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I’m a criminal—doomed to a life on the lamb, one of fake names and stolen identities. Alright, almost a criminal. I missed jury duty. I vaguely remembered seeing that yellow slip of paper tucked in with the mail. Never having been summoned before, I assumed it was telling me I was pre-approved for some credit card, and was about to throw it out when Jeff gave me a smug grin.

“You’ve got jury duty!” A veteran juror, he obviously delighted in imagining me sharing in the torture that the city forces upon him every year.

“What?! No! I can’t do jury duty!” I watch too much CSI. I’m convinced every crime is committed by a devious mastermind sitting in a basement wearing rubber gloves, gluing magazine letters to notes and sending innocent people to jail in his place. I don’t think I could convict someone beyond the shadow of a reasonable doubt. I could never even convict imaginary characters in the Clue board game. It was Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick! Or was it? Maybe Mrs. Peacock? But what were their childhoods like?

“Well, June 7th. You’ve got it. Don’t forget,” he warned.

I snorted in reproach. Ha! I do not forget things. Jeff forgets things. Like where he puts his car keys, his wallet, his phone, his softball glove, the fact that he left the car in the street with the flashers on, my birthday, his birthday. Jeff telling me not to forget something? Oh, that’s rich!

So I forgot. But I was clearly reminded weeks later when another notice showed up in the mail. Only this one was not a friendly shade of canary yellow, but a bright crimson red. My heart leaped up into my throat when I saw it. I do not break the law. I have a deep-seated, however irrational, fear of going to jail for a crime I didn’t commit. I have panic attacks when going through the metal detectors at airports, imagining that somehow, someone has smuggled a gun into my carry-on without my knowledge. I hold my breath when driving past the detention center near my house, as if someone will see me and yell, “Hey! You there! Get in here!”

I scanned the page and calmed down a bit when I realized I had five days from the date on the letter to respond. Then my eyes went to the date stamped at the top of the page. Exactly five days ago. The next words I read were, “fine and/or possible imprisonment.” Then, total panic ensued. I ran laps around the house while I dialed Jeff, wondering if I should throw Avery in the car and head for the border now, or wait ’til nightfall.

When Jeff didn’t answer, I called my dad. Yeah, I’m thirty and I still call my dad to tell me what to do. I expected him to laugh and say, “Oh jury duty? That’s no big deal! It’s more of a suggestion, really. You don’t have to go if you don’t want. Now, go get some ice cream and take a nap.” Instead, he hmmphed into the phone.

“What?” I cried with steadily rising panic.

“They don’t really mess around with those things. The sheriff will come and get you. In fact, that just happened to Christine down the street, and the sheriff just came, knocked on the door and took her away.”

I imagined myself in an episode of Cops—I was already wearing sweats with unwashed hair. It was only a matter of time before they showed up to put me in shackles while I screamed, “My baby! My baby!” (See?!)

My next call was to the Circuit Court, where I received a busy signal for thirty minutes while using two phones to continuously dial and hang up, dial and hang up. Finally, it rang. And I was promptly put on hold. For two hours. This gave me just enough time to envision my new life in prison. I watched Avery play happily on the floor wondering if he would remember that I was a good mom before I went away to the clink. Would he remember me at all? Would Jeff bring him on family day to visit me in my orange jumpsuit, where he would bring drawings that he made me, which would then be confiscated by the guard as soon as they walked to the parking lot? I look terrible in orange.

Finally she answered. In one frantic breath I explained the situation about how I’m a new mom, and I have so much on my plate that I barely remember to shower let alone go to jury duty weeks after I get the notice and it totally slipped my mind and please god I will not do well in prison. She laughed, “Yeah when they send you that notice, you gotta show up. Or they’ll come get you.” She told me she’d make a note in the system, and they would just send me another date in the mail. No hard time.

Wait, another date? Didn’t I just explain I have a baby? Who needs me every moment? How can I be expected to go somewhere without the baby, without Jeff…without dogs, without laundry and dishes and bills and the phone and the business and clients, and just sit quietly in a cool room full of other adults with a beverage, allowance for lunch, and maybe a good book for an entire day—possibly more? I’m sorry, did you say spa day or jury duty? On second thought, maybe it couldn’t hurt to just hear the evidence.

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