The envelope looks like a bill and behaves like a warrant. It arrives in the plain mail between a seed catalog and a credit offer, your name printed the way only a government database can print it, and inside is a summons: report to the courthouse on a Monday in March, at half past eight in the morning, prepared to stay. You did not audition for this production. You signed no contract, negotiated no fee, read no script. The paper tells you what happens if you ignore it, and what happens is contempt: a fine, a cell, or both. Of all the performances running in America, this is the only one that conscripts its audience. By the end of the week you may be deciding whether a stranger loses liberty, money, children, or, in the courtrooms that still ask the question, life. The republic keeps one room in which that decision belongs to twelve people who did not volunteer that morning, and every seat in that room is filled by force of law.

Continue reading → Jury Duty: Theatre You Cannot Leave