Justice can be painful

I now know how a sardine feels.
Tuesday and Wednesday were hard days — hard on my back, hard on my neck and hard on my nerves.
To pick six-member juries for 10 civil trials, the good people in the justice business summoned about 350 York Region residents to the Newmarket court.
I reported to jury duty with a smile on my face. It's part of the democratic process.  It's our civil duty. It's the right thing to do.
But I'm here to tell you, going through the jury selection process gives hurry-up-and-wait a whole new meaning.
The first hour on Tuesday was spent in a lineup outside the courthouse; the second hour  in a lineup on the fourth flour and 15 minutes inside a courtroom watching a video on the how-tos and the importance of jury duty.
Educated and pumped, we were released into the lobby, where we stood for another 30 minutes. To kill time, we complained to each other.
I liked this part. It's the Canadian thing to do. 
Finally, we were escorted back into the courtroom eager to see justice in action.
A problem presented itself within seconds.
Somebody forgot to tell whoever was in charge of local justice that putting 350 people in a room that holds about 200 not only raises questions about fire safety laws, but it's a stupid thing to do.
About 60 per cent got to sit down. The rest, me included, got to stand.
With the exception of a 15-minute break, we stood for nearly three hours. I worked out a little routine. A herniated disc in my back makes me favour my right side, so I stood on my good leg for 30 minutes, followed by 10 minutes on my bad leg.
I kept up this routine while the judge went to work. He sorted out those with hearing or  language disabilities, medical problems and financial difficulties.
Lawyers then got into the game. While challenging juror candidates, it appeared as if occupation, appearance, sex, race and age were part of the selection process. All done in secret, who's to know? They rejected nurses, high-level managers, Italians, an old lady, a couple of very young adults and a doctor. They seemed to like teachers and engineers. Everybody who knows me insisted I'd be rejected. 
On thing is certain: chivalry is dead. Men, including young males, didn't offer their seats to the ladies, including the old ladies.
Once again, I was reminded I've been robbed. I figured once I made it to old-lady status, there'd be perks for time served — I wouldn't get pregnant or be sent to war and people would overlooked all mistakes. And, of course, I'd get a seat on the bus.
I have passed the 60 mark and nobody in that courtroom gave a damn.
Actually, I didn't worry too much about the pain in my back.  As a diabetic being deprived of food for an extended period of time, I had something else on which to dwell. Plunging blood sugar could land me on the floor. Then I realized I could faint, but couldn't fall to the floor. There wasn't room.
I soldiered on. During the 12-second break, I pushed my way through the crowd, headed to the cafeteria and chug-a-lugged a bottle of orange juice, sending my blood sugar count up where it belonged. 
The second day showed promise. I made it up to the fourth floor within 20 minutes, only to stand in a lineup for more than an hour. Once inside the courtroom, I hit pay dirt. I got a seat. 
It wasn't long before we hit a snag.
A critical lawyer failed to appear and the judge was not happy. I wasn't too thrilled either. Finally, after God knows how long, the lost lawyer was found, the last jury was picked and we were set free.   
Since the odds of being chosen to serve on a jury during this selection process were about one in 50, I wasn't surprised when my number didn't get called.
Would I do it again?
Yes.