by Mr. W
To his defense, it was agreed that he did indeed make the best Bloody Marys. It wasn’t the ingredients themselves (tomato juice, Worcestershire sauce, lemon juice, et cetera) so much as the perfect, eyeballed proportion of each.
“Ladies and gentleman,” the jury foreman declared, “if we send this man to prison, we guarantee that we will only experience watery and bland or pointlessly spicy Bloody Marys from here on out.” The jurors nodded, looking at the beige jury-room walls or the gleaming oak table but not each other.
“He did burn down all those orphanages,” quietly said an elderly woman. The only sound was the muted tinkle of ice cubes as her neighbor to the right gently took her Bloody Mary from her.
Fueled by silver trays of fresh Bloody Marys, deliberation continued into the night.