The longest process. Ever.

I was fortunate that Juror #26 sitting next to me was a lawyer. He explained to me in detail the process of jury selection when he wasn't tapping away constantly on his Blackberry like every other lawyer I know.

It was 2:30 PM Day One of my three day stint at the Fulton County Superior Court. I unlocked my bright pink slider phone and composed several text messages that I would never send just to look as important as the lawyer next me. The deputy walked by and we both sat up straight and hid our phones. We had already been called to the courtroom and waved our juror number cards to several preliminary questions.

"What's going to happen now?" I leaned over and whispered.

Juror #26 put his phone down, "Now they are going to ask us questions individually."

"They aren't going to let some people go yet? Like you? Obviously they aren't going to choose you because you're a lawyer."

"Some judges let people go early. Some don't"

"Oh."

They called the first fourteen people into the juror's box. "That's the row you want to be in," Juror #26 whispered. "They hardly choose out of the first row. We're not too bad off in the second row. It's the third and fourth rows that have the highest chance of being selected."

"Because they can be picky with us?"

"Right."

For the next hour and a half, the each juror in the first row was interrogated. We could put together pieces of what the trial would be about: most questions inquired about personal feelings about guns and gun ownership. I wasn't happy with the idea that I had to get up in front of a room full of strangers and answer some really personal questions; it felt like we had to testify against ourselves. Had we ever been arrested? Explain in detail. Had we ever been a victim of a crime? Explain in detail.

Because we were in the courtroom and in the presence of the judge, we were not allowed to read or write or do anything but pay attention to everyone's sob story.

"My wife's cousin's best friend is a lawyer."

"Really."

"Yes, sir."

"Well does your wife's cousin's best friend discuss court cases with you?"

"No, sir."

I quietly groaned and sank lower in the Pew That Waged War Against My Butt. I slid my phone open and messaged someone I knew would respond, "I can't feel my ass." At this pace we were going to be here forever.

Finally the second row was called up. I took a seat in the plush juror chairs and swung around, my butt tingling from regaining blood flow. "It doesn't recline," I pouted to Juror #26. He didn't laugh. I stopped swinging my chair.

Seated on the other side of me was a borderline senile old black lady. She had complained earlier that she wasn't old enough to get out of jury duty and had to wait a couple of more years, which placed her in her late sixties. Her gray hair was dyed a yellow-blonde color and it was twisted into a bun and pinned tightly to her head. I've never seen a bun that tight. She wore a faded yellow two piece suit which swallowed her upper body whole and stockings covered her feet, which hung out of sandals. The casual kind. Her lips were painted bright red, but the lipstick had faded since lunch and just the bright red outline remained; this little old lady was a trip.

"State your name and city ma'am," the prosecutor asked her.

"Heh?" she honked back.

"YOUR NAME AND CITY" rang over the speakers in the courtroom.

"Oh. My name is Rose and I'm from College Park."

"Do you own a gun, Rose?"

"Heh?"

"DO YOU OWN A GUN?"

"No, but I consider buying one every other day."

"Why?"

"Heh?"

"WHY?"

"To have one around the house. For self-protection."

"Have you ever fired a gun before?"

"Oh yes, I have."

"When?"

"Heh?"

"WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU FIRED A GUN?"

"Oh. New Year's"

This time I was the one that let out the loud honk, along with the rest of the courtroom. The prosecutor began laughing.

"You shot a gun on New Year's."

"Oh yes."

"Where did you shoot the gun on New Year's?"

"In the air."

Most of the people in the room had to put their head in their hands to not laugh too obviously. The prosecutor was visibly shaking.

"So you just shot it like this?" He raised one arm up and pointed an index finger to the ceiling.

"Yes, sir. I done shot it just like that."

"How many times?" We all knew by this point that the questioning had nothing to do with the case; we had a deaf old black lady in a too-big suit in the box testifying about shooting a gun for kicks on New Year's in the city. We had to find out as much as we could.

"Just twice." Just indeed.

"Excuse me, ma'am," the judge piped up. "Where do you live again?"

"College Park, Judge."

"I just want to make sure I'm not anywhere in the area when you're shooting that gun!" he laughed.

"It was just for New Year's!"

Just indeed.