Where's a little order in the court when you need it?

With your kind indulgence, after receiving a jury duty summons, I’d like to present to you my all-time favorite courtroom movies:

10. “My Cousin Vinnie” (1992)

9. “Witness for the Prosecution” (1957)

8. “The Caine Mutiny” (1954)

7. “And Justice for All” (1979)

6. “Judgment at Nuremburg” (1961)

5. “Anatomy of a Murder” (1959)

4. “To Kill a Mockingbird” (1962)

3. “A Few Good Men” (1992)

2. “Inherit the Wind” (1960)

1. “Twelve Angry Men” (1957)

Hmm.

Until I’d actually sat down and conjured this countdown, I hadn’t realized not a single one of my selections was released in the 21st century. This either says a lot about the sad state of Hollywood in the new millennium or offers proof positive I’m much more comfortable living in the past than dealing with the nasty present.

None of that will matter, presumably, when I show up at the courthouse to do my civic duty in a week’s time. I’ve pored over the dos and don’ts — be punctual, no shorts, no flip-flops, take it seriously — and I understand it all, including being paid a $30 per diem stipend should I be chosen to weigh the pending evidence.

That’s the problem, though.

There’s little or no chance I’ll survive the voir dire process, the legal tool both the prosecution and the defense use to winnow out prospective jurors who might be harmful to their case.

I mean I’m not exactly reluctant to express an unpopular opinion.

Still, the first and only time I was summoned to perform jury duty, I managed to make it through to the actual swearing-in process, but even as we were receiving our instructions, I could see something out of the ordinary was taking place in the well.

Attorneys were scurrying back and forth between the plaintiff’s and defendant’s tables, huddling and speaking sotto voce, gesturing and waving emphatically, ignoring us in the jury box.

That’s when the presiding judge called for a 15-minute recess.

In North Carolina, even after living there for a couple of years, I didn’t know very many people, certainly not well enough to recognize anyone on a sun-splashed weekday morning as I stood on the courthouse steps, trying to remember where I’d parked.

Then I heard someone call my name.

Back then my weekly column had attracted a small but dedicated audience, a member of which just happened to host a cable-access TV program. I’d appeared two or three times, talking easily about my life and how I’d come to land in New Bern, a town just inland from the Atlantic, 770 miles from the place I still called home.

The voice belonged to this man’s wife, and I recognized her from her frequent appearances on CATV-9. Engaging and intelligent, she came across much the way I hoped I had, but I harbored doubts.

We exchanged pleasantries, asked after each other’s partners but, owing to the orders we’d received from the bench, refrained from talking about the case despite the fact it hadn’t even begun.

She looked at me, shrugged and said, “They’re working out a plea bargain,” and as it turned out, she was quite presciently correct.

According to the American Bar Association, 90-98% of all criminal cases in this country result in some kind of deal, a figure that astonishes me until I remember the one time I faced a judge.

Fifty years ago, when I was a 21-year-old senior in college, I’d run afoul of the law. Faithful readers will recall the details, so I’ll spare you the retelling of my misadventure with the Pennsylvania police.

Suffice it to say that when it came time to enter a plea, my lawyer had gotten the charge reduced from a felony to a misdemeanor — I think it was disorderly conduct … or maybe disturbing the peace.

Who can remember?

I was sentenced to six months’ probation and a $500 fine, which meant all traces of the arrest were expunged from my record.

A month later a Christmas card from that attorney arrived in the mail. He had written, “Thanks for the easiest case I ever had. Don’t come back around these parts anytime soon. You’re a lucky guy.”

We’ll see how fortunate I really am when I show up for jury duty next week. Part of me wants to experience the whole thing from opening statements to closing arguments. I’d like to retire with 11 other sworn-in citizens to a room reserved for vital deliberations.

Then again, I understand there’s very little chance that’ll actually happen, so I’m resigned to weather that disappointment.

For all I know, this little essay will be introduced as evidence and, before I know it, I’ll be eagerly dismissed by all parties involved.

On the plus side, 30 bucks could buy my wife and me a pretty nice lunch downtown, which wouldn’t be the worst possible outcome.

Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to join him on his Facebook page, where some people just can’t handle the truth.