So I received a love letter from the Federal Court in downtown Baltimore. On the appointed day, I rose, showered, shaved, and performed my other normal morning ablutions. Then I donned my freshly laundered, heavily starched white shirt; one with French cuffs. I selected a pair of 21k gold cufflinks that were an inheritance from my great-great grandfather, and inserted one in each cuff. Then, removing them from the drycleaner's bag, I donned the trousers from my dark green double-breasted Cornliani suit, and rolled the cuffs up, so they wouldn’t get dust on them from my floor.

Sitting on the end of the bed, I reached into the top right dresser drawer, and selected a brand new pair of 30 Denier ladies trouser socks. These will look dressy enough, I thought to myself. Rolling them onto my feet and over my calves, I slipped my feet into my cap toe oxfords. I had spent an hour the night before, spit-polishing them, the way we used to polish our dress shoes when I was a Navy musician. I could see the cracks of my teeth reflected in the toes and uppers.

Then it was time to select a tie. I looked at a heavy paisley, but decided it wasn’t powerful enough, so I put it back on the rack and selected my old standby. It was a Ferragamo, that I had bought on a whim from Dick and Jan Wesley, back in 1987. It was dark green and brown in what at first glance, seemed to be a blocky vertical pattern. On closer examination, one would see it is the Chrysler Building, in Manhattan, New York City. Next it was time to select a watch. Looking through my choices, I picked out the Gruen jump-time wristwatch. At noon, the numbers behind the dial jump to numbers from 13 to 24. It has a gold and silver dial, with gold numbers, and a black band. I wanted my watch band and belt to match my shoes, and I wanted the watch and belt buckle to match the cufflinks.

Details, I thought to myself. Pay attention to details. This court needs to be taught a lesson in respect. I removed my jacket from the bag, and put it on, being careful to button the inside button so it would drape properly when I placed my wallet in the inside breast pocket. On my way through the living room, I snagged a hardbound copy of Howl and Other Poems, by Alan Ginsburg from the bookshelf. Just before walking out the front door, I rolled my trousers down.

In due course (after parking in the garage that was going to cost me seven dollars), I arrived in the jury reporting room at the Federal Courthouse. Going in was a little bit of fun. The guards thought I was an attorney, and were about to wave me through to go around the metal detector, when I deposited my keys, book and wallet in their little basket. I got a sort of double-take from the guard, but he said nothing. I smiled to myself as I retrieved my posessions from the X-ray basket.

Eventually, we were all herded into the courtroom, where we were seated in the balcony. We then waited forty five minutes for the judge to arrive. Attorneys for prosecution and defense were already in the room, conferring, when we filed in. There were seventy five of us in the jury pool. I looked around. Most of the other potential jurors looked like they were blue-collar workers. I didn’t see any other suits, and only two sports coats. The rest were dressed in things like clean plaid shirts and jeans. I wondered if any of them were being paid by their companies for the difference between their salaries and the pitiful stipend they’d get from the court. Then I looked at the attorneys. They were three men and one woman. Even from up in the balcony, I could see that her dress was much better quality than any of the other three attorney’s suits. It moved as though it was silk, and I suspected it probably was. She was wearing taupe hose, and black patent mid-height pumps. I noted that one of the other attorney’s shoes were scuffed. He probably has kids at home, I thought to myself.

After all the proper honorifics, we got down to brass tacks. This particular case had to do with a young man who had been charged with burning a slew of new houses under construction in a new development, while posing as a night security guard. Then came the part I had been waiting for: The judge said, “Anyone who has any knowledge of this case, or who is related to any of the parties, or who is involved in law enforcement, fire-fighting, or either the security guard or the construction industry, please raise your hand.”

Being a licensed professional civil engineer, most of whose clients were developers, I raised my hand.

“Keep your hand up until the bailiff gets to you, then, please state your juror number for the court.” The judge intoned. He obviously had been through this many times before and was much more bored than we were.

While the bailiff was making her way to each of us, and we were going through the litany of stating our juror number for the record, someone, (an aide, or junior clerk, I assumed) brought coffee and bagels into the courtroom and set them on the table before the judge and attorneys.

I looked at the coffee longingly, but knew that really what I would rather do at that moment was go to the bathroom. By then, we had been sequestered in the courtroom for about an hour and a half. There had been a steady stream of attorneys coming and going through the doors to the courtroom below us.

I was struck that there was a clear distinction between classes being demonstrated before my eyes. On the one hand were the judge and his henchmen, the prosecuting and defense attorneys; and on the other, there were we members of the great unwashed; the jury pool. We were “peers” supposedly, of the obviously lower class individual who was the accused. I was struck by the sudden thought that I was no more his peer than the man in the moon. He was clearly uneducated; I was a degreed professional. His income was probably no greater than $25,000 a year. My wife and I together netted more than six times that the previous year. He probably did not own a car, or if he did, it was either beat, or under a huge lien; I was driving a Jaguar XJ6, and my wife a VW Cabrio, both of which were paid for.

I sat and watched the proceedings, while pretending to read Ginsburg. I made it a point to hold the book so that anyone could read the title on the cover. Each time I stopped reading, I carefully inserted the flyleaf into the book and closed it.

After we had each given our juror number, we were called, by number, to come forward to the table, and explain our specific link to the case at hand. After two and a half hours of sitting, it was my turn. I had watched all the privileged drink their coffee, and eat their bagels, and go to the bathroom and return, strolling about as if they had all the time in the world to do this thing. Which, of course they did; it was their job. It would still be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. And, more importantly, they were being paid for whatever time they spent, doing it. Meanwhile, I was losing pay from work, and building up quite a head of both bladder pressure and mental steam.

So I made my way down to the table, and taking a chair, placed my book cover up but angled toward the judge, who was seated at the head of the table to my right. He glanced at it, and I knew he could not help but see the title.

“How are you, today, Mr….” here he consulted the list of jurors, “B…….?”

“Angry,” was my terse reply.

He sat up and looked at me in surprise. The other attorneys all put down their pencils and sat up, too. Every eye at the table was on me. I knew I had gotten their attention, and was secretly pleased, but was careful to continue to look stern.

“Why is that, Mr. B…..?” the judge inquired.

“Because this process is arrogant. You and these…” here I waved my hand and almost sneered, “these attorneys, sit and take up the time of seventy five people, all of whom are here unpaid, while you drink your coffee and eat your bagels. Those unpaid people sitting up in that queue behind me can’t even leave the room to go to the bathroom or get a drink of water. That is totally unreasonable and it is arrogant.”

The judge blinked, and took off his glasses and wiped them on his robe. Then he put them back on and asked, “What do you propose I should do about that, Mr. B……?”

“Your Honor, I don’t know what you should do. It is your problem to solve, not mine. But I can tell you this: I am a licensed professional civil engineer. If I kept my clients waiting as you and these…” I paused and purposely sneered again, “attorneys have kept us waiting, I’d soon have no clients to worry about.”

At this point the judge sat back in his chair, and crossed his arms in front of him. “This juror is dismissed. You may leave, Mr. B…….,” was all he said.

I stood, purposely leaning on the back of my chair as it slid out, so that it would make a squeaking sound against the floor as I slid it back. Taking my book in my left hand, I stood there behind the table, and nodded my head slightly toward the judge in what I hoped was a dismissive manner, and said, “Your Honor.”

Then, purposely walking as if I had a ramrod jammed up my spine, I strode from the courtroom, and quietly closed the door behind me.

Out in the hallway, I unbuttoned my jacket, raised my fist in the air, and pulled it quickly to my chest, saying loudly, “Yes!”

Several days later, I happened to be talking to a friend who is an attorney, and told her of my experience.

“Oh my God!“ she said. “He has a reputation for being the harshest Federal judge in Baltimore. You’re lucky he didn’t find you in contempt and toss you in jail.”

“Well, if he had, it would have been probably the only correct judgment he ever made in his life,” I replied.