Continued From: "I, the Jury," "Justice (Some Assembly Required)," and "Contempt of Court"
Entering the courthouse is the high point of my jury service groove.
The security team insists all personal belongings be placed into a tray for a ride through the x-ray conveyance. The idea is to discover and remove rogue weapons from the environment, but I suspect the snoop in the chair surveils for rare 2005-D speared bison reverse new design Jefferson nickels.
Before I'll go there, I tested his honesty by tossing in a $35,000 1969-S Lincoln cent with a doubled die obverse.
Next, human beings, much like myself, are required to stroll through a metal detector while a guard eyeballs the fashion show, waving an electrical sensor baton in a flourish up and down and around the incoming bodies. My crotch has yet to make it beep, but I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.
Each time I walk through this portal I'm brimming with delight. Tuesday was no exception.
"You make me feel ... you make me feel like a natural villain," I crooned to the officer.
He blinked bewilderment. I saw the nervous tic erupt into a wave and roll across copper cheek flesh. His regulation 1971-era Sinister Police Dude Moustache was not pleased.
"Riddle me this," I said, pointing to the machinery. "Can that thing tell if the judge wears culottes?"
"Clam diggers. Move along."
Another case solved. I reclaimed my personal items from the receptacle: keys, phone, billfold, penny, lip Velcro, and regulation 1971-era Sinister Police Dude Moustache.
