The envelope with the exciting offer arrived in February for the gathering in March. I told Dear Richard about it, but he wasn’t invited. I immediately logged the date into my computer calendar while planning what I would wear.

I had eagerly awaited this invitation for over 37 years. For a long time, I felt overlooked, perhaps not worthy of inclusion. Personally, I regard being summoned to jury duty as an honor.

I sincerely hoped to be selected this time.

We moved many times prior to landing here 42 years ago. We never stayed in one place long enough to serve as jurors. But a few years after settling in, I received the letter. I thought, “Great – this is my responsibility, my civic duty.” I had always wanted to serve, and observe our rule of law in action.

Back on that morning in 1985, I eagerly reported to the courthouse. Of the pool of 60 to 70 potential jurors in the courtroom, I was called forward in the initial group of 25. Wow, this is really going to happen, I thought.

The judge read the rules of the day: what was going to happen, and how we were to partake and respond. We all swore to tell the truth, then the opposing attorneys began the “voir dire” – the period of questioning of the potential jurors.

The case before us was a burglary that had resulted in an assault, and fleeing with stolen property. Geez, I thought. The burglars I saw on television worked hard at finding homes whose owners were away.

Our voir dire group was asked if any of us had ever been burglarized. I had to raise my hand along with one other person. Our burglary had happened three years before we moved here.

The next question was to determine if any of us had ever been physically assaulted or attacked. I had to raise my hand, having been attacked in the New York City subway.

The third question involved having personal possessions stolen. When I had to raise my hand again, I was pretty sure I was done for. I was dismissed 10 seconds later. Rats. They didn’t know what they were missing – all my expertise. Seriously.

I had paid close attention during the years of Perry Mason and Matlock. I so wanted to contribute.

The most recent summons to court duty didn’t go much better, but for a completely different reason.

Last month, when they seated the first 25 out of the large jury pool, my name was not called. Oh no. Not good.

The attorneys were questioning: “Are any of you related to any member of law enforcement, local police, sheriff’s department, anywhere?” Or something to that effect.

They dismissed a few candidates for personal reasons and a few for cause. When the fifth candidate left, they called my name to replace her. I was thrilled.

I walked to the vacated seat in the front row. Both attorneys looked at me …and politely smiled. Right then, I knew I was finished.

A few more questions, no more departures, and soon the selected jury of 12 was called… plus two alternates. My name wasn’t on the list.

It’s the white hair. I think the District Attorney and the defendant’s counsel do not consider seating a juror of my vintage. They want people without a lifetime of strong opinions.

And maybe they think that we of a certain age don’t have all our marbles. I don’t know. When they smiled, I realized they were merely acknowledging courtesy to the “little old lady.” Period.

I could have done a bang-up job. All that knowledge from 32 years of dedication to Law and Order, L.A. Law, and the Good Wife? I coulda helped.

I’m pretty sure my days of exciting invitations from the county court are passed. Maybe someday, I’ll just show up, sit in the back and watch a trial or two. This legal junky isn’t going to wait to be asked anymore.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com.