486

I was simply known as 486. Initially, after entering the building, passing an entourage of police, and being scrutinized by a medal detecting machine, I was addressed by my first and last name. The address was even accompanied with a smile.

The next time my name was called, my addressed included my first name and the number.

486

My presence was acknowledged with a glance. Like herded sheep, forty of us followed obediently, entered an elevator and headed to the seventh floor. As if watching a movie screen, we all watched the numbers change from one to seven. No words were exchanged.

The waiting began along with the silence. Sounding like a mosquito chorus, the florescent lights buzzed over head.

Someone coughed. Someone else sneezed followed by at least a dozen mumbled “bless you.” Again we were embraced by silence.

“I can tell none of ya’ll want to be here.” The voice rushed from around the corner flooding our silence. Questioning glances were exchanged by a few, but the voice had a captivated audience. Was he talking to us? Most of us probably wondered.

“I expect you to be where I can see you.” With that declaration, we all stood and filed around the corner. No one was in a hurry to be the first one there, especially after seeing the one who addressed us. His voiced matched his appearance; big, black, and no nonsense. Definitely not new to the task he completed, our addressing officer had expected us to respond quicker than we did to his call. He folded his arms as he scanned our interesting ensemble.

“If your name is not Jackson, Smith, Jones, or Brown I will probably butcher it.”
Butcher, did he have to say butcher?
“So when I call your number, line up in front of me.” At that point, all formality was gone. I was just a number. Even a smile was no longer in the equation.

When called, 212 pushed his glasses up on his noise as he approached the officer. “415”

No answer.

“415!”

No answer. Those who stood closest to the cop offered meek explanations for the absence. One brave soul offered to search for one missing in action.
“415, Linda—” the officer looked down at his chart before he addressed her last name.

Silence.

He looked at the officer standing next to him, both exchanged a frustrated look. With a heavy sign he bellowed once again.
“415!” Emerging from around the corner, 415 moved forward with an obvious limp in her right leg.
For a moment, the cop stared at her as if he would address her tardiness, but instead he looked back at his chart.

Eventually I heard it.

“486.”
I took my place.

We were escorted into the courtroom in single file. A heavy set red head sat to my right. Number 128, 125? Because of the location of her number, I couldn’t see the last one. To my right was Mr. Unidentified. I called him Mr. Unidentified because he sat down, slouched, folded his arms, and covered his number in the process.

He drummed his fingers on the arm closest to me. There were other places he would have rather been, and his demeanor expressed his desire quite clearly. Even the judge addressed him several times.

The forty was soon to be six.
“Listen careful; I will call your name and your number.”
One, two, three numbers were called quickly in succession. After glancing downing at a chart, the clerk continued.

“Edwina Perkins, 486.”

I rose from my seat and entered the juror’s box. My day of jury duty was about to get longer. Much longer.