I received a jury summons a month ago, and I was a little anxious about serving. I had a weird feeling as I walked into the courthouse, kind of a sick feeling, like when in grade school you heard your name called over the loudspeaker with an order to report to the principal’s office. Guilt by association, I suppose. I went through courthouse security at my appointed time and joined a group of thirty or forty people in a large waiting area. The crowd was somber, it was quiet and no one was talking.
Were the other people feeling like me? Maybe some of them may have even had an experience with the law. My first and only speeding ticket happened in the state of Oklahoma. Lord, that road was eternal, long, and forever straight—then up from behind came a blinding light in my rear view mirror. I pulled to the side of the road fearing my punishment. I was so scared I babbled like an idiot and confessed all my sins. Waiting now for jury duty, I was feeling bad about that ticket all over again. I decided to think about something else.
My mind flitted to a story my daughter told me about her younger daughter, Care Bear, and that child’s first run in with the law at age three. Care Bear was visiting her other grandmother in Connecticut and they were at a hair salon. After the appointment, Connecticut Grandmother backed out of a jam-packed parking area and lightly touched another car. She found the world’s tiniest dent but decided to go inside the salon and find the car’s owner. The owner only had the car on loan for the day, so she refused to swap insurance information. Loaner lady insisted on having the police come.
So Connecticut Grandmother, my daughter, and Care Bear waited in the car for the law to come and assess the situation. Thirty minutes later, the blue lights of the bright colored police car alerted everyone the law was here and the patrolman pulled side-by-side Connecticut Grandmother’s car.
When Care Bear saw the patrol car out her window she shrieked and broke down in tears. My daughter tried to calm her, “Baby, what in the world is wrong?”
Barely able to talk, Care Bear sobbed and said, “I don’t want to go to jail! I don’t want to go to jail!” Guilt by association runs deep in our family.
Just as I was concluding that thought, the Clerk of Court walked into the room and made an announcement about our case. After days of legal teams bantering, when the jury was ready to enter the courtroom, the parties of who were going to be found guilty or not guilty must have felt a similar fear to my own and Care Bear’s. They agreed to settle out of court rather than let a panel of jurors decide their fate.
“You are dismissed and your check for twelve dollars is in the mail,” the Clerk said. People around me started smiling and chatting and I celebrated the lifting of my own guilt by association. I skipped out of the courthouse, joyful, and scot-free.