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11/30/2004: "Willoughby Wasteland"
I was actually excited when I got the notice in the mail for jury duty.
I was excited to go to Willoughby Street in Downtown Brooklyn, even at 8:45 AM, ridiculously early for me.
I sat down in the Central Jury Room, leafed through Sports Illustrated and waited, still excited that maybe I could get on a case, maybe I'd get a couple of state-sanctioned nights off from work, maybe I'd get to go to Philly on Friday, maybe this, maybe that.
They showed a video that explained the jury system. Maybe for some of the people in the room unfamiliar with how the American justice system works, this was informational. For me, the brief video featuring Ed Bradley and Diane Sawyer might as well have been the montage of highlights they show at Yankee Stadium when the Yankees are trailing going to the bottom of the ninth with the Rocky theme playing in the background.
I was pumped up. I was ready to do my part as a citizen. I was eager, as Sawyer urged, to be one of a few in a jury who makes a difference in this country. I was looking to make up for my failure as one of several million from earlier in November. I wasn't even going to need to read a book. I was doing Ray Lewis' pregame dance, only mentally, and without the screaming, and hyping myself to be a juror, not a violent, quasi-murderous linebacker.
I was, I was...
I was suddenly at the front of the room, explaining how I'd really like to serve, but being told that I couldn't since I live in Queens, not Brooklyn, where my address is still listed on my driver's license.
I was watching Philadelphia flash before my eyes. I was robbed yet again of the chance to have any impact on civic America. I was in Brooklyn heinously early for absolutely no reason!
J.T. warned me about moving to Queens, but I didn't listen. And so here I am, having thrown away a good portion of a day off, and for what? For my home borough to betray me right back.
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