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Jury Duty Part IX: A Final Trip To The Oh-Ay-Sis.

We were under strict orders from El Jefe not to discuss anything about the case until after closing arguments had been presented and we had officially begun deliberations. So now we are seven people, well eight if you count the bailiff, all trapped on an elevator and the one thing we're not allowed to talk about is the one thing we all have in common. How's that for a social experiment? Skinny Tanned Bald Dude brings up something about football and banters back and forth with Fat Accountant Dude for a minute, but the conversation quickly fizzles out. I ask anyone else if they find themselves wincing every time Unpronounceablename has to get up out of her seat and hobble across the courtroom in visible pain. I get a "mm'hmm" and a nod, but that's it. Fine, fuck you guys." The elevator doors open with a crisp ding of a hidden bell, and we ironically enough we find ourselves just outside of the initial room that some 355 of us herded into just the morning before. It's a quick turn to The Oasis, but I don't stop to read the sandwich board to see what today's specials are. They already broke my fucking heart yesterday by teasing me with tacos, so I'm not about to open myself up to that pain again.

I recall some advice that The Best Boss In The World, Dick Mitchell once gave me back during the 1992 elections, "Sometimes the vil you know is better than the evil you don't know." He voted for GHWB and I for Perot, in case you were wondering. So with Dick's voice in my ears, I ordered the exact same lunch as I did a day earlier: a grilled chicken sandwich with mayonnaise, lettuce and tomato, on a white roll with a side of macaroni salad. A bottle of water today, instead of the Pepsi, since hey a brother's got to watch his waistline. Our lunch being earlier today, the grill was still in service today and two people -- Skinny Tanned Bald Dude and Skinny Metrosexual Dude -- ordered cheeseburgers for lunch. And yes there were plenty, "two buns and a well cooked piece of meat," jokes had by all. A Little Overweight But Still Cute Divorced Chick announces that she is heading over to the initial jury intake room, so she can see Harold the Jury Coordinator about getting paid. And by "getting paid" I mean the great count of Lee in the great state of Florida will reimburse each us the sum of $15 for each and every day we are on jury duty. Did I sign up to receive my $30? You bet your ass I did.

At 2:30 in afternoon the jury returned as promised -- "all rise while the jury enters the courtroom" -- and we return to the same seats we were occupying before our lunch break. Earlier that morning I had the foresight not to repeat the same mistake as yesterday, and selected a seat in the back row of the jury box. My government issued notepad, complete with "ME THINKS GUILTY AS FUCK" scribbled in block letters lay face down in my seat, exactly where I had left it. We take our seats and a second later, El Jefe gives permission for everyone else to do so as well. Tapping a ring on the mic sends a couple of metallic thumps out from the overhead speakers as he leans in to speak. "You are about to hear the closing arguments from both legal counsels. Again, let me remind you that what you hear in these closing arguments should not be treated as evidence. The only verbal evidence accepted for this trial is that elicited from witnesses during the earlier examinations. While each side will have an equal amount of time, the prosecution has the right to break their closing statements up into two segments. As such, the prosecution goes first. The State may proceed."

Saturday: Closing arguments. That's right motherfuckers, I said Saturday.

Okay, kind of a softball here, if this dumper needed servicing, show me where would it go.

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