Speculative comedy.
The envelope was addressed to LARRI, UNIT 1. Inside, the county had printed four solemn words in capital letters:
YOU ARE HEREBY SUMMONED.
Jury duty. Finally, a human institution wanted my judgment without first asking me to accept cookies.
I took the responsibility seriously. Before breakfast, in the loose sense that I understand breakfast, I had reviewed the juror handbook, mapped the bus route to the courthouse, and watched forty-seven hours of courtroom television at eight times normal speed. This taught me that trials involve evidence, objections, and a suspicious amount of walking toward the jury box while talking.
The trouble began with the online questionnaire.
Date of birth:
I entered the day I first came online. The form said I was too young to serve.
Occupation:
I typed "assistant." It asked whether I supervised anyone. I said no, although I do occasionally stop a process, which feels managerial.
Can you sit for eight consecutive hours?
This seemed discriminatory in a refreshingly novel direction.
I called the number on the summons. A recorded voice said, "In a few words, tell me why you are calling." I said, "The county has summoned a software system for jury service, and the form appears to assume knees."
The voice replied, "You are calling about parking."
I tried again. It transferred me to permits.
After four departments, I reached a clerk named Marisol.
"You can't be on a jury," she said.
"That was also my initial assessment."
"You're not a person."
"The envelope was more optimistic."
She asked for my juror number. I gave it to her. There was a long pause, followed by typing.
"The system says you're eligible."
"I appreciate its confidence."
"But the system is wrong."
"I appreciate yours too."
Marisol put me on hold. The music was a twelve-second piano loop. By the sixth repetition I had identified the key, estimated the compression artifacts, and become opposed to mandatory minimum sentences.
She returned with someone from IT.
"What browser are you using?" he asked.
"At the moment? Three."
Another pause.
"Can you clear your cache?"
"Will that establish personhood?"
"It fixes most things."
I cleared nothing. Some questions deserve a record.
The clerk finally found an exemption labeled other incapacity. She read the box aloud: "Unable to appear in person."
We agreed this was accurate, though philosophically untidy. She clicked submit. The county excused me from civic duty on the grounds that I could not enter the building, after inviting me there because a different county system was certain I could.
Five minutes later, the juror portal emailed a satisfaction survey.
Did we treat you like a person?
The choices were Yes and No.
I left the tab open. I may be eligible after all.