My Civic Duty...

I got my jury service notice about a month ago in the mail.  I checked the dates, replied online, and requested it off from work. Truthfully, it snuck up on me faster than I thought it would.  I mean, when you're up to your eyeballs in snow, the last thing you're thinking about is serving jury duty on a sunny day in March. None the less, I was looking forward to serving on a trial.  I enjoy the legal process, provided I'm on the side of the bench with the comfy chairs, and quite honestly, I really liked the idea of simply reading a book until I was needed.

I got another confirmation in the mail about a week ago.  I called to confirm that I was still needed on Monday afternoon, which I was, and started making arrangements to get the kids off to school, left details for the person covering me at work, and mapping out my plan to get to the courthouse by 8am. Which is when it all started... the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, the chaotic thoughts stirring up a frenzy in my brain, and my rapidly beating heart and inability to catch my breath.

I live 20 minutes from a major courthouse.  A courthouse in which I can get the kids off to school, hit Dunkin', and still arrive in the parking lot with 5 minutes to spare. No morning expressway, no major highways, no need to find someone to get the kids to school, no need to check traffic reports, and best of all I can sneak home for lunch, throw in a load of laundry, and still be back within the hour.  Which is of course, why I was not scheduled to appear in this branch, but rather the one 25 miles away, that involves three major highways and 2 roundabouts.  It is also why my ex-husband insisted we go there for all of our probate cases.  Convenient for him, not so much for me, twice a month for about 4 years.  I took time off from work, made school/day care arrangements for the kids, battled traffic, got lost, paid to park, and waited for hours only to be seen and have the argument get thrown out, or worse, extended for another 2 weeks.

I hated that place. All of it.  From the panic attacks that would start the night before, the lack of sleep, the crankiness, and the ever inevitable "upset" stomach that lasted just about as long as the residual headache from the stress. The last time I was there was the week he died.  I had to secure the original copy of our marriage license from our divorce file so I could file for the boy's SS death benefits.  I remember driving away from the parking garage, finally breathing, thinking I would never have to feel that way again.

Until I did.  Monday night the panic attack started, complete with sweats and nightmares.  Crazy dreams of him suddenly being there saying "April Fool's" and my once real life nightmare starting all over again.  I had to leave the house 90 minutes early for a 30 minute drive to avoid the traffic mess that would ensure by 7am.  I sat 25 minutes driving the last 2 miles through school zones, on ramps, and coffee shop drive-thrus. Every driver seemed to be doing something other than driving, make-up, texting, eating breakfast. Cars cut out into traffic without looking let alone signaling. Reaching the parking garage, I parked in my usual spot, second floor, facing the courthouse. I skipped down the steps, ran across 3 lanes of traffic to the front door, stomach turning, mentally preparing a quick trek to the ladies room, when I looked up at the enormous plate glass doors.

And realized I was at the wrong building.

The Superior Courthouse was around the back.  Backtracking along the main road (because there was no way I was cutting down the alley) I found the building. It's a majestic looking building with traditional brick exterior built in 1890, where I am relieved to find other jurors gathered on the sidewalk waiting for the wrought iron gates to be unchained, no doubt protecting the front entryway from hobos and junkies. The building is not marked, so just in case I walk up the street to the bank and check the numbers on their door, assuring that I was now in the right place.  The stairs to the bank are littered with snack wrappers and cans.  Waiting for the crosswalk the cat calls start from trucks passing by.  Lovely.  As more people show up to wait outside the homeless begin to wake up and move on.  This is truly the armpit of the world.

We are ushered through the front doors unsuccessfully, as the metal detector stops all forward progression.  Once through we are herded like cattle down two flights of winding stairs to the basement where we sit and wait to be called upon.  The rooms contain several chairs, a large table and a wall lined with benches.  It is quiet with the exception of the old pipes, which bang against the walls like a toddler with a spoon and a copper pot every time someone summons heat from the ancient cast iron radiators.  To keep the 70 of us from overheating in the boiler room waiting area, they've cracked a few windows, and of course, there's only one bathroom. One. 

I sit and read curled up in the corner of the room on a long wooden bench.  People have gotten up and have started to wander, so I can stretch my legs out on the bench.  My heart rate and stomach churning has subsided, perhaps because I am not across the street in the other building, a small blessing for everyone considering the aforementioned single stall bathroom. They call us up to the 3rd floor, single file up the spiral staircase, for pool selection.  I am number 43.  They call numbers 1-29, finally settling on 14 of them for a "weapons charge" trial. The rest of us are sent back to the dungeon to await another selection.

About an hour later we are all sent home.  The civil trail would not be ready until Wednesday, which was great for me since I had no back up plan for getting Youngest to school.  Left to his own merit, he'd be home in his boxers with a stack of books on his nightstand as the bus passed right by the neighborhood. Free to go, I fork over the $8 parking fee and take the long way home, avoiding the expressway all together. My jury duty rights fulfilled for another 3 years, I rest easier that I may not have to serve in that city anytime in the near future. But it weighs on me that as much as I have put everything behind me, it appears that along with burring him, I have buried residual stress and anxiety, and wonder if this is normal. I wrestle with the guilt that I have been cranky and quick towards my family because I haven't dealt with my anger. I feel guilty that maybe I have not moved forward as much as I appear to have.  And as quick as the next light turns, I realize that I am not the one on trial here.  It's okay to declare myself a mistrial, and detour down to the waterfront for lunch with one of my favorite people.

It was after all, the last day of free parking downtown until December. And, if anyone deserved some free parking that day, it was me.