The Jury




The Trial of the Stolen Tarts

The courtroom was grand, all polished wood and stern portraits of judges in frilly wigs. It was intimidating, even more so when my eyes landed on the jury. It might as well have been a zoo exhibit – such an odd assortment of humanity I'd never laid eyes on!

Nigel Crumbleton, looking like he'd been starched along with his tweed suit, harrumphed. "Order! The prosecution may begin."

The barrister leaped up with an energy that seemed fueled by powdered sugar. "Members of the jury, this...this pastry fiend," he pointed at me with a trembling finger, "was last seen skulking near the royal kitchens. An obsession with baked goods is undeniable!"

"Were the tarts... wild raspberry?" Beatrice Buttercrust interrupted. The barrister blinked, taken aback. Her eyes, the color of melted chocolate, held a dangerous glint.

Madame Dubois, every inch of her adorned with feathers, scoffed. "Raspberry?! So gauche. Were I a thief, I would aim for nothing less than passionfruit and lime curd, a flavor to match the daring of the crime!"

An abstract argument erupted between Plumwood and Hammer, with words like "probability" and "uppercut" flying. I wasn't sure if they were even on the same trial anymore.

Rajesh Patel, bless him, looked more concerned than accusatory. "A sudden influx of sugar... jitters, rapid eye movements. Do you exhibit any of these symptoms?"

Honestly, being in front of a jury made me nervous enough to eat a whole tray of stolen tarts. I stammered, earning a disappointed headshake from Dr. Patel.

Fiona Fitzsimmons wasn't having any of it. "C'mon now, love, did ya pinch them or not? I got a stall waitin'!" Her accent was as thick as molasses.

The chaos amplified. The barrister brandished a half-eaten napkin, allegedly found near my house. Chester Barnaby promptly fell asleep, snoring loud enough to drown out the word 'alibi'. Lily Zhang was typing furiously into her phone, probably starting a hashtag campaign about my guilt, or lack thereof.

Then, a meek voice rose above the din. Sister Mary Catherine, in her simple habit, said, "If the tarts brought someone joy, perhaps...perhaps that is better than them going uneaten?"

The room stilled. Even Nigel Crumbleton lowered the magnifying glass he'd been examining my shoes with. Professor Plumwood started stroking his chin, a sure sign of deep contemplation.

One by one, the jury began to stand. Hector 'Hammer' Rodriguez boomed, "Not guilty! Yer free to go!"

Beatrice Buttercrust nodded, a soft smile gracing her flour-dusted face. "And you're welcome for a proper tart tasting anytime."

Fiona winked, "Just don't get any crumbs near my stall, yeah?"

Madame Dubois looked me up and down, finally settling on a grudging, "Your hat is simply dreadful, but your spirit... intriguing."

Before I knew it, they were ushering me out, Sister Mary Catherine patting my hand and muttering something about hot tea with honey, while Agatha Smythe scribbled furiously as though trying to twist the whole affair into her next murder mystery.

The grand doors swung shut. I was free, exonerated by the strangest, most wonderful jury imaginable. Honestly, sometimes the world was stranger (and sweeter) than a stolen batch of the Queen's finest tarts.