I was cocky. On the morning of June 15, I breezed into the waiting room of Manhattan’s criminal court, supremely confident that I was untouchable. What lawyer, I thought, would be crazy enough to pick a former lawyer turned snarky journalist as a juror?
Ah, hubris. I ended up being one of the first to be picked: juror No. 4. Quickly, I fell into the five stages of juror denial: shock (why me?), anger (damn the system for wasting my time), depression (panic about being locked in a juror room), magical thinking (maybe the defendant will get run over) and finally, acceptance (there’s no escape).
