The courthouse in Harris County is an impressive building. A mix of old and new. The old looks about like any courthouse I’ve ever seen on any town square in any southern small town. Massive columns. Greek Revival architecture. Stately.

Since 9-11 the old doors have been locked permanently. In fact, all the doors are locked except one on the ground floor where the new and the old connect. All foot traffic comes and goes through that one passage. Everybody empties their loose change, wallets and cell phones into the little plastic tub and walks in through the scanner.

God, I miss the way it used to be.

I know how this works, so I leave my pocketknife in the truck and head inside. I got scanned and approved for entry. I’m headed up to the third floor. Today, I am reporting to the Superior Court of Harris County of the State of Georgia. I have been called for jury duty.

The mezzanine outside the elevator is already crowded. I can tell from the look on each face that no one is ecstatic to be here. The mezzanine on each floor is flanked by large panels of windows that allow the light from outside to stream across the polished floor.

The bailiff wears a dark blue suit with a red tie and white shirt. He could possibly double as a funeral director in the off season. He approaches one man sitting by himself. He is dressed in shorts, a sloppy T and Crocks.

“The dress code doesn’t allow for jurors to wear shorts in court. You’ll need to change clothes.”

He is in bailiff mode. Polite enough but all business.

“Well, I ain’t got nothing but shorts. That’s all I wear. I’m not changing.”

Mr. bearded-middle-aged-man with a little grey in the temples made it evident he wasn’t happy to be here.

The Clerk of the Court knows her stuff. She stepped into this discussion quietly. She doesn’t get ruffled. And I overheard something about “we will deal with this before we go into chambers.” I lost track of the situation, but by some miracle, 30 minutes later, Mister Sourpuss showed up in a nice pair of slacks and polo shirt.

Go figure!

We were all herded into the courtroom. Apparently, I didn’t meet the dress code either. As I walked by the massive wooden doors, the bailiff made me tuck in my shirt. I couldn’t tell if this was the rule or just his rule, but knowing what must have happened with the other guy, I tucked in my shirt.

There’s nothing quite like the look and feel of an old courtroom. Heart pine wooden floors that shine like a basketball court. Tall windows trimmed out with broad, dark casement and matching wooden blinds. Wainscoting to die for. Long church pews separated by a single center aisle. No padding, unfortunately.

Juror #6 told me later in a bathroom conversation, “I’ve had 6 back surgeries. I don’t carry this cane for show. Those pews are killing me.”

Turns out that the old courtroom was just a holding pen for the juror panel until the judge was ready for us. The Clerk came and went several times to give us updates. We had two breaks and lunch was approaching. I had time to walk down to the Circle K and get a pack of crackers and a Coke. We sat there for three hours.

We did a roll call while we waited. There were 59 of us. The bailiff instructed us that we needed to organize our seating and made us all move, eight to a pew.

I only knew one other juror. We live in a big county. Everyone was passing the time best they could. There was the book reader. The phone thumper. The sleeper. One lady wore a mask. There was the grey, braided ponytail guy. And the lady behind me opened a pack of chips that sounded like a paper bag in a hurricane.

I like to people watch. Most of us were strangers to one another. There was a lot of quiet time. But after the second hour, there was a steady murmur of conversation. People discovering some connection to their neighbor in the pew. The lady on my right was a teacher at the local tech college. I know some people down there, so we made chit-chat.

When we finally left, the bailiff handed each of us a lanyard with our juror number on it as we headed for the courtroom where the real business of the day would be addressed. I was juror #39. We took rollcall again; and somehow, between there and here, juror #54 disappeared.

“Where’d he go?” the judge asked.

Bailiffs and deputies retraced our path from the other room. We speculated among ourselves like a herd of sheep quietly bleating. The Clerk came back in with an announcement.

“Juror #54 is gone. We don’t know where he is.”

Have mercy. Fools are born every day.

As soon as I entered the room, I saw the defense table and recognized the defendant. Holy crapola. I had no idea about the case. I had not heard anything about who was on trial. But there he was. We used to work together maybe 30 years ago.

The language of the courtroom is concise. The questions of the juror panel are clear and to the point. The instructions from the judge leave no room for confusion.

When they asked if any of the jurors had any personal knowledge of the defendant, mine was the only hand that went up. One out of 59, minus the unfortunate #54.

The bailiff handed me the microphone and asked me to stand. The Assistant District Prosecutor asked the questions.

“Mr. Chappell. How do you know the defendant? Do you have any current relationship with the defendant? Is there any financial agreement now or has there ever been any financial contract between you and the defendant?”

I needed to go pee.

“So, Mr. Chappell, should you be selected to sit in judgment in that jury box (he pointed), and should you hear the evidence in this case as it is presented, and should you be instructed by the judge to come to a fair and impartial determination of the defendant’s innocence or guilt, would you be able to render a verdict that is totally and completely without bias imposed by any relationship that you may or may not have with the defendant?”

I think I did pee, just a little.

We all endured about two hours of questioning. We raised our right hands and said “I will” several times. Juror #16 kind of lost it with the defense attorney because she represented a case two years ago in which he was the victim of a home invasion. I got the idea he wasn’t happy with the outcome.

Finally, the twelve were selected. The judge thanked us for appearing in court and for accepting the honored duty of serving our community and all the fine citizens of Harris County.

Juror #54?

Lord, help them who are lost.