A Fox News Channel producer who covers the Justice Department and federal courts appeared before a federal judge himself on Monday – in a case involving threats to a Justice Department official.

That producer would be me, Mike Levine, and I was one of 45 people told over the weekend to report for jury duty Monday morning at U.S. District Court in Washington.

The court had said in the initial documents it mailed, "We hope you will find jury service interesting and rewarding!"

Interesting, indeed.

We all gathered in the jurors' lounge shortly after 8 a.m. To start things off, court officials informed the group that "you’ve all" seen someone else delivering a verdict on TV or film, but "in the next few days YOU may be delivering a verdict." So, to educate us all about that, they showed a film.

"It’s award-winning. We got an Oscar for this one," a woman from the Jury Office joked before letting it roll.

The slightly grainy film was apparently from the '80s, featuring an anchorwoman in a bright-blue jacket with oversized shoulder pads, a large pin stuck to her lapel, and Mary Lou Retton hair.

"The right to a trial by jury is guaranteed by our Constitution," the film's anchor said. "Without people like you, these Constitutional requirements could not be met."

The anchor explained several key terms that jurors would likely come across during a trial, including "evidence," "cross-examination," "opening statements," "bench conferences" and "voir dire" (jury selection).

Those explanations were interspersed with "testimonials" from a variety of characters: There was an Asian doctor; a Hispanic maintenance worker; an overweight, white farmer, who leaned against a wooden fence as three cows chewed behind him; and an old woman with large glasses, who sat in a reading chair, beside a small boy’s picture on the bookcase.

The film must have been produced "when the idea of multiculturalism was first being born," a potential juror sitting next to me noted.

In the film, the old woman said she was "nervous" about the big words she may hear during jury service.

"I kept thinking, 'I'm a librarian – well, a retired librarian – not a lawyer,'" the old woman said.

The anchor then tried to allay any potential juror's fears: "All you need to bring to the courtroom is your common sense." (The anchor has since left the film and TV industry. She now heads a "strategic communications firm" with offices in Washington and New York.)

The film lasted about 20 minutes.

About a half-hour later, the group of 45 potential jurors marched to Courtroom 9, where we would face U.S. District Judge Richard Roberts and the attorneys in the case. We were 25 females, and 20 males.

Once seated on the benches inside, Roberts told us we had been summoned to potentially decide the fate of Mr. Wayne Pannell.

Earlier this year the government wanted Pannell to testify for them in a previous case, and the Assistant U.S. Attorney in Washington, Deborah Sines, had met with Pannell. But, according to prosecutors, Pannell "did not wish to appear in court and testify," so in February he paid a long-time friend to make threatening calls to Sines, hoping that the trial would "thereby be postponed and somehow dismissed."

On Feb. 5, Pannell’s friend called Sines and left a message saying, "Let me tell you something. We will kidnap your son today, and if you think about going to mother f-----n’ trial, we will kill you." A day later, according to prosecutors, Pannell’s friend left a second message, saying, "We are watching ... we are gonna get [you]."

Pannell was arrested in March, indicted on seven counts, including Solicitation to Commit a Crime of Violence, Threatening to Kidnap a Family Member of a Federal Law Enforcement Officer, Threatening to Murder a Federal Law Enforcement Officer, and Obstruction of Justice.

Roberts, though, only gave us a brief outline of the case. He then asked the group 26 questions, mostly about people we know or things we do that could impact our ability to be impartial jurors. I fessed up to two things: My father's an attorney, and my brother used to work for a law enforcement agency.

Roberts asked me if those facts would make it difficult for me to be impartial. To both, I said, "It would not."

One question, though, stumped me at first: In the past 10 years had I – or someone close to me – been witness to a crime?

Would driving over the speed limit count? What about jaywalking?

A woman asked the judge, "What do you mean by 'crime'?" The judge told us to err on the side of caution and interpret the term broadly. I determined, then, that, "Yes," in fact I had been witness to a crime in the past 10 years.

A different question stumped the older woman sitting next to me. Roberts asked each of us if there were any "urgent" matters or scheduling conflicts that would prevent us from serving up to four days to hear all the evidence, plus the time it would take to deliberate?

The woman next to me leaned over and asked whether that would include her frequent use of the restroom.

"I’d clear out my bladder beforehand, but I can only last three hours. Then I gotta go," She said. "That’s it."

I told her I didn't think that would be a problem.

At about 11:20 a.m., a majority of us were sent back to the jurors' lounge, where we waited while the lawyers and judge began a closer inspection of those left behind. For an hour during lunch-time we were allowed to roam the building, but we found ourselves back in the lounge at 1:25 p.m.

An hour later, I had an epiphany: The jurors' lounge looks a lot like the gate area of an airport, complete with the rows of stained seats and TVs suspended from large columns. In fact, like passengers waiting to board a plane, some potential jurors were reading or pecking on their laptops, while others were asleep, having contorted themselves into inexplicable states of comfort. One woman was using her laptop as a pillow.

Another hour passed.

At 3:26 p.m., I was called for follow-up questioning. This was my chance to explain why I believed I had witnessed a crime sometime in the past 10 years.

As I stood before Judge Roberts back in his courtroom, I reminded him that he told us to define the word "crime" broadly. So I noted that 10 years ago I was in college, where – technically speaking – crimes were occurring all around me. Under-age drinking. Drug use. Possession of a fake ID. None was prosecuted, but they were technically crimes nonetheless.

Roberts smiled.

"Thank you for your broad interpretation," he said.

My follow-up questioning lasted a matter of seconds, and I was directed back to the lounge, where about 30 of us waited for the next hour and a half.

Shortly after 5 p.m., everyone in the jurors' lounge was summoned to Roberts’ courtroom. Once there, we had to wait again while prosecutors and defense lawyers wrangled over the final juror list.

As minutes passed, some potential jurors in the back row began discussing the odds of each of them being selected. The woman who works on terrorism issues for a federal agency: No way. The guy who made a point of telling the judge – repeatedly – that he has lots of lawyers in his family: Family ties wouldn’t rule him out. As for me: I figured anything was possible.

After 18 minutes, a final roster had been reached. A court official ticked off the 14 jurors who would sit in the jury box.

I was not one of them.

What didn’t I have that the others did – or what DID I have that the others did not? I emailed Pannell’s attorney, public defender Tony Miles, and asked him to shed some light on my dismissal. I have yet to hear back from him.

Meanwhile, as I look back on the whole day, I can't help but think about something that anchorwoman in the '80s film told us at the start of the day: "If you’re excused, don't take it personally."