What Happens When a Writer Goes on Jury Duty

You write a piece of flash (fiction or non…I’ll never tell).

The Juror

Like cattle they herd us into assembly to sit and wait for an indeterminate amount of time.

“Thank you for serving.”
“Make yourselves comfortable.”

But it is crowded and cramped, and the air is thick with a tangle of smells.
My coffee.
This bagel.
That guy’s hash browns.
A smoker smothered in two-packs-a-day.
Someone’s feet.

And, sound carries.

Well across the room is “Jim” who answers every single phone call.
“Hello, this is Jim.”
“Jim speaking.”
“Hello, Jim here.”

Jim, Jim, Jim.
Jim is a busy man, and I am suspicious.

I take out pen and paper and consider details about Jim, the phone man: possible age, demeanor, “notes to self” kinds of things I might want to recall later.
No laptop but wears suit.
Happy to be in close space with strangers.
Laughs too loud.

And when he finally admits in one call that, “Yeah, it’s in the basement,” I think, Ah ha. I’ve got him.

Guilty.