I am going to admit it. As I listened to the latest juror—juror B29—come out and talk about the “not guilty” verdict against George Zimmerman in the Trayvon Martin murder case, I called her every name I could think of—and then some. Fortunately, I was home alone and watching her appearance on television. But try as she might, all I saw was a lying and conniving witch who voted initially for second-degree murder and then was swayed to go to the “not guilty” side. Talk about 180-degree change.

Like I wrote last week, defense attorney Mark O’Mara knew that he had six dippy females on the jury and he worked them like a bread-maker does a mound of dough. He kneaded and got exactly what he wanted: jurors who only saw the defense’s side. I would be remiss if I didn’t point out that the prosecution put forth a case that was weaker than a teabag being used for the fifth time.

Now, I must admit I have never been on a jury. But what I do know about myself is that if I am convinced of something, nothing short of hell freezing over is going to make me change my mind. And I am forever haunted by the image of a 17-year-old kid walking home and being followed by a “creepy ass cracker” (Trayvon’s words). Because if Trayvon was going to be suspicious to anyone, it should have started with the clerk at the store where he purchased—and didn’t steal—the Skittles and Arizona Ice Tea.

I am also perplexed by the reactions of the neighbors who heard someone hollering for help but didn’t peek outside. This in the neighborhood where Zimmerman claims to be needed; to be a neighborhood watch person responding to crimes that have been going on? So, outside someone is hollering for help and not a single soul peeks out. Not one of the “living-in-a-gated-community” people bother to see if one of their neighbors is in trouble? That is, until the gunshot goes off and then out they come.

Maybe it’s just me, but living here in the hood, if I hear someone hollering for help, I may not run outside, but you can bet your sweet patooty that I am going to peek outside to see what is going on with my trusty cellphone at my side dialing 911. I am also perturbed at Zimmerman’s neighbors.

They didn’t come out before the gunshot but were quick to come outside after it had happened, even to the point of taking a picture of Trayvon’s body lying on the ground facedown. Was Trayvon really doing mixed-martial arts or trying to prevent Zimmerman from pulling the trigger directly at his heart, making it look one way when it was really the other?

Now getting back to Juror B so-appropriate 29. Am I the only one disturbed that she stated that race never came up as a subject? Now, that juror is of Puerto Rican origin, but she looks to have some African blood in her, and yet, her hair isn’t a candidate for SoftSheen or Carol’s Daughter. And that is always how I look at racial issues.

Because if you can go into any shopping mall’s hair salon in this country and have them do your hair and not look at you askew, then you have what I call “white privilege.” And if you don’t agree with me, let me remind you of the Gabby Douglas debacle that happened over her hair during the 2012 Olympics—nuff said.

Lastly, I was very perturbed by her reliance on “the law” for her supposed change of mind. Where was “the law” for Trayvon? Where was “the law” allowing him to walk un-accosted down the street? Where was “the law” for Trayvon to be able to confront his stalker and ask him why he was following him?

To date, we have heard from two of the six. I now want to hear from the remaining four.

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