[Hi, sorry for the long delay, I moved house and didn't have much free time.]
Interlude: The small jury
The truly minor cases of day concluded, it was time to convene the intermediate court. The next cases concerned more serious matters or accusations and therefore called for the use of the small jury. At the same time, this was the first day the new jury was convened. I would be working with them for a while, so I took my time to introduce myself to them and to learn to know them over lunch.
The small jury consists, in every court, out of two laypeople. Slave Court, as a peculiarity, also required one of those laypeople to be a slave and one to be a slave owner. That way, the two laypeople could always outvote the professional judge and the two free people could outvote the slave.
The free juror was a short, corpulent and very staid man in his mid-fifties, employed in insurance. He qualified for the status of a slave owner by virtue of the possession of a single 29-year-old male slave, whom he owned jointly with his husband.
"We don't actually really need one, your honor. We just bought him to smooth things over in the bedroom," he said, while we were standing at the buffet. Unprompted, he added: "We are both total tops," ridiculously dryly. The contrast of the revelation to the man's personality might've made a less seasoned judge laugh. Not me though, and anyway, there is no TMI in slave court.
The slave juror was, in complete contrast to the stodgy office worker, a true breath of fresh air. A smart, cheerful and thoroughly likable young woman of 24, she was jointly owned by two 19-year-old college students. The dorm-mates had gotten her has a moving-out gift from their parents a year before. In court, she would be the only slave wearing clothes, for which she (or maybe her owners, but no, probably she) had chosen a simple white dress that even complimented the smart-slavecollar she was wearing as her only piece of jewelry.
She contented herself with a plate of salad, and we sat down at the table. As usual, the first thing I did was to inquire into possible conflicts in schedule or timing with her jury duty and her duty to her masters. Jury duty took legal precedence of course, and the slave juror's owner was reimbursed for the loss of his or her time, but I knew from experience that a lot of masters and mistresses had a hard time seeing it that way. In the past, this at times had caused some conflict and placed stress on the jury.
She, however, was utterly unconcerned at this point:
"Oh, don't worry, your honor, they're both totally cool with it. They think it's interesting." She paused, smirking. "Plus, they've just gotten a new video game and a larger delivery of weed, they were so stoned, I somewhat doubt they really noticed they stopped getting handjobs when I had to leave," she chuckled, "I wouldn't at all be surprised if I came home later, and they'd be both spread out on the couch in front of the TV, controller in hand, with their pants still open."
I wanted to bring the conversation back to more relevant matters, so I explained their role in the upcoming trials more closely: "Any verdict or sentence will be decided by a simple majority vote of two amongst us three," I explained. "During the trial, you'll have the same right to question the witnesses as I do."
"Can we enter motions into the proceedings, your honor?" the free juror interjected.
"In principle, you can," I explained, "though there's a lot a layman can do wrong concerning those. If I think a motion you entered problematic, I can object, and then we'll have to deliberate on it behind closed doors and vote whether to go ahead with it or not."
The juror nodded, satisfied with the explanation.
The slave juror then asked some very keen additional questions. She visibly relished the opportunity to do work that taxed her brain instead of only her knees.
"So, your honor, if we two jurors were in accord, could we pass a sentence with which you disagreed completely?" she asked excitedly.
"Sure," I answered, smiling indulgently, "though such a thing happening is considered in our circles to be the mark of a bad judge."
"But, your honor," she added, intrigued, "what would happen if... EEEEEK!"
A young paralegal in his very early twenties had sidled up behind her, having apparently completely overlooked my presence. After having seen only the slave and her collar, he had shoved his right hand down the front of her dress. He used it now to massage the jurors breasts while he was stroking her hair with his left and nibbling her ear with his mouth. The juror herself had frozen after her exclamation, a terrified expression on her face.
I pushed my chair back with force and shot up.
"Hey!" I yelled, "JUROR!!" Only a little calmer, I added: "And, anyway, other people's property!"
The young man froze and needed a shock second to free himself from his hormone-induced trance. Then he slowly looked up without moving his hands a single inch. When his eyes met mine, an expression of absolute horror crept across his face while he realized the exact situation. I held his gaze coldly, relishing his discomfort.
After what must have appeared to him to be an eternity, I silently nodded toward his hands. The paralegal looked down and instantly pulled them away, as if he had suddenly noticed he was touching a hot stove. The slave juror relaxed visibly.
When I noticed that the panicked man set out to blurt out some sort of excuse or justification I slowly held my hand up imperiously.
"Please accompany me, young sir," I said.
Dazedly he followed me away from our table.
I delivered my lecture calmly and coldly:
"Sir, I'm going to ignore for a moment - for one single moment - that you just essentially assaulted a functionary of the court..."
He tried to interrupt, but I raised my hand again.
"I'll just be pointing out how grossly unbecoming your conduct has been for a future legal professional. Any slave girl you are going to encounter in these halls is in all likelihood going to be an accused, a witness, a juror or impounded property. *None of which* are here for your personal amusement."
