Could it be a bad omen if one gets lost on the first day of federal jury duty (with the able assistance of a navigation system)? Of course, the frantic call to the judge's office for directions only made matters worse.

At the courthouse, U.S. marshals informed jurors that books and cell phones could not be brought into the building. And yet, ladies with books tucked into their purses got in without any difficulty. After we trudged back to our cars with the "contraband" items, we strolled through the "Gates of Intrusion" sans shoes and continued to remove items until the alarm stopped. (Wonder how far folks with metal in their heads or hips have to go before they are pronounced harmless?)

Unlike the crowded conditions at county courthouses, the federal jury "holding pen" was clean and more humane with vending machines and restrooms nearby. But after waiting three hours napping was still impossible because the chairs were not slouch and snooze friendly.

Naturally, the more comfortable armchairs and short couches were commandeered by the early birds and sharing was not an option. Consequently the rest of us were reduced to lusting after furniture wondering whether they unfolded into beds.

You know how news items worm their way into the subconscious and pop to the front of the mental line at the oddest moments? Case in point, you may recall the furor regarding a member of Congress caught in a public restroom with his feet in a "wide stance position."

Nevertheless, when a lady wears a pantsuit, the practicality of that position keeps the pants off the restroom floor. In the privacy of her cubicle, a female juror noticed her feet were in a "wide stance position" and suddenly recalled the news item. Reining in a panic attack, she hoped the prosecutor "next door" did not draw the wrong conclusion.

As is often the case with new buildings, the restrooms had some equipment quirks. The soap dispensers were installed in the general vicinity of the faucets, but it took a bit of digital contortionism to squeeze the fingertips between the dispenser spout and the raised rim of the sink. Sanitary is not the first word that came to mind as folks struggled to dispense soap without touching the sink.

The temptation to ask what kind of crack the workmen were smoking to create such a masterpiece of inefficiency was nearly overwhelming. However, given the defendant's drug issues, the court might gaze upon the questioner with a jaundiced eye and, therefore, the question went unasked.

Ours was the first jury to serve in the new federal courthouse. We also would be the first to sit in the jury room's new, freshly oiled leather chairs; and the first to carve our initials in the jury room table (with invisible knives, of course).

When the prospective jurors were finally summoned, the door to the courtroom was locked. After a flurry of confusion among staff members, they told the leader of the jury parade to knock. Since it was Halloween week, someone in line quipped "trick-or-treat."

Long past the noon hour, we moved to the "voir dire" (juror elimination) phase of the trial. Voir dire is from the French meaning "to see, to speak," and was mispronounced as "vor dire." You would think someone with a smattering knowledge of French could have clued in the members of the court on the proper pronunciation (vwahr [a near-silent "r"] deer). (Clearly, extended periods of inactivity lead to nitpicking.)

We, the jury, were seated around 4 p.m. The trial began with the prosecutor's monotone questioning of the first witness, while documentary evidence was flashed on a screen.

Fortunately, the brief nod-off by some jurors in the front row was mercifully overlooked by the court.

Next week: Three counts of arson; and an unregistered Molotov cocktail lacking quality control.

Elizabeth Cowan is a freelance writer and former Norman resident. E-mail her at Elizabeth@elizabethcowan.com.