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Lucky Number 7!

I thought it would never happen. A mere four hours into service and I was picked for a jury! Well, kind of.

I am Juror 7 of 8 on a 6-person criminal jury. What does that make me? An alternate. This means if something happens to my fellow jurors 1-6, I get to step up to the plate and deliberate. And, if not, then I get to sit there for three days and soak up the details of the case and then they will send me home. Which is kind of cruel. Like being invited to a fabulous New Years party and after spending a few hours downing divine drinks and hors d'oeurves being told to go home right before ball drops. Kind of a bummer.

Some legal details (I think) to pass along... The DA is good-looking and soft-spoken. The courtroom is dimly lit and depressing. There is some very disconcerting bullet-proof glass surrounding the box. So, who else is in the box? I won't reveal names (and, yes, I do remember some of them), but we have four men and four women: one anorexic girl with rhinestone glasses and five-inch heels, one woman who is clad in head-to-toe Gucci, one woman who could easily be one of Mom's friends, an oversized older man who is two parts Donald Sutherland and one part Santa Claus, a suspiciously tan older man who looks like he plays a mean round of golf (don't know why), and a very chatty twenty-six-year-old guy (I peeked at his questionnaire) and yours truly. And I am the only lawyer who made the cut (and there were plenty of others). Too bad we are forbidden from taking notes during the trial for this is good stuff and this tired mommy can only retain so much...

Signing off from some random Starbucks in Soho. Or is this Tribeca?

Back to the box for me...

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The Box Trot