Slave Court Ch. 03

[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."

Again, I silenced his prospective defense with a gesture.

"I can't believe I actually have to point this out, but this is a *courtroom*, not a *dive bar* where it's appropriate to grope the slave waitress to your heart's content!

If this is what you desire, I recommend you pass the bar and go on to work at a slave dealership."

One last time I cut him off before he could speak.

"I'm quite serious, you know," I said smiling condescendingly, "every reputable slave dealership is always going to have at least one lawyer on staff. Nobody there cares, if you shove some of the merchandise into a closet and have your way with her or him, or whether you stay after hours to closely inspect the cages. Great legal work for any horndog."

I rolled my eyes. "This incident is going into your file. Now get out of my sight, before I become genuinely angry."

He scurried off without a word, his face red.

Returning to the court cafeteria's table, I found the free juror contentedly sipping coffee while the slave juror stood around shuffling her feet nervously. At first, I thought it related to the problem with the paralegal, but then I saw her staring at her slave-collar's detachable com-unit.

When I approached, she fell to her knees and politely kissed my shoes a couple of times. Then, she sat down on her heels and looked up to me.

"Your honor, I have a favor to ask," she said.

"What's the matter?" I asked, pulling her back up to her feet.

She handed me the com-unit. She'd received a text message from one of her owners.

It read: "I'M GOING TO SHIT IN YOUR FUCKING MOUTH! I'M GOING TO SHIT IN YOUR MOUTH FOR A WEEK!!"

She nervously brushed her hair from her face where it had fallen during her prostrations.

"Look, your honor, I'm, um, like 98, 99 percent sure they just typed into the wrong channel and this was supposed to go into the in-game chat." She tried to smile but didn't quite manage it.

"However, if, uhh, this isn't a misunderstanding but a genuine announcement of, umm, future discipline, umm, I would *very much* like to clear this up before it becomes serious." She paused, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

"Would you please allow me to take a short break to call them? So that I could make sure? I mean, I know I didn't do anything seriously wrong. At least I don't think I did. Um, I hope." She liked her lips which had gone dry.

"I really can't imagine this was sent intentionally. They really... I don't think they would... Hell, half of the time they don't go through with just paddling me, even when they've clearly announced it... though they *do* both really like rimjobs..." she trailed off, an edge of panic in her voice.

"No," I answered.

"Excuse me, your honor?" She looked up surprised.

My mood had somewhat soured by this point. I therefore explained:

"I said no. It's more important the court goes into session on time.

Also, it's like this: If your owner don't want to punish you and the insult was intended for some random gamer, there's no problem. If your owners intend to punish you for some problem related to your jury duty, you can call me and I will forbid it. If they, however, really want to punish you for some actual wrongdoing of yours, that's their right and your problem. But definitely not mine or the court's."

The juror looked crestfallen and gulped dryly.

"But, uh, um wouldn't that fall under cruelty?" she blurted out without thinking.

I made a show out of ostentatiously stroking my chin, having had this particular conversation more often than I could count.

"Weeellll... the legal definition of cruelty to a slave is any action with a non-negligible chance of doing lasting harm to him or her which would persist after a possible manumission. So... depends on what or how much they eat, I'd say?" That shut her up.

"Don't worry," I said, chuckling callously, "I'll ask the bailiff to have a bottle of mouthwash on hand for the next session, just in case."

By this point I had just about had it with all the delays. I motioned to both jurors to accompany me to the courtroom. The free one put down his coffee cup and followed me, the slave juror clipped the com-unit back to her collar and did the same.

Thus, I walked into the courtroom, two jurors in tow, one fighting boredom, the other agitation, both without much success.