"Yeah!" agreed the judge, outraged.
"We need some plain, old-fashioned evidence of a crime," answered the juryman, unperturbed.
"Old-fashioned?" The fuming prosecutor rejected the heresy, pushing it away from him with both hands. "This is all unscientific now," he warned. "The Very Complicated Monstrous Proximilator machine—especially the new model with the forty-three meters which replaces the old thirty-nine meter machine—is the ne plus ultra of justice!"
"Oh, no, it isn't," dissented the foreman. "Did your evidence place the deadly weapon in the defendant's hand? Did your evidence even tend to show the holes in the woman's chest were made by a gun? She said nothing about a weapon, if you will recall. She merely said, 'Why are you pointing that at me, Bork? What are you going to do, Bork?'"
"But he had plenty of motive," pleaded the prosecutor.
"Oh, we'll go along with that," assented the foreman.
"And the defendant admitted it!" pursued the prosecutor triumphantly.
The foreman shook his head. "Admissions don't count. The judge said so himself."
"So even though you know he's guilty," the prosecutor said hollowly, "you're going to let him go?"
"That's right," agreed the foreman happily, and cleared his throat. "We, the jury," he pronounced, "find this fellow innocent of what he did!"