The Process Or Kafka's Dream Part 1 (Revised)

Across the cracked concrete slabs, past a fallen dogwood left lying like so much litter at the red brick base of the court house; the jurors strode. Through the doors too heavy for a mere woman to open unassisted and their constant societal reminder of place of strength and weakness; doors serving as the first purposeful architectural devise of disrespect, up to the toy soldiers of the city at their arched metal catcher gate; the jurors of democracy strode. Patted down, prodded, stripped of our individuality, so like the cattle, they assume we are; like the criminals, who we are told are.. “Presumed innocent until proven guilty.”; we too are subjected to the indignities of the law. The jurors moved. Herded up rickety elevators into the bowels of the ivory towers of jurist prudence, funneled in alphabetical order to weary clerks; who sticker, stamp and quantify us, innumerable names to numerous lists; the jurors wait. The sheer nature of the building, the room, its officials, cowed the crowd who sat cud chewing and bottom scratching, awaiting the arrival of the Judge? I sat, longing for the days of Jefferson. the rebirth of the Renaissance man; wrestling with the morality of the ignorant justice? Wondering what poor, schmuck, was to be brought before these modern day Madame Defarges who sat knitting.