The great state of New York gives its college-aged students a real treat each summer. Sandwiched neatly in between the phone bill and "New York Magazine" in the mailbox, many a youngster finds a thin, seemingly innocent envelope from the Clerk of New York County. But this little letter is far from innocent; it is a passport to days of sitting in hot, stuffy rooms with other hot, sweaty people, all in the service of the Commonwealth. Ah, jury duty.

Anxiously awaiting what I honestly thought would be a great experience, I reported to 111 Center Street, the New York Supreme Court, at 9 a.m. sharp one muggy Monday. After passing through security, I was told to join the other "prospective jurors" in the "Juror Assembly Room"--it was a barn, and we were crammed in like so many cattle. The lady next to me was reading "Lust in the Desert" and the gentleman on my other side, well, he had the right idea--he was out cold.

Bruno the "assembly room coordinator" was our commandante for the week: a short, tubby man with an appropriately overstated "New York" accent. He was clearly in control. He held in his hands the ability to show us clemency or sentence us to the maximum penalty: two full weeks of sitting in that damned room as if we were waiting for an endlessly-delayed flight. Every once in a while, he would look up, bring his mouth to the small microphone on his desk and say, "The following jurors will report to the fourth floor..." I had mixed feelings at these moments: on the one hand, anything to get out from between Diane Steele and Rip Van Winkle. On the other hand, I knew that if I avoided being called for three days I would be excused, whereas if I got called, I might land on the jury of "O.J. Part II."

My internal conflict ended quickly: I got called on day one. It was a criminal case, so nearly 40 of us were sent up as a herd. Sixteen jurors were called by their full names and seated in the jury box and the rest of us were seated in the back of the room. The judge began interrogating the various jurors, asking them questions I could not believe I was hearing. "Where do you live?" came first--and let me assure you that vague answers such as "the Upper East Side" (which I later tried) were not what he had in mind. The judge insisted on the precise street and avenue. Next came "Where do you work?" Then, "Are you married?" Then, "Where does your spouse work?" Then, "Do you have any children?" Then, "What organizations do you belong to?" And so on.

Now, the defendant, present in the courtroom for all this, was a young man accused of gun possession. To me, if not to the judge, that distinction seemed to indicate at least the possibility that the man who now knew all of our vital statistics had a gun! I can't speak for anyone else, but when I was eventually called, I was not at all thrilled to be telling Mr. Colt 45 my life story. But that was just the beginning.

Then came the lawyers' turn to examine the bunch of us. The prosecutor was up first and he was hopeless: he stammered, shifted his weight, smiled awkwardly and generally seemed to be a sincere man who, try as he might, could not feign sincerity. We took pity on him and gave him easygoing, helpful answers to his fairly predictable questions ("Do you all understand what 'presumption of innocence' means?" and so on). It was actually fortunate that we got our fill of "generic" courtroom questions from him because we would get no such things from the defense attorney.

When counsel for the defense strode to the bar, we slowly became aware that we were inhaling hairspray--picture your stereotypical, sleezoid mob lawyer and you only begin to brush the surface. But his ridiculous appearance was nothing compared to his questions. First came: "How many of you watch 'E.R.?'" Several of us raised our hands proudly and several others followed sheepishly. "Um hmm" came his victorious reply as he made notes--he had caught us! After that, I just tuned out, not really wanting to deal with why the lawyer was asking me if I watched a popular medical drama in order to determine if I was qualified to sit on a gun possession case.

It was a good thing, too, because if I had been in full command of my faculties when he asked "How many of you tend to be the first to decide what to order when you go out to a restaurant?," I think I would have thrown something blunt and heavy at his head. Affirmative answers to those two questions plus the fact that both of my parents are lawyers was enough to have me booted off the panel. Of course, I can't be sure why I was dismissed, because under the "peremptory challenge" rule, lawyers can simply get rid of a certain number of jurors without showing cause. In any event, so ended my brief experience as a juror in a gun possession case.

After my first panel experience, I was never called again. I did a lot of reading and generally sweated away for two more days until, at last, freedom was mine. In the "New York State Juror's Manual," which we each received, the conclusion reads: "Whether or not you are selected to serve on a case during your term of service, by your presence, availability and willingness to serve, you are making an invaluable contribution to the administration of justice." And that, of course, makes all the difference.