The Holy Order Of The Asian Pussy Pounders
Jury duty in San Francisco
by Tironius, created Thursday, September 28, 2006, with permalink

The only gift California knows how to give: servitude

About two weeks ago I received a gift in the mail: it was the gift of forced servitude by and for the great state of California. It was a summons for Jury duty. The instructions: I was to call a telephone number every day for a week to see if the automated voice on the other end will tell me if I a.) I am to fry somebody up in punishment for my being on jury duty, or b.) I was scott-free.

The system has its faults. For instance, on Thursday, I called in the wee hours of the morning to get my instructions like an assasinator would call headquarters to receive his mark's dossier. The robotic woman replied, "No information available." "Hmm, it is nearing the end of the week, I bet I don't have to go," I naively thought to myself internally (and possibly externally, as I was alone). My call the next day (Friday) would disprove this notion.

"Your jury service begins on September 22, beginning at 9:30 a.m.," said that robotic bitch. It was now 11 o'clock!

Half-panicing over the notion I might be fined and/or jailed and/or ass-raped, not to mention missing class, I stumble to get it together -- I couldn't find fucking money for the Muni. But, I did and I went, only to find that I needed to call again the next Monday, which I did to learn I serve the next day, Tuesday.

The Hall of Justice: Superman, Flash nowhere to be found

I go to the familiar room of 307 on the third floor of the Hall of Justice, where jurors wait in a large room with many chairs. To paint a picture: vending machines on the right, The Price is Right to my left, and a purple-haired dyke to my far right. Rows of seats everywhere. Tables with chairs containing all walks of life. A man plays the "an honor to serve, let's be impartial" jury video to get things started.

I didn't wait long for my name to be called, they went alphabetically by last name. To "department 19" is my final destination for the day, which I find out as being criminal court. I and about fourty others head to the courtroom, all sitting in the audience seating. A short asian woman calls for attendence, and I notice about three hotties of caucasia sitting around: two blonds, and a nice brunette. Sweet asian pussy ready to pounded right there in the courtroom sat directly next to me. I digress. (I learn she is a young lawyer gonna-be.)

Judge Haines enters, all rise, and the sound of Law & Order's curious sound --CHONG CHONG -- fills my head. I just wanted to stand up instantly and shout, "Objection, your honor, chambers!" like A.D.A. McCoy from the show. Judge Haines was seemingly nice and explained the process of jury selection, how our names were randomly selected by computer and will be called among the fourty to an elite 26. I notice a black defendant (no surprise), a respectable looking black attorney with dread-locks, and the opposing prosecution, a blonde woman in her late thirties, early fourties.

The judge proceeds to ask many questions of the 26 as a group, things like "have you been a victim of a crime," and "have you owned a gun." Judging from the many questions like this, and the information he gave about the case, we learn the Gunny McShootsalot had some kind of altercation with his landlord, shot and attempted to murder him. He was on trial for attempted murder and assault with wrongful imprisonment.

The entertainment begins as it is now time for the attorneys to excuse jurors based on who-knows-what criteria. Things are hopping now, and this guy and that lady are excused. "Thank you, your honor; the people would like to thank and excuse juror number two," states the prosecution. The guy leaves, the next in line of the 26 goes to take his place of the twelve actual jury members.

Things proceed, many people are excused. "We need two alternate jurors, now." They call Hotty McAsian as alternate juror number one. The next name I hear makes my heart sink: it is mine. I stand up and sit in the alternate juror number two chair, again sitting to the left of the good looking asian girl. (Asian, but not too asian; nice western features mixed in.)

Like the others, I give my name, my neighborhood of the city I live, marrital status, occupation, and past jury service info. I am asked if I have any strong opinion about guns. Unlike a couple of old 50-something pussy hippies who we heard earlier about the wrongness of handguns, I had no strong opinion one way or another, I say.

The prosecution: "The people would like to thank and excuse Mr. [Tironius] at this time." I get up and leave, never having to serve again (for a year). --Tironius