grace grits and gardening

“I would have to see him selling the drugs,” came a shout from the second row. Almost everyone agreed with this disgruntled man’s retort. The momentum shifted as the prosecutor began losing his crowd. People were tired and numb and ready for happy hour.

Nope. There was no other way, according to two-thirds of the unimaginative throng.

I wanted to scream out if I saw little baggies of drugs spread out on his kitchen table, I would think he intended to sell. 

Instead, I ate my last lemon drop.

The prosecutor read my mind. “Let me give you a scenario. What if you saw methamphetamine divided into baggies in his car, would you think he intended to sell?”

Nope. Not according to two-thirds of the crazed. Maybe the car wasn’t his. Maybe the drugs belonged to someone else. Maybe the drugs truly were his, but he planned to keep all the baggies for himself, for recreational purposes of course…

Oh sweet Jesus.

I wanted to scream out drug dealers don’t write their name on little baggies of drugs! Nor do they leave them laying around in someone else’s car! 

Would anyone notice if I ran out for more lemon drops?

“What about you, Ms. Boerner? If you saw baggies in his car, would you be convinced beyond a reasonable doubt he intended to distribute?” 

Me?

For the first time that long day, my name was pronounced correctly. This prosecutor was impressive.

“Yes I would.” 

How could I not?

I’m from Northeast Arkansas where remnants of exploded single-wide turned meth labs can be found along farm roads.

I was toast. {sigh}