Photo by Jackie Hope on Unsplash
“I got called in. I’m heading downtown.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow. Bright and early. Orientation starts at like 7:30.”
“That sucks. My alarm doesn’t even go off until 7:30.”
“Yeah, I postponed as long as I could. Now I’ve got to report.”
“Look on the bright side, it’s only ‘one day, one case’ now, right? They call in a lot of people. What are the odds you get picked?”
Lou gave his friend a flat look.
The next morning Lou shuffled in line with several dozen others. Security. Metal detectors. Government high-rise. Who knows which floor he’d end up on after orientation.
Lou was next.
“Empty your pockets in the tray. Bags through the machine.”
“Jacket off?” Lou asked.
The deputy barely shook his head, waved Lou through the detector’s archway.
“You’re good, sir. Orientation room to the right.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Every single one of you, sir. You have the look. And the summons envelope.”
Lou sat in the room with probably 200 others. Now he understood the look. Got up too early, not my routine, don’t want to be here. Just about everyone in the room had it.
Couple of people had already settled in with books and all manner of devices. They knew the drill. Fill out the form. Pass down the row to the clerk in the center of the room. Lecture about the process.
His friend was right: one day, one trial. Could be worse, he could be stuck here like the old days his old man had told him about; a full week doing nothing in the assembly room if they didn’t call him, and could be a couple trials if he did get called.
Q&A time. People lamented to the clerks about not getting paid, having family responsibilities, parking costs, commuting hassles, not speaking the language well enough to serve. All the same complaints about their jobs and daily routine, but refocused here. Questions about things already covered in the lecture, as if that would delay the courts from calling jurors.
The clerks were well-practiced, Lou thought. Referring people to the clerks’ booth if they thought they had an excuse, and responding to self-serving excuse questions with “You’re welcome to take that up with the judge.”
Of course there was the person claiming they didn’t get paid last time, and the guy with the political agenda that said service violated his rights. Tell it to the judge, pal.
It occurred to Lou that the goal of almost everyone in the room was to not serve. Not perform their civic duty. Not to contribute. Sure, the system has its flaws, but if no one were to take it seriously the harder it would be for the system to function well. People come in with a shitty attitude or can’t fathom levying a verdict because they feel so bad about the person on the receiving end, and it just makes things more difficult. Cases have to start over. Burden on the system.
Inconvenient? Definitely. At least compared to the day routine. They pay parking (everyone got vouchers), and commuting on the train was still cheaper than the pittance paid as a day rate. Beat sitting in morning traffic to downtown, too. Coffee’s good. There’s that. And hey, a day away from the office and his petty tyrant of a boss.
What about being on the receiving end? Lou thought. What if it were me on the other side? Wouldn’t I want a fair shake? Evidence would speak for itself. Well, it was supposed to.
“Lou, you’re up.”
Lou fell back into his half-asleep mind. Must have dozed off. Blinked his drying eyes from the faraway state to focus on the person next to him who was nudging his arm.
“Lou, your name’s been called. You’re up.”
“Yeah, yeah, thanks. I think.”
It was only mid-morning. Somehow he’d snoozed. He should have thought to bring a book.
The assembly room was still crowded. Not many empty seats yet.
Lou sat up and straightened his jacket.
They called his name on the P.A. again.
“Present.”
“Thank you. Please report to Department nineteen, fifth floor, room 502.”
Back through the lobby. Crowded. Bank of elevators, then crammed into a car with a few too many people. Every floor got lit up before the doors closed
Lou slid out to the fifth floor with somebody else, who headed off with a purpose.
He found a directory tree. Then 502. Big double doors. Nobody else in this end of the long hallway.
He pushed the left door in.
The gallery was empty. No councilors either. Dark, robed figure seated at the bench. Clerk off to the side.
A bailiff opened the gate and motioned Lou through.
Lou stepped in, careful not to scuff the pentagram painted on the floor as he stepped into the center panel.
The figure spoke. “The court thanks you for reporting to your summons and performing your civic duty. When you’ve heard all the evidence, please call the bailiff. Your verdict will guide the court’s judgment.”
Lou nodded. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“Are you able to faithfully render a verdict using only the evidence the humans will present to you?”
“I am.”
The figure listed out details about the case. A couple living in a walled garden estate. Landlord telling them what they could and couldn’t do. Big deal about an apple tree that was supposedly off limits. The case teetered on the couple’s rights and exercise of free will. The landlord sounded like a jealous and vindictive prick.
The gavel banged.
Lou could feel the pull of the summons. He blinked his now-slitted eyes. Flicked his just-forked tongue. He was ready.
Someone had to take their civic duty seriously…
Mike Krause started his adult life as a musician and writer who found himself in a “real” job when the bottom dropped out of the music industry. Fast forward more years than he cares to admit, Mike has a technical position at major Hollywood studio and writes for creative fulfillment. His other published writing includes contributions to Edit Well magazine and technical standards. He’s currently restarting his creative writing career with short stories and scripts, a modern dark fantasy novel, and a Sherlock Holmes story, around suburban family life.