By Clint Younts

There are several things I hate finding in my mailbox. Medical bills, political propaganda, wasp nests and junk mail are just a few items I truly despise. I don’t much like finding a picture postcard from a friend who is having a great time in some exotic location while I’m standing on hot asphalt under a blistering sun, swatting at wasps soaring out of my mailbox. But the one thing that turns my intestines into a hangman’s knot is seeing that red and white postcard from the county clerk that reads OFFICIAL JURY SUMMONS. Dang! I’d rather see a card from my proctologist asking me to come back in for x-rays because he’s missing his wedding band.

I have reported to jury duty numerous times since moving to Hays County 30 years ago, and I have been selected three times to sit on the jury. I cannot fathom why I get selected so often. My southern drawl makes me sound slightly uneducated. My attire of well-worn Wranglers and manure-coated cowboy boots give me an appearance of a blue-collared redneck. Would you want some smelly cowpoke with blood-shot eyes sitting on the jury of your trial?

For you folks who have never had the misfortune to be summoned to jury duty, allow me to fill you in on what goes on. But before I do, stop reading this and go sit quietly on a bench for about an hour and stare at nothing. Half of your time on jury duty is spent waiting on folks who are actually earning a salary while you sit and lose a day’s pay. I don’t have a huge problem with jury duty since it is my civic duty, but dagnabbit, can’t these legal eagles soar a little faster? Perhaps if jurors are paid by the hour, we would have one of those “speedy trials” I keep hearing about.

First, you have to get through security. Apparently, a flask of Old Crow will set off the metal detector even if it’s wrapped in toilet paper and stuffed in your boot. I thought this might’ve helped get me excused, but I was sent on and informed I was going to have to sit through another jury duty stone cold sober. 

The courtroom is packed with people who couldn’t find any legit exemption and are quietly praying they don’t get picked. The room reminds me of my high school principal’s office: Numerous people sitting motionless but visibly nervous, watching the clock and waiting for the interrogation. Beady eyes from fancy-dressed attorneys scan the potential jurors, much like buyers at a cattle auction. I try not to make eye contact with any judge or DA since I don’t know the statute of limitations on certain events that may or may not have occurred in a mannequin factory back in 1977.

When the attorneys start their questioning, I start trying to figure out what to say that might get me kicked out. Agree or disagree? Speak my mind or act as though I’ve lost my mind? Or just sit quietly and wink at the court reporter? I don’t have the solution to keep from getting selected to the jury as evident of my three trips to the jury box. Don’t these lawyers in Hays County read the local newspapers? Anyone who’s read any of my columns would agree that I’m not fit to serve on a jury.    

Well, I did my duty and justice prevailed, but I sense in the future, I will again be summoned back to court. Perhaps as another juror or maybe as a defendant in a sanity hearing.         

crowsnest78610@yahoo.com