JUROR NUMBER THREE: DAY FIVE

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DAY FIVE

JURY DUTY

ROOM 278, 80 CENTRE ST.

11:45AM

                It’s a Friday and there’s such an obvious yearning for the weekend in the court room that I almost expect the lawyers to jump up on the tables for an energetic musical number. Perhaps a little tap dancing. Officer Lucky is out sick today and for some reason, we have gone through three bailiffs in two hours. The bailiffs have even changed guards while court is in session, high fiving each other as they pass one another.

Despite a boring morning of medical testimonies, the judge seems especially chipper. A stream of assistants flow from a mysterious side door, delivering messages and such, and one of them, a tall, bald Asian with no eyebrows, looks very familiar. I know I haven’t slept with him- it’s not like that. I don’t sleep with guys that don’t have eyebrows. But I can’t put my finger on it.

We’ve been in this courtroom for three days but it feels like thirty. Everything feels so familiar. Sitting in the jury box for great lengths of time has allowed me to survey the room and I know where everything is. The phones, the fire alarm and the light switch. I’m especially intrigued by the island of file cabinets on which sits several framed photos of children. Why are they there? And more importantly, who are they?

The defense attorney is a sharp dresser and today is no different. His cuff links are blingy and when an osculating fan gently blows his tie, I can see the YSL label on its backside. While cross examining a witness, he stands right in front of me and I can see a long hair protruding from his nostril, tickling his upper lip. I have to trim my nose hairs, so I feel his pain, and wonder if it’d be odd for me to offer to let him use the clippers I have in my murse back in the jury room.

Where do I know that bald Asian guy from? Is he a friend of a friend? Did I meet him at Splash? Or at that rooftop barbecue in the Lower East Side? I completely blank out, racking my mind, trying to remember. He seems to think he knows me as well. He gawks in my direction, and when our eyes meet, he looks away quickly and nervously fondles the bottom of his neck tie. Does he live in my neighborhood? Do we ride the same the subway?

Suddenly my mind zooms back into the court room when I hear the judge announce that we are dismissed until Monday. I look at my watch and it’s not even noon yet. Yes! I throw a couple of celebratory fist pumps in the air and as we walk out of the court room in a single file line, I could have sworn I saw the lawyer’s feet, excitedly tap dancing under their table.