No Further Questions, Your Honor.

You're back! You never cease to amaze me!

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury: I am at liberty to say that after weeks of endless rain, I can now declare the sun: officially shining!
"But Heather," you say, "Why are you at liberty to say so?"

My, but how funny you should ask. My fellow citizens--and Kyle--I have been potentially selected to honorably represent all that is peaceful and just in this fair county of ours...to serve, and protect...to keep those innocent who have not yet been proven guilty by penalty of law, and to lock up the poor sap who so much as looks at me the wrong way. My congressmen, my Americans, my census talliers, and my proven felons: you have potentially chosen me to represent you in your time of treachery and need. Yes, I am a potential juror--ready to report for duty.

The trials and tribulations of a juror's duty sentence are far less than that of the accused lug in the hot seat. I will do nothing but my best to ensure that justice has been fulfilled. I can see it now... I am quite positive that my defendant/plaintiff (thank you, Judge Wapner) experience will be exactly like that of a movie courtroom scene. If not, I intend on making it as such.

I will walk in with glasses on. My hair will be loosely tossed in a messy bun, held up by a yellow number 2 pencil. This, I assume to believe, is known as "lawyer chic." My fellow Americans--and Kyle-- let it be known: there is no time for such nonsense as "hair ties" when a young man's life is at steak. Banana clips and scrunchies of every color and texture are immediately meaningless in such a consequential event...even the holy grail of hair ties--the velvet scrunchy--suddenly pales into insignificance. The number 2 pencil has been, and always be, a symbol of authority of utmost importance. Veteran attorneys scoff at those donning any other number. Also, in any question of authority or status of rank: bite-marks always beats no bite-marks.

I will, no doubt, be sporting a simple dark brown pant-suit circa 1991, with black clod-hopper dress shoes. My pant-legs will be precisely 2 inches too short, and my black nylons will have a run in them, exactly 6 inches long.

I will walk to the jury bleachers with my clip-board in tact, and a black clicky-pen in hand. There will be a low murmur of "is-he-or-isn't-he?" whispers that fill the air. No one will speak above 5 decibels. The room will be a floor to ceiling cherry/walnut wood facade, with a fan radiating every 5 feet across the ceiling. The windows will have vertical blinds that sway with the circulating air of the fans, and the light that passes through each length of blind will cast dusty light beams across the room, one of which, shining directly into my left eye. While no smoking is permitted in the building, cigarettes will be smoldering in ashtrays in random spots throughout the room, drawing swirly gray mists up to the walnut ceiling.

When the trial commences, I will cross my legs, and rotate my clicky-pen upwards, 90 degrees, and, with a furrowed brow, begin to chew. This action subconsciously dictates to all parties involved, that I am heretofore primed and prepared to heed opening arguments. If the pen has not yet crossed the oral threshold, I am not yet attentive, nor alert. Every two minutes, I will uncross, and recross my legs in the opposite direction. Once opening arguments indeed proceed, I will squint, and listen, occasionally nodding my head. I will not actually be listening, as I tend to daydream within minutes, but that is irrelevant.

I will stand proudly and announce a verdict: "GUILTY! HANG HIM! TRAITOR!"
The judge will reprimand me: "Miss, the trial just started! Take your seat or we'll have you escorted out of here."

I will, indeed take my seat, and proceed with the rest of the obligatory "fair trial." Guilty or not, my mind is already made.

I will embrace the potential experience. Some ask, 'is it worth it?' ...Is missing a few days work worth a minimal $40 dollars a day? If it's good enough for Rachel Ray, by gum, it's good enough for me. Is it worth being isolated from society for a week? I consider it a perk. Is it worth sitting on a walnut bench all day to grant some stranger a chance at freedom? If it means I get to wear a hand-me-down pants-suit: you betcha.

It is my American duty, and my dear dear pleasure to serve, honor... and convict. Calling all Potential Felons: See you on the stand...and good luck...you'll need it.

Peace out,
H