12 Jurors + 1 Judge = No Chance.

I gotta get out of this town. I can feel the heat coming from every corner, and I can see red and blue strobes when I close my eyes. They'll come at me with bats and bullets, metal cuffs, angry looks and pointed questions. I laugh, when I think about it. They're only gonna have one question for me, but they won't believe the answer. "I know it wasn't for the money, and it wasn't because you were mad, and I know you weren't drunk. So why did you do it?" At the time, I thought it was fun.

Now everyone's so dramatic! Nobody wants to party... So I gotta get out of this town. All I've got left are a couple different IDs, some stolen credit cards and this cheap suit my lawyer bought for my court date. But I've heard of a place called San Paro... and it sounds like a real blast.

//Entry: August 18th, 1998

It's hotter than hell; moving between towns again. Slept out back of a diner along the interstate last night. Sun's spilling out over everything, and nobody wants to take on a hitchhiker anymore. Headed west - I'll find work with Ed on the docks.

(Can't wait to hear more. Welcome.)

The dreams were so vivid - each time I looked out the window to see Honolulu or Guam, then a sudden cold sweat when I realized they turned the plane back to deliver me unto the Man...

But they were just dreams. I panicked my way to conciousness, much like one does when dreaming of urination. One look out the window and I can see the reassuring sights of runway signs in three different languages. But I'm not home-free, yet. There's too much heat to get cocky now. You never know when some maniac is going to gun the motor on an oversized musclecar and ram its eight-cylinder rage into the passenger-side of your ride. Or when he'll pile out of the smoking wreck to spray your shattered windshield with hot lead. Believe me, pal... I know four Russians who never saw it coming.

As if on cue, forty passengers leap from their seats and lunge towards the aisle, desperate to get free of this flying cigar. I resist the urge to join the fray... A few eternities later, I climb from the cramped seat, wander through the cabin, offer an insincere goodbye to the flight crew, climb the stuffy ramp to the gate and finally offer my papers to the cheerful, gap-toothed customs agent standing behind the very last barrier between me and a new lease on freedom.

"Biz'ness or preassah?" Huh? Oh! Right.

"Pleasure... and lots of it."