I'm writing to you on a quaint little computer courtesy of the Seattle Municipal Court where I am waiting to to be selected, like a lobster, from the tank of potential jurors. For some reason I haven't been picked yet, and the afternoon is dwindling. If my high school sports days are any kind of harbinger, I'll be selected next to last, just before the huge asthmatic fellow, and then only grudgingly.
The jurors who were chosen earlier today are no doubt gazing with excited eyes at a defendant and trying to tell just from looking at him (or her!) whether he or she actually did sideswipe the Bookmobile or garrote the cat next door. But they must keep their intuitions out of play and make their decision based entirely on the facts as presented.
How creepy it is down here. Everyone looks guilty. Everyone IS guilty! Must go wash my hands now.
They just called my name and I'm waiting to go in. Don't even bother to ask me what the trial is about during its run, 'cause I won't tell you.