E-Mail This Article to a Friend One angry man How to get dismissed from jury duty without really trying BY STEVE ALMOND

One of the advantages of a career in the arts is that I have a schedule that’s somewhat more flexible than that of your basic nine-to-five drone. Which is to say, when I receive a call on Sunday night requiring my presence the next morning, I am generally available.

This is precisely what happened two weeks ago, when a woman called — actually, to be precise, a recording of a woman — ordering me to appear the next morning at the federal courthouse for jury duty.

I should mention that I had received a summons some time back in December, which I had returned, with a note claiming that I did not speak English. In an obvious strategic error, I had written this note in English.

My initial impulse was to blow off the phone call.

After all, it is my firm belief that the American judicial system is inherently biased against the poor, as well as against people of color and the non-famous. Also, and frankly more troubling, it appeared to be an unpaid gig.

At the same time, I was sort of worried that failing to show up might be against the law, or might call undue attention to me as a citizen; specifically, it might attract scrutiny to the 87 unpaid parking tickets I have amassed over the past year.

So report I did, along with 150 other surly potential jurists. We were given coffee and pastries, in an attempt to keep us awake for orientation.

This session was run by a sweet fellow named Jim, who was of that unfortunate genus of civil servant who has confused his role with that of a stand-up comic. I cannot repeat his best jokes, because there were none.

Jim showed us a video presentation in which a cast of racially diverse D-list actors pretended to be former jurors and delivered lines like, "It took a while, but ... I think we made the right decision."

Then Jim made a very important announcement: jurors would be paid $40 per day, plus lunch.

This may not sound like much to those of you who are not in the arts. For me, it was $40 more than I can hope to earn on any given day, give or take lunch.

However, in order to get selected for jury duty, we had to go through a process known as voir dire, which is a French term meaning "Help! I am dying of boredom!" During voir dire, the judge explains a little about the case and asks various questions designed to root out potentially biased jurors.

I had high hopes for the first case, which was criminal. I was thinking of maybe a gangland multiple homicide involving the mob. (This was, after all, federal court.) Instead, the case involved computer sales and fraud. The defendants were a couple of squirrelly looking guys in cheap suits. The judge announced that the trial would take approximately three weeks. The whole thing screamed: nap time.

But now I had to come up with an excuse.

I’d made a friend during the orientation, a doctor named Naomi. Earlier, she had informed me that serving on a jury would cost her about $500 per day, a statement that made me want to both weep and propose marriage to her, perhaps at the same time.

Naomi had a great excuse. She was scheduled to receive a pap smear the next day, which she referred to, in a regal tone, as a "gynecological procedure." The judge in this case was a female. She nodded knowingly when Naomi explained the situation and dismissed her.

Unfortunately, for me, the pap smear excuse was a little iffier.

In fact, I had no good excuse: no children at home, no pressing duties at work (in point of fact: no work), no conflict of interest.

So I told the judge the truth: that space aliens had abducted me a couple of years ago and implanted a chip in my head, which allowed me to read the minds of humanoids. Because of this, it would be unfair for me to serve on a jury.

"You’re serious?" the judge said.

I cocked my head and touched my temples very gently, as if receiving a transmission. Then I said: "You think that I’m lying. Also, you don’t like my haircut."

Dismissed.

My second case was a civil matter. I envisioned something involving burned orphans and one of Donald Trump’s ex-wives. But this case was an even bigger yawner. It involved a contract dispute between two companies who made automotive parts. Money or no, I couldn’t see listening to a fortnight of car talk.

Worse yet, the judge in this case was an old bald guy who made each of the potential jurors explain his or her excuse in front of the whole courtroom. This was particularly enjoyable for Naomi. She got to announce her gynecological procedure to the world, while the judge’s pate turned beet red.

I’d already used the alien-abduction thing, my old standby. So I went with an incredibly obvious ploy. I leaned close to the judge and told him that I felt I might be in love with one of the plaintiff attorneys. I gestured toward a broad-shouldered guy, with short hair and dark, mysterious eyes. "It’s so crazy, your honor," I whispered. "I’ve never even believed in love at first sight. Until now, that is."

There was an awkward pause. Then the judge motioned for the bailiff.

I returned downstairs and found Jim. He was nibbling on a muffin.

"Are there any other cases that need juries?" I asked him. "Something with, maybe, you know, a little more pizzazz?"

"If you were dismissed from both cases, you’re free to go."

"Come on," I said. "You can tell me. I’m incredibly impartial. I don’t even have a favorite baseball team."

Jim sighed. "Look, just because you weren’t selected doesn’t mean you didn’t play a valuable role in the process. Without a jury pool, there can be no jury, and without a jury, the whole justice system collapses."

It was a touching little moment between two citizens of this great democracy.

"Do we at least get lunch?" I said.

"No," Jim said. "You need to leave now."

Those seeking a funnier verdict from Steve Almond may contact him via bbchow.com.