But there I was, heading to jury duty last Friday. In LA, you can be asked to report to any court within 30 miles of where you live, which for me includes the infamous Compton, CA. And as I made my way through its streets lined with boarded-up stores, homes and free clinics, I figured my best bet was to hope the locals assumed I was either crazy or a cop.
Later, as I sat in the jury holding room with 99 others collectively wanting to be anywhere except right there, a case came in that we were told would last six weeks. (I have no idea what could possibly take that long to present; I’ve watched enough “Law & Order” to know that shit can be wrapped up in thirty minutes.)
Thank Jesus I wasn’t requested for that case, nor any other for the rest of the day, fulfilling my full commitment to the state of California. And as I hauled ass the hell out of there, literal bullet dodged, I looked forward to some newly acquired street cred here at the beach. Though maybe a smidge less than whoever tagged the above courthouse. Much respect.
