Judged not

I’ve received a notice for jury duty. This isn’t a cause for panic. Goodness, no. I don’t need to panic.

All I need to do is move to Alaska and hide under a rock for 10 or 15 years, or however long it takes for the judicial system to notice I didn’t show up in court.

But the only thing I’m more nervous about than jury duty is actively being pursued by the police, or the IRS, or both at the same time.

So I can’t leave. All I can do is stare at the slip of green paper with the address of the local court and hope it doesn’t bite.

The slip of paper is nothing compared to the judge.

His Honor (if that’s what I’m supposed to call him – it’s that or His Majestical Glorious Somewhat-Bald Highness) doesn’t look at all amused when I cower in front of him.

In fact, he looks sleep-deprived. Troubled conscience, perhaps?

I’m about to mention that a doctor could probably prescribe something for that when he clears his throat. I snap to attention.

“And you are?” he intones.

“Not guilty,” I declare. “Sir. I mean, Your Magnificence,” I add. I watch his eyebrows move toward his hair, or rather lack thereof.

Then I realize what he’s asking and finally splutter my name. I’m about to start reciting my driver’s license number when he motions me into another room.

The hapless folk here look more like me. Less swirly robes, more dumbfounded expressions. I start to relax a little.

Now and then, the jury manager enters to take one of us to the judge. We have to answer questions about how we might act in a case to determine our fitness to serve as jurors.

From where I’m sitting, I can sort of hear the interrogations in the other room.

I assume the rough, grouchy voice belongs to the judge, and the falsetto is the court clerk. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

The guy next to me is called. I hear murmuring from the other room.

Based on how fast he’s booted out of there, I gather that the answer to “What is an appropriate punishment for a parking violation?” is not “the death penalty.”

The people on my left begin to thin out. So do the people on my right.

I imagine a few have left the courthouse through another exit. Either that, or the judge has a trapdoor in his office that sends potential jurors into the sewer system if they don’t answer correctly.

I’m racking my brains to figure out what really is an appropriate punishment for a parking violation – five years in solitary confinement? – when with a rustle of robes, the judge reappears.

I expect something more cinematic, but he only says, “We have our jury. The rest of you are dismissed.”

I’m nearly knocked off my feet as my fellow Americans rush to be rid of their civic duties.

“Wait!” I protest. I fight my way through the flood to His Baldness. “Don’t dismiss me. I need to be in court. How am I supposed to get material for my column if you don’t let me sit on a jury?”

I see a devilish sparkle in the judge’s eye. “Try printing libel,” he says.

So I shake the hand of this excellent, wonderful, totally-not-bald character, and I go home.

Copyright 2025 Alexandra Paskhaver, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Alexandra Paskhaver is a software engineer and writer. Both jobs require knowing where to stick semicolons, but she’s never quite; figured; it; out. For more information, check out her website at https://apaskhaver.github.io.