William Morsten never had jury duty. He was never called to court, ticketed, cited, penalized, or even eyelash batted at by anyone who had anything to do with the law. It was not from a lack of opportunity, a moral occupation, or lawful mindedness, but rather his eloquence and lingering ability to be passed over by the ocular organs or mortals at will. William, or Will--or Morty, if you had enough money--existed, but the justice system would never know it. Today's venture into the house of justice had occurred, as many myths are prone to start, because of a pretty woman. Not immortal, not mythical, just pretty in the way that caught Hermes's eye and enough of it for him to walk a few hundred steps out of his way.
A tingle of another kind redirected his attention. The woman had been walking ahead, with him strolling behind, leisurely enjoying the view, when he had passed a sign indicating the direction juror unhopefuls were to take to await their own, preemptive judgement. It was in the back of his throat, headed for his mouth, and he waited patiently for it to get there. Metallic, tangy, generally unpleasant? Moving too fast for mortal--and frequently, immortal--perception, he slipped a business card--personal, not professional--in his pursuit's purse, and followed the taste to it's stench.
"Now here is a net I never thought to see you caught in," He said, from where he'd appeared, sitting, across from the young, blue-eyed face. "Bureaucracy."