When the person telling us in the jury lounge what's what mentioned we may be there until 5pm, it added a certain spice to the waiting. And that is mostly what I did--wait. Last night I downloaded what I thought would rescue me from the tedium, a chess programme for my iPod. The trouble was, I have too much pride to play on anything but the hardest setting*, which turned out to be unbeatable for me this morning, though I could tell I wasn't getting my real measure playing in sleep dep. mode. I persistently made enormous, really dumb mistakes. I was sort of half delirious, though, so the mistakes mostly just seemed funny.
Unfortunately, the programme seems to eat up a lot of battery power, so chess was only good for about an hour and a half before I had to find something else to do. Just as I'd thought, I couldn't concentrate on my book, probably due to sleep dep., or maybe I just can't read Elizabeth Bear right now because of the thing with hernewshoes.
Finally, I decided to just brood. Two hours instantly shot past. I know lots of people probably thought I looked like a psychopath, still and frowning as I was at absolutely nothing. Then they started calling for jurors, and I prayed to every blood soaked god, goddess, kraken, satyr, and will o'the wisp that my name would be called, because I knew it would be my ticket home. And my name was called, praise be to Cactuar.
The trial was the People versus Some Guy Who Tried to Engage the Services of a Prostitute Who Ended Up Being an Undercover Cop. The judge was an old man named Richard Hanson who explained everything multiple times, his mouth always too far from the mic, emphasising obvious things and mumbling through most of the genuinely pertinent information. When he started talking, I thought he sounded a bit like Jimmy Stewart. As he continued to talk, I thought he sounded a lot like Jimmy Stewart, especially when he said, "Now, ah, let me see if I can . . . can just lay out the scene here for you, so you can--can get an idea. This was, was at the corner of Illinois and possibly . . . an alley. Ah, the officer I mentioned, ah, she's a woman and she was dressed . . . Ah, how she thought . . . [mumble mumble] would dress . . ." I'm pretty sure everyone in the courtroom had to restrain laughter.
The lawyers were both women and both remarkable youthful, especially the defence, who seemed like she ought to've been carrying a glittering notebook adorned N'Sync stickers**. An impression heightened by her giggling, nervous demeanour, and her attempt to describe the trial process to the jury; "Are any of you bakers? The reason I ask is because--there's a really good analogy. If you're making banana bread, and you use peaches instead of bananas, is it still banana bread?" I suppose she may have been ideal for defending a guy charged with soliciting prostitution.
The prosecutor, meanwhile, while also young looking, was crisp, professional, and had a Russian accent.
I didn't make it into the jury box this time, so I didn't have to answer any questions. I was dismissed at around noon, and when I saw that my parking cost 18 dollars, I felt enormous relief. It was only later that I reflected on the fact that I paid 18 dollars for a pain in the ass, which is actually awful. It'll probably make more of an impression on me when I'm truly awake to-morrow.
Maybe I was just happy because the barista at the Horton Plaza Starbucks gave me a free coffee. She remembered me from Comic-Con, during which I went to that same Starbucks almost every morning. So nice to be reminded of that time . . . I'd better colour while I can still sit up straight.
*I play all video games on the hardest mode, unless it's something stupid like Jedi Academy where it simply starts you off with half life.
**Or whatever the kids listen to nowadays