I had the fortunate opportunity to be one cog in the great American justice system. Too bad I didn't get picked.

I'm in the minority of people eager to serve on a jury. I don't understand what causes most people who mull every way to wiggle out of being in the box. I was thrilled to get the notice in the mail a month ago. Scenes from "Twelve Angry Men" flashed in my head.

I headed down to Merced County Superior Court this morning and was sent away with the instructions to return at 1:30 p.m. to be in the next pool of 90 people.

As people filed in, I read from "Touch and Go," a memoir by Studs Terkel. (I still remember a friend in high school being enamored by his name. "Studs? That's awesome," I remember him saying.) The chapter I was reading explained the power of joining groups for protest, change or a cause. The justice system isn't mentioned, but what Terkel wrote fits:

"That particular fight may have succeeded or failed, but you realize there's someone who thinks as you do, and so you become stronger as a result, no matter what the outcome. You count!"

As the names were called of people to be interviewed this afternoon, I heard groan after groan and watched eyes roll. I suppose it's similar to the silence that comes from millions of Americans on Election Day. A mild anger that we have to be troubled to participate in our democracy, I guess.

A couple years ago, when I still called Chico home, I was called to Butte County Superior Court. As a senior in college, I honestly couldn't afford to take the time out to hear arguments in a trial. The judge was kind enough to excuse me, though it was still a bittersweet moment. Now that I'm a working adult, I was hoping I'd be able to serve.

The court clerk called 60 names, and mine wasn't one of them. Myself, and 29 others, were sent away, fulfilling our obligation for this year. Based on the day, I came to a quick conclusion: A jury of one's peers would really be twelve empty chairs.