Jury Duty.

This week I had jury duty for the first time in my life. I expected it to be a lot worse than it actually was; all my relatives recounted waiting for eight hours while the judge deliberated over traffic tickets gone wrong and the like. In truth I waited about two hours to be called (aka: curled up in a corner of the waiting room and read a book) and spent the rest of the day being questioned for a rape case. Yep, that's right. My first jury duty could have been anything but it turned out to be rape. Two counts of forcible rape AND burglary. And I was selected for the jury.
It's an odd thing to sit in front of the accused and know that it is your job to judge them, that your vote will decide the path of their life from this courtroom forward. The defense was nineteen years old; a child. His mother was in the back row as we filed in but they did not look at each other. He vacillated between looking at each of our faces and hanging his head in his hands. Interrogation was done group style, questions were posed to the whole group and those who had an affirmative answer stood up and announced it. Eventually it came to the "have you or anyone close to you ever been a victim of violent crime?" question and literally every other woman stood up. " I was raped, 15 years ago" "My sister was raped" "My daughter was raped" "My mother was a victim of domestic abuse and she was raped".

I am cynical enough to recognize the possibility that some of these women were telling a terrible lie to get out of judging this kid. Some of them weren't. Some of them stood up and their hands shook. Their faces told the story for them. Even from across a crowded courtroom there were shadows on them. Some of them would not look at him because he had added another to their ranks. He, on the other hand, looked at each one. He looked devastated. I would like to think he was devastated because he had become the object of each of these women's nightmares but I suspect otherwise. He was nineteen, and most likely he was devastated because he was facing two life sentences.

I have my own experiences with questionable sexual activities that could have gotten me out of jury duty, but they don't haunt me like what these women went through. I could look at the accused and feel an appropriate mix of pity and objectivity.

On the second day after spending hours with our eyes on him he plead guilty rather than endure another day of listening to us recount our grievances.

I swear I wrote this two days ago and didn't finish it.

Submitted to CISWY, December 2008.

Sixth grade was a tough year for me. Not only did I have a bowl cut, but I also sported jean jumpers, turtlenecks tights and lace-up boots (all at the same time). This was during the era of Limited Too, which I was too fat to fit in. Plus, sequins* just don't tend to flatter a rotund, pre-pubescent figure.

So to sum up, if I wasn't already desperately uncool because I wasn't wearing Limited Too, I also was totally into dissection, I brought in a leather-bound version of Treasure Island to school (because duh? I loved Treasure Island), I didn't have a trapper-keeper and I couldn't figure out how to put my hair in a ponytail. Instead of writing notes in class I was writing stories about Pegasus and unicorns and imaginary creatures. I formed a club called "The Iron Horse Club", devoted solely to the pursuit of galloping around the playground; members: 2. Me and the horse.
One day whilst galloping and prancing about I happened to prance by a crowd of my cooler classmates who were playing truth or dare. They invited me to join. Thrilled that I had been invited, I accepted, dismounted and tied up my imaginary steed and sat down in the space that had cleared for me in the circle.

"Truth or Dare?" asked Jennifer.

"Truth?" I, tentatively replied. Both sounded dangerous, but at least with Truth I could lie. I was good at writing stories...and telling them.

"You can't pick Truth, you have to pick Dare."

This in hindsight was a red flag, but I was desperate. I shifted in my jumper, glancing back over my shoulder at the school yard and the observing teacher. Both seemed very far away.

"Ok, dare."

A snicker erupted in the circle and I remember how my face flushed. How I hid my blush behind my mop of tangled hair. Even writing this almost fifteen years later my heart pounds in memory of the next moment, my legs are still hot with adrenaline.

"We dare you to have sex with that telephone pole."

I was mortified and the snickers were unabashed. Some even surpassed snickers and came out as snorts. I looked at the circle, and they were staring back. In the distance my Iron Horse was pawing at the ground, restless and desperate to carry me away across the soccer fields, across neighborhoods and cul-de-sacs and in to the safe arms of my mother. We had just completed Sex Ed. in school and the act of sex had seemed too personal, too intimate to contemplate. I was universally undesirable in sixth grade and I knew it.

"You don't have to take off your clothes. The teacher would definitely notice that."

Today I am sitting in my office remembering the feel of cool, smooth wood on my lips and tongue; my awkward thrusts and the splinters in my hands as they clawed the pole. I had clenched my eyes shut and imagined a day when I would write this story without feeling my shame and desperation as physically as I did that day. That day has not yet come.

*A staple of all limited too clothing.