We bump into four of the six jurors in the lobby of the courthouse. “So why’d you do it?” asks Fallon.
“We just couldn’t get over how that one guy was ‘disgusted,’” says the young UB cog sci major.¹ They never considered the NOM rally a “religious service.” They didn’t believe Donna Donovan. They didn’t believe Roland Cercone. They didn’t believe the Mount Olive security guard. And they didn’t believe Swanson. But they did believe Josh Bunting.
“But you don’t know what that guy thought!” Fallon marbled. “Maybe he liked it — he wasn’t here!”
“You know,” I say. “They originally charged me with filming the police — and they changed it, three months later, to obscenity after they found the dildo-phone pic online.”
“And they erased my camera.”
A glimmer of understanding comes over the foreman — a Born Again Skeletor look-a-like — and then he says, “So, you work at CFI, huh? I work near there.” He scowls. Or smiles. There’s literally no way to know.