The mailbox at the end of my driveway is a rectangular purgatory, a place where mass printed envelopes and glossy postcards go to die. Most days, it offers the usual suspects. Catalogs selling shiny baubles I don't want, political flyers screaming about the apocalypse if I dare vote for the other side, and credit card offers promising a financial status beyond my wildest dreams with tiny print that disclaims their every assertion.
D. K. Wall:My tolerance for this papery onslaught has waned over the years. My once daily trek has morphed into a sporadic obligation. Even when retrieved, the towering pile waits on the corner of my desk for its fate with a shredder until it threatens to bury my latest tale under an avalanche of junk mail.
D. K. Wall:On the rarest of occasions though, my archaeological dig through the detritus exposes something of value buried between a coupon for a discounted oil change and a plea that I really should replace my windows.
D. K. Wall:Such was the case a few weeks ago. The envelope had a certain bureaucratic heft, a starkness to its font that announced it was from the state of North Carolina Superior Court. Across the top in letters that felt less printed and more branded were the dreaded words, summons for jury service.
D. K. Wall:A gavel fell somewhere in the quiet corners of my mind. I wasn't fooled by their use of jury service rather than jury duty, a naked plea to my sense of civic pride. Nope. Their request could not be denied. It was obligatory.
D. K. Wall:Failure to comply with this summons may result in contempt charges and fines. It said right at the top, just above the sheriff's name to add a little muscle to the demand. This was an ultimatum.
D. K. Wall:Now, this wasn't my first dance with this particular civic duty. I've been summoned before, many times, in fact. But I've always had a silver bullet, a get out of jail free card.
D. K. Wall:You see, for much of my life, I've moved around like a character on the run. A summons would arrive from a county I'd fled months or years prior. A quick call, a copy of my driver's license, and bam. I was absolved simply by being out of their jurisdictional reach. Patriotism deferred. I could even feign disappointment, pretending I would have been honored to serve if only I had qualified.
D. K. Wall:This time was different. I live in Buncombe County. The summons was from Buncombe County. My talisman was gone. Short of selling the house and hightailing it over the state line, I was trapped. Checkmate, your honor. Well played.
D. K. Wall:My last gossamer thin thread of hope was the automated phone line. The summons explained I was to call the night before. A recorded message would inform me if my group was needed.
D. K. Wall:A fragile hope took root. The tiny statistical possibility that the wheels of justice might turn smoothly for one day without my help or wobbling so badly that no cases were ready for us. Either option worked for me.
D. K. Wall:That feeling of possibility bloomed until the moment I saw a headline in the local paper. The Buncombe County district attorney's office proudly announced that the previous year had seen the most jury trials since before the pandemic.
D. K. Wall:And these weren't disputes over prize winning petunias. The DA listed their greatest hits with aplomb, murder, trafficking, arson, assault. The DA's office might have been thrilled, but I was morose. For the first time in sixty two years, I was actually going to be forced to show up for my turn in the jury box.
D. K. Wall:My mind raced, not with legal theory, but with logistics. What book should I bring to read? How many Blackwing pencils should I pack to write with? And most importantly, how to steel my isolated writer's immune system coddled by years of interacting only with snoring canines against the certain petri dish of contagion in a jury assembly room.
D. K. Wall:But as I contemplated the diseases I would contract, I leaned back in my chair, stared at the ceiling, and a new thought drifted across my creative mind. The gloom lifted as I imagined the possibilities.
D. K. Wall:I must offer a warning before this reveal. What I am about to say tends to annoy people. I know this from extensive firsthand experience. Ready? My personal philosophy, my unshakable creed is that no matter the circumstance, there is always a silver lining, a rainbow after the storm, a light at the end of the tunnel. I can practically hear the groans from the pessimists at such rosiness,
D. K. Wall:But what you ask could be the upside to being forced to sit in a stuffy room replete with the viruses of winter, judging the actions of a stranger, and listening to lawyers drone on and on for days on end? To a creative mind, the answer is magic. Stories.
D. K. Wall:The slogan for this very series is my tales are 100% true except for the parts I make up. And let me tell you, a county courthouse is the grand central station of raw, unvarnished story material, which I can twist and mold into entertainment. It's the greatest theater of human folly and grace you will ever witness.
D. K. Wall:In my former life in the world of finance, I saw my fair share of courtroom time. The snippets of humanity I've witnessed in those halls, the defiant denials, the shaky justifications have been the seeds for more than a few of my own fictional tales.
D. K. Wall:And so my dread sublimated into a creative glee. Maybe I'd land on a juicy trial, a complex whodunit, a defendant who was either terrifyingly evil or heartbreakingly sympathetic. Maybe I'd see a brilliant lawyer weave a masterful closing argument. During breaks from the courtroom, my mind abuzz with intrigue, I could sketch out a new story, maybe even the opening chapters of a novel.
D. K. Wall:With a newfound giddy anticipation, this reluctant citizen morphed into an eager observer, excited for the possibilities. My jury summons was no longer a burden. It was a backstage pass to a virtuoso performance. I couldn't wait.
D. K. Wall:The fateful evening before my required attendance arrived. With a sense of ceremony, I picked up the phone and dialed. The line clicked. A crisp, disembodied voice began its monotone recitation.
D. K. Wall:Thank you for calling the jury service line for jurors summoned for Thursday, February 19. A pause stretched until she continued. You do not need to report. No jurors are needed at this time. Your service is complete.
D. K. Wall:I stood, phone pressed to my ear, listening to the message on repeat. My grand courtroom drama, my cast of compelling characters, my front row seat to the human condition, all had vanished into the ether of an efficient legal system. The story was over before it began.
D. K. Wall:I've been robbed. Where's the justice?