The Trial

It was shortly after returning from spring break that D. was summoned to trial one fine morning. Noticing that her mailbox was full, she smiled with delight at the thought of the countless J. Crew catalogues eagerly awaiting her perusal. D. finally managed to pry open the mailbox after running through several dozen possible lock combinations (having forgotten hers), only to be bitterly disappointed by the usual array of phone bills and overdue library fines. Just as she was about to throw the vast majority of the pile away, however, she noticed an envelope emblazoned with the words "JURY DUTY: YOUR CIVIC RESPONSIBILITY." The date of summons was June 16. D. had committed no crime, yet D. was summarily screwed.

D. had been summoned before. Several months earlier, while vegetating in her winter palace in north-central New Jersey, D. had been called to appear at trial in Newark, where she had been sentenced to a minimum of one week, eight hours each day, of civic responsibility. At the time, uninterested in forfeiting her life for seven days or more, D. had written to the summons office to claim her hardship: she would be taking exams at that time. Besides, having made the mistake of showing up at an IOP event her sophomore year, she had accidentally registered herself as a Massachusetts resident through "Rock the Vote." Now, it appeared, the law had caught up with her.

But surely there was some escape, D. thought, and dialed information as fast as she could.

"What is my crime?" D. asked the man at the jury commissioner's office. "Am I not excused by my student status?"

"That is not of your concern," the man said.

"But I'm not even a resident here. I live in New Jersey," D. sputtered. This, of course, was a small form of perjury, as D. had conveniently used the fact of her voter registration to evade trial in her home state. D. had in fact spent several years as a successful fugitive from the law and from country record-keeping in this manner, without ever having to renew her driver's license. Life on the lam is sweet.

But the man did not care at all about D.'s resident alien status or her sly ways of dodging her civic responsibility. "It says right on the form," the man said gruffly, "that you don't need to be a resident to get jury duty. So long as you reside here more than 50 percent of the year." D. quickly reviewed the arithmetic. Yes, nine months did indeed constitute more than 50 percent of the year. She was trapped. Or was she?

The man reviewed her sentence: "You are to register for a postponement of your trial to any date within one year of the date you have been summoned. Failing to do so is a punishable offense. On that date, you are required to appear in court in Lowell, Massachusetts at 8:30 a.m."

Lowell, Massachusetts. D. had earlier noted this fact, and upon consulting a map, had discovered that Lowell, Massachusetts was located vaguely near the New Hampshire border. Glancing at the summons again, D. was suddenly inspired by the line reading "HARDSHIP: In a hardship situation, you may request to serve in a different court from the one to which you were assigned." D. had a thought--a rare event indeed.

"I don't have a car," D. told the man on the phone. "If it's not possible for me to get to the courthouse, can I be placed in a closer court?"

The man was not moved by D.'s hardship. After being referred to the "emergency" line at the court in Lowell, D. learned that Lowell is actually just a hop, skip and a two-hour ride away from Cambridge via several T-lines and the Commuter Rail. Yes, D. was required by law to appear in court, on a yet-to-be-determined date, somewhere near New Hampshire at 8:30 a.m. Several months later, D. found herself sweltering under the executioner's axe, trapped by civic responsibility.

Okay, so that last part hasn't happened yet. But don't you feel pity and fear for our cathartic heroine? Remember, Harvard students, if you're here more than 50 percent of the year, it could happen to you.