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I was excited when I received a jury duty summons in the mail.  Sure, I'd probably sit around doing nothing, but I'd also get a couple of paid days off, get up later than usual, and come home earlier.  And if I didn't have a job, I would've pocketed a cool $40 a day.  What could be so bad about this?

My first order of business was ensuring that I wouldn't get selected as a juror.  I didn't cut my hair and grew out a fantastic beard to look a little more intimidating...or at least more of a mess than I usually am.  

Now, does that look like the face of a man who should be deciding another person's future?

But my plan began to unravel when my name was on one of 120 pieces of paper drawn from a ballot box (it's almost endearing that they haven't embraced the whole automated craze yet).  I was directed into a court room, where the judge asked if anyone couldn't be impartial, and -- well, that was just about the only question I heard, because I noticed the district attorney had something stuck in his bushy mustache and spent the next 15 minutes trying to figure out if it was oatmeal or a piece of hot dog,

After a two-hour lunch -- a staple in the court house, as I learned -- 24 people were randomly chosen from the ballot box to be jury finalists.  I was the second one called.  Of course I was.

I had to answer a few basic questions from the judge and both attorneys -- and by the way, it's always fun to talk about where you live and what you do for a living in front of an alleged criminal -- to show that I wasn't prejudiced.  I told them my dad was recently held up at gun point (true story) and that my cousin works for a law firm, figuring at least one of those facts, combined with the disheveled appearance, would be enough for disqualification.  Not a chance -- I was the first juror put on trial.

The case was stretched out over five excruciatingly long days, during which I learned an exorbiant amount of information about the drug market, such as, a gram of cocaine goes for $28 on the street and an eightball, which is 3.5 grams, sells for $100 (no idea who decided to make the math so damn hard).  The defendant talked to a drug dealer who sold cocaine to an undercover police officer and stood on the corner where it happened, looking up and down the streets.  The dealer then came over and gave him the full $100 from the drug sale a minute later.  Now, does that sound like the defendant had at least something to do with it?

As the first juror, I was assigned as the foreperson, meaning I had the life-altering job of announcing the verdict to the court room.  I started practicing saying, "on the charge of drug trafficing in the third degree, we, the jury, find the defendant ... (extended dramatic pause) .. guilty" in my head.

Of course, one of the 12 jurors had to mess everything up and insist he didn't think the defendant was guilty, because despite receiving the money from the dealer, he may not have known it was from selling drugs.  Seriously.  Instead of deliberating for all of 20 minutes, we spent the next nine hours locked in a windowless room, trying to convince the outcast juror that his line of reasoning defied all logic and common sense.  In the end, I had to announce that we were deadlocked and the disappointed judge announced a hung jury. 

But wait, there's the twist -- just like in a real Law & Order episode!  The defendant wasn't in court for the last four days of the trial, but we were instructed to disregard his absence because it was his right  In fairness, he was out on bail, and could've been in the hospital or taking care of his kids, for all we knew.   

Except he wasn't -- he skipped town and the police are still out looking for him.  The judge ruled that the jury couldn't be made aware of this fact during our deliberations.  I love our judicial system.  Because, you know, an innocent person would take off in the middle of trial and all...

On the bright side, we received a free lunch courtesy of the taxpayers on the last day.  So there's that.  And I don't have to deal with this nonsense for at least the next six years.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I really need to shave.