Swimming in the Jury Pool
Chapter 1: Summons to Duty
Caution: This Drama Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Coercion, Heterosexual, Fiction, Crime, Safe Sex, Oral Sex, Petting, Workplace,
Desc: Drama Sex Story: Chapter 1: Summons to Duty - Jury duty was not on Ralph's agenda but he knew from past experience it could not be ignored. This time it was a Criminal trail and the charge was "Murder".
Ralph Donovan was ready to trash the plain white envelope along with the other “junk” mail he always found in his Post Office Box each morning he opened the little metal cubicle to see if he had any interesting personal mail. He hesitated when he saw the logo on the reverse that said it was from the County Courthouse and the stamp that said “Deliver to Addressee only”.
His first inclination was to suspect it was from his poisonous ex-wife complaining to the hierarchy that he was late with his child support payments again. He pushed that unwelcome thought out of his mind because he was positive the last time he was a little late was almost a year ago when his shop closed down and things got a little tight.
Now he was working two jobs with each one paying a fair compensation for his time and effort and he didn’t have to worry about the bills from operating his small business in these times of tight economic pressure. He had felt badly about letting both of his employees go but had no other choice because the demand market had dried up when the banks told his customers they were unable to furnish capital for their projects. It was a lot less stress working for the big business clients on an independent contractor basis and he was able to actually save some funds for a “rainy day” for the first time in two years.
Ralph tossed the junk mail which was most of the stack into the trash can conveniently located right in the middle of the high flat table and opened the letter from the country courthouse with a sense of dread that something terrible was about to happen. He was relieved to discover that it was a simple form letter informing him that his presence was request at 0830 hours the following Monday to report into the Jury Pool gathering for the new month. This was the first time he had been called for jury duty in California although he had been called on two occasions in North Carolina at times when it was more than inconvenient and he remembered the judge had been adamant about attendance.
This time, he had no particular problem with reporting for duty because he had just finished a large-scale project that netted him a tidy profit and he needed a short respite to get his thoughts together for the summer rush as people started their vacations and needed travel security. It had been a long two years since his last real vacation and perhaps the jury duty was the best thing for his peace of mind at the moment. Besides, they were to receive a whopping fifty dollars a day and a free lunch for each day served.
He saw the little postcard from the Postal Service that reminded him it was time to renew his annual rental of the Post Office Box and he quickly wrote out a check and dropped it into the slot in the wall. He had this number on his business cards and also used it in his advertising when things got a little slow. It was his only expense in running his independent contractor business and well worth the money. The days of high overhead were gone and he was not the least bit sorry.
The P.O. Box was well worth small expense because he used it as a “clearing house” for different projects that were not even remotely related.
The large lobby waiting room for the drafted jury pool was almost filled to capacity.
It was quite a bit different than his experience in North Carolina and he expected it was due to the difference in size between the two courthouses. Apparently, this courthouse was running four different courtrooms at the same time all starting on the first day of the following month. They gave him a red tag and he saw the letters CR on the label of the tag. Most of the jury pool was getting blue tags with the letters CI. The older still attractive woman in a business suit sitting next to him told him,
“That means you are going to be selected from the criminal jury pool and not the civil jury pool like most of the draftees.”
She held up her red tag showing him that she was in the same jury pool as well.
The independent contractor was disappointed because judging from his limited knowledge that meant he would probably be on jury duty longer than he had originally thought. Some ploys to get excused ran through his head but he quickly put them out of his mind because he did not want to stand out for reasons of his own.
She pointed to her name tag which was from a local “box” store with bad public relations reviews.
“Happy to make your acquaintance, Gloria Stern, my name is Ralph Donovan, and I have only been in this fair state long enough to get called for jury duty.”
She laughed with one of those deep throaty tones that never failed to send signals of erotic arousal up his spine. He had long been turned off by the sound of giggling females with no proper sense of decorum when they were being taken with serious intent. This one looked like she could take a good pounding and ask for more like any self-respecting, sex-deprived woman in her forties would not hesitate to do when push came to shove.
Ms. Stern looked up into his eyes with her look of sultry submission and he knew her answer would be “yes” to any question he would ask. It was a nice thought to put in the front of his brain on the otherwise boring day.
A particularly tall and slender female clerk of court was standing in front of the lobby and raised her voice to be heard by one and all.
“All of you with blue tags, kindly move to the second floor reception area. The processing unit will break you down into individual courts and tell you if you are a primary selectee, an alternate selectee or if you are released from duty.”
The ground floor lobby was cleared out of most of the jury pool draftees and only about forty selectees were remaining. Ralph figured his odds were about fifty/fifty because they would only need twelve jurors and six alternates to fill the slots. He noticed that there were almost no young people in the criminal jury pool and he wondered if that was coincidental or if some sort of weeding out had taken place before the red tags were distributed. If it were a sorting out process, it had to be labor intensive because each wave of raw recruits must have totaled several hundred people at a bare minimum. They probably wound up with about two hundred designated jury members in each contingent and that was a lot of warm bodies to vet for appropriate behavior.
There was an aura of tension that hung over the lobby gathering point after the bulk of the jury pool had been removed to the second floor civil courtroom location and he suspected it was more a reflection of the constant nagging doubt that seemed to plague him no matter where he was in recent months. His ex-wife Trixie was down in some Mexican resort town with her new-found jet set friends drinking too much and probably getting laid by a different rich prick each night. He got up and poured himself a cup of java from the pretty carafe on the table with the presumptuous tablecloth with the seal of the great State of California displayed in historical splendor.
When he was a younger man and still in the Marine Corps, Ralph had lived in another part of the State. He remembered the dry, arid land and the hills that kicked up little dust devils when a squad of men was running under cloudless skies in the midst of the endless drought that never seemed to have a hopeful end in sight. He remembered the sense of anticipation that everyone experienced just waiting for the next earthquake like they were tasty morsels penned up in the Giant’s home in the clouds waiting for him to have his next meal.
That was the summer he had visited Tijuana for no other purpose than to do something different and came close to winding up in a Mexican jail for urinating on the street. His excuse of “everyone else was doing it” would have made those Mexican cops laugh their ass off as they worked him over with their short hard clubs. He woke up in the alley with the sun rising in the East and the wild dogs sniffing for food in unlikely places. His arm was ablaze with pain and he looked down to see the fresh tattoo scar forming like an evil omen of what was a blank in his memory. He snorted out his disbelief at his own stupidity because it was in the wrong place below his elbow leading him to a life of “long-sleeve” shirts until he died. He would have to wait until the scab was gone to see exactly what the fuck he had there but he hoped it was not a bulldog like the one Chesty Puller was prone to take with him everywhere he went.
He got up unsteadily and started to trudge north to the crossing point. His wallet was gone but they weren’t stopping anyone from crossing at this time in the morning and it looked like half of Tijuana was heading in the same direction to their jobs in the land of the big PX. It seemed strange that a Marine would call the U.S. of A the “big PX” since that was for the Army turds and not Marines who would recognize the correct term to be “BX” instead of the more popular Post Exchange of Army terminology. His well-kept secret was that he had done a hitch in the less glamorous Army before becoming a Marine but that was not the sort of thing that made friends for an enlisted man in the Marine Corps.
“Everyone with a red tag will report to room 101 for processing.”
The shouted command brought him back from his wandering thoughts of his prior life. The woman next to him took the almost empty cup of coffee from his hand and pointed in the direction of the center hallway and he followed her swaying heart-shaped hips like a sheep being led to the slaughterhouse. She was middle-aged but decidedly younger than him and he wouldn’t kick her out of bed if they ever got to the point of doing the nasty.
He struggled to remember her name feeling foolish at forgetting because she had made a point of telling him.
Then he saw her name tag and he remembered. How could he have forgotten “Gloria Stern” and the fact that she worked at that God-forsaken big box store that was so large, you could shop all day and never see everything?
He shamefully focused on her backside even though he was not one of those perverts that insisted all females bend over for his anal seeking bliss. She must have read his mind because she looked over her shoulder and smoothed down the tight skirt that rode snugly over her desirable cheeks of paradise. She knew his every dirty thought because he was unable to look her straight in the eye and that was a dead giveaway.
The “processing” was short and sweet.
Both Ralph and Gloria were selected for the primary jury and suddenly he was number seven and she was number three. It was beginning to look like a long hard slog because they were informed their prospective trial would be a “murder case” and that was rumored to take forever and a day. It was a good thing he had turned the business accounts over to his bookkeeping partner Sandra. She was an old broad but she was honest and his business affairs were in good hands for the duration of the trial. His ex-wife was too busy getting her ass humped in Mexico for her to have any concerns about hearing from him just as long as the alimony checks continued to be received like clockwork from the bank up in San Francisco.
He saw Gloria sit down in the first row and he took his spot at the end of the second row and they sat silently listening to the instructions that droned on in monotone to a point that he started to nod off just like his training days in the service.
The young girl talking gave him a dirty look and he knew it was time for him to shape up or he would be on the clerk of courts shit-list for sure.