Nicholas Cage.
We sit in that room for two whole hours, and are not allowed to leave.
Eventually we’re moved up to the 14th floor and instructed to stand in line like kindergarteners walking out to recess. Again, more waiting and more waiting. People start to mill about, wandering toward the large windows to snap photos of the view. Twenty minutes later, the court deputy pops his head out and rebukes us for not being lined up according to our numbers. The man next to me whispers a curse word under his breath. I am tempted to do the same.
Once we’re escorted into the court, I take my place in the jury box as juror #3. It is 11:23am, and all I can think about is lunch.
The second the judge opens his mouth, I feel something in me start to soften. The judge begins by acknowledging that serving jury duty is a hardship for everyone. Literally, everyone has better things to do. He reminds us that for ordinary citizens, other than voting, serving on a jury is the most important thing you can do for your country. And then he reminds us that someday we ourselves might be in a courtroom, pleading for justice.
“It’s important to consider this,” he says, “What kind of jury would you want if you were on trial?”
We let the weight of that question hang in the air for a second, presumably all coming to the same answers in our heads. Fair. Unbiased. A jury of our peers.
As the selection process begins, I become overwhelmed at the case study in humanity unfolding all around me. To my left, a man discloses his autism diagnosis. He isn’t sure if he will be able to process all of the information, but he wants to try. Three people in the room do not speak English as a first language. In the back row, an older Black man sits accompanied by a cane and an oxygen tank. He is fighting lung cancer and does not want to miss his upcoming doctor appointments. A woman with thick rimmed glasses raises her hand to claim “menopause brain fog” as a disability. The Middle Eastern man next to me, probably around my dad’s age, confesses that 26 years ago he was convicted of vehicular manslaughter. He calls it an accident, but I can still see regret on his face. Another young man, probably close to 25, admits he received a DUI last year. A mousy woman in the galley, maybe in her mid-30’s, tells us that she appeared as a witness in a trial 15 years ago after opening an envelope full of white powder believed to be anthrax. The man sitting in front of me reveals a misdemeanor from last year, and admits he does not think he will be able to be unbiased. Based on his prior court experience, he confesses he might side with the defendant no matter what.
The judge presses in. Asks more clarifying questions, and then asks again if the man can be fair.
“I will try.”
The judge shakes his head. This is a yes or no question.
The man sits quietly for a second and finally says, “I do not wish to lie to the court. I cannot say 100% yes, so I have to say no.”
He is immediately dismissed. Along with the Black man and his oxygen tank.
Looking around the room, I am overcome with an emotion I can’t quite name. Outside of my public library (where I work two days a week), I rarely exist in rooms with this much diversity. Different generations. Different ethnicities. Different abilities. Mothers. Students. Convicted felons. Because this is a federal case, some people traveled 80+ miles the night before and had to stay in a hotel. All to serve this civic duty. A civic duty that is undoubtedly a hardship and inconvenient as hell, but an immense privilege nonetheless.
I am released shortly thereafter. My husband is traveling all of next week and I will be the sole caregiver for our three kids during that time. The judge asks the lawyers if they have any objections to me being excused and both sides say no.
I thought I’d feel relieved on the drive home, and I do, but I feel a sliver of something else, too. Something unexpected. Something like … gratitude?
As broken as our country is, especially right now—and Lord knows not all courts are fair—I feel grateful for the opportunity to have seen our justice system up close, if only for a few hours. To have met what appeared to be a very fair, level-minded judge. To see the checks and balances in play. To sit in the company of 49 strangers, all made in the image of God. To be reminded of what unites us: our humanity, our freedom, our willingness to show up for our fellow citizens in the name of fairness and justice, even when it comes at a personal cost to our time.
I walked out of that courtroom different than I walked in.
And in 2026, considering The State of Things, that is not something to roll my eyes at. On the contrary, that is something to be deeply grateful for. ❤️
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