I WROTE"Reporting for jury duty today. Don't forget to walk Tucker later." and left the note on the kitchen bar for the kids to find whenever they made their way downstairs. Lily had barely said ten words to me since yesterday morning. Josh, sensing the tension, had hidden out at the skate park all day. I was so glum over the state of my family and nervous about the drive downtown, I had no appetite for breakfast. But heaven help me, I was relieved to have some place to go that would be a distraction from my life.
I left the house wearing my new green dress with plenty of time to spare—or so I thought. Traffic was a white-knuckle nerve-wracking exercise of accelerating and braking on GA-400 southbound, then the connector into downtown, then navigating narrow one-way streets to the Fulton County courthouse. By the time I found a parking spot in a deck, I had eleven minutes left before my official reporting time, and no idea which of the four buildings in front of me held the courthouse.
I was so focused I nearly collided with a square-jawed man in uniform—black collared shirt, dark tactical pants, a duty belt that looked like it could fix a car or end an argument, and a baseball cap with an insignia I didn't have time to read.
"Pardon me, I'm looking for the courthouse? For jury duty?"
He pointed, unhurried. "That one. Doors on the left, ma'am."
"Thank you so much." I was already moving when I caught him glancing at the dress. He gave me a little nod and I felt a small, ridiculous flutter that I instantly squashed.
I went inside, then waited in a long line to set my bag on a conveyor and walk through a metal detector.
"Ma'am, you can't bring these in."
The security officer held up my knitting needles—my good aluminum ones—like she'd discovered a shiv. People behind me craned to look. My face flamed.
"I brought them to pass the time."
"They're considered a weapon in a federal building," she said in the bored tone of someone who'd had this conversation four hundred times. "You'll need to take them back to your car or we'll dispose of them."
Since I had no time to return to my car, I surrendered my needles, aware that the man in the cap, apparently also headed for court, was standing close enough to hear the whole thing.
"For next time, plastic needles go through fine," he offered.
"Thanks," I murmured, certain there wouldn't be a next time. I would probably be released before my SUV engine had time to cool down.
I followed a pack of people wearing JURY SERVICES name tags like the one I'd been given onto an elevator and to the third floor. We were directed down a maze of hallways to an enormous holding room. Rows and rows of folding chairs were already occupied. Easily a thousand people, all wearing the expression of hostages. I found a seat, looked around and nervously waited. A few minutes later a young woman with a bullhorn announced if she called our name, we were to follow her. She read a few dozen names off a list in a flat monotone. No surprise, mine wasn't one of them. Every hour or so, she reappeared and a chunk of the room disappeared. The rest of us sat. And sat. Because I'd counted on being able to knit, I hadn't brought anything else to occupy my time. My mind did what it always did when it was idle—it replayed the unraveling of my marriage, in excruciating detail. My phone pinged periodically with panicked messages from the kids.
What's jury duty
Google it
When will you be home
I don't know
There's no milk
Look on the bottom shelf in the back
Can't find Tucker's leash
Hanging on the stair banister
When will you be home
I don't know
When will you be home
I don't know
When will you be home
I don't know
And one from Warren:I left my driving gloves in the cabinet in the garage. Can you bring them by the dealership today?
