When Sydney Chen had gotten the jury duty notice, she knew there was nothing to be done. She'd been excused seven times now, and that was the limit. Each time she'd been called, Jim Hillyer had written her a cockamamie excuse. She'd dutifully trekked down to 80 Centre Street, gone before the court clerk, and begged off. In fact, come to think of it, Sydney had never actually known anybody who had really served on a jury. But, thanks to O.J., a new law had been enacted -- no excuses from jury duty. For anybody. Period. Unless you were, like, dead or something. But who had the time?

It was 9 a.m., and the holding room in which the jury "pool" sat was depressing beyond belief: 25-foot-high ceilings, dim mental-institution style light fixtures from the 1930s, institutional-green walls that hadn't been painted since Roosevelt, and row upon row of straight-backed wooden chairs in which potential jurors sat staring glumly ahead. It was simply a matter of waiting to be "interviewed" for assignment, and it was excruciatingly boring.

Sydney scanned the room. An Upper West Side earth-mother type with frizzy hair, a straw Kenya carryall bag, a Walkman with the volume turned up so high that it was audibly tuned to Howard Stern, and a Mexican poncho -- did anyone still wear ponchos? -- sat just in front of Sydney reading a Harlequin romance. Sydney imagined herself on trial for murder, being judged by a woman who had just finished reading Sweet Savage Love or Naked Stand I Tall. A shiver went up her spine.

Jury Doody For years, Sydney knew tons of people -- like Earth Mother here -- who'd been called for jury duty, but no one who'd actually served. It was a joke! She herself used to write letters daily for Mr. Hillyer's signature getting agency employees off the hook. No more. Now it's ... report to 60 Centre Street, no excuses, and TAKE A BOOK!

Agnes had insisted that Sydney take one of the office cellular phones with her, just to be reachable, but Sydney had turned it off in an act of protest. Sydney hadn't had a vacation in 18 months, and she was damned if she was going to sit in Superior Court fielding calls from Hillyer, Jones. Enough already. Glancing around her, Sydney was amazed at the number of people who actually seemed perfectly happy to be there, as they sipped coffee from Starbuck's containers, read the Times, talked animatedly on cell phones, or stared absently into space. The man next to Sydney seemed particularly antsy, however. An imposing midtown-executive type in a blue pin-striped suit and expensive shoes, he kept compulsively glancing down at his Breitling -- a watch that was bigger than the alarm clock on Sydney's night table. Tension emanated from him in waves that were nearly palpable. This guy would've given anything to not be here.

At least he's not barking orders into a cell phone at some poor secretary, Sydney thought. With that, the man whipped a Motorola Flip-Phone out of his breast pocket and started punching away at the keypad. Sydney shook her head and smiled. This might be interesting, she thought, mentally taking notes.

"Raquel? It's me," he barked, as Sydney eavesdropped on the telegraphic, one-sided conversation. "No. Jury duty. Bogus beyond belief. I could scream. No, I don't know how long. Hours maybe. Days maybe. Yeah. Nightmare. The Stephen King manuscript? I don't have it. No. No. No. NO! I sent it out to L.A. No. I don't know. No. Yes. No. Look, I'm not a damn movie director, I'm a book agent. Have them figure it out. Yeah. No. I don't care. $1.2 million, why? Paperback. Forget subsidiary rights. Forget them. Forget them. No. $1.2 million. Minimum. Raquel? Raquel? I'm losing you. Oh, screw it."

Sydney tried to look away as he temperamentally slammed his Flip Phone shut, and shoved it in his pocket. He glanced down at his watch again. Type A, definitely, Sydney thought. This guy's going to bust a vessel if they keep him waiting here much longer. Nevertheless, her eyes had widened at his mention of the phrase "book agent."

Sydney looked down at the Mark Cross leather shoulder bag she now carried everywhere these days -- it was at her feet. In it was the manuscript she'd been working on for four years. Four long years of copious note-taking, obsessive midnight rewriting, and endless hours of observing her colleagues' every act and nuance. She'd finally finished her book -- and had planned to use her jury duty waiting time to reread it one more time before submitting it to a publisher.

Sydney wasn't one to believe in fate ... but could it have been an accident that the New York State legal system, in all its random wisdom, had serendipitously placed her next to a literary agent?

He who hesitates is lost, Sydney heard one of her mother's trite maxims echoing in her head, as she prepared to strike.

Back at Hillyer, Jones, the temp that had been asked to fill in for Sydney was driving Agnes up the wall. The woman had zero common sense, and little interest in the job. Worst of all her name was Julee. Not Julie -- Julee.

"Miss Ramirez," the airhead temp said, standing in front of Agnes's desk, "I proofread this stuff you asked me to. It looks fine to me. Perfect. No mistakes. I checked it twice." "Thanks, Julee," said Agnes skeptically. The girl had spent all of five minutes on the proofreading. Julee handed her the blueprints and color keys for a series of print ads the agency was doing for an Ohio-based auto-parts manufacturer. The company was running a sweepstakes, the grand prize in which was a new BMW, and the ads had to be FedExed that night. They'd already gotten an extension on the deadline from the national newsmagazines. Agnes began to pack up the material for shipping, but decided she really ought to read them herself. When she read the headline, she saw:

Office-Temp Hell For an office manager of Agnes' level of efficiency and expertise, the word "temp" really stands for "tempted to kill." Where did these people COME from? And we're paying them HOW MUCH???

IF YOU LIVE IN THE STATE OF OIHO, YOU MAY ALREADY BE A WIENER!!

"Oh, Julee," Agnes called sweetly, ready to slap the little moron, and wondering who "Wonder Women" temps would send tomorrow.