“Before we begin deliberations in earnest, the judge will ask us to elect a foreperson. He answered with self-effacing diligence. His conspicuous cough redirected their attention. He was a lawyer, a fact he had mentioned several times. Juror number seventeen cleared his throat.
“It wouldn’t hurt to get an early count.” “She was just trying to help,” number eight said, tight-lipped, her eyes locked with the girl’s. Number eight had a daughter of similar age. The fingers were chilled, but the gesture was warm. Juror number eight extended her right hand to number six-shoulders now sagging, chest deflated-and laid it over her forearm. If we can get a feel for where we’re at now, we can shorten our deliberation time.” “The judge instructed us not to talk about the case yet,” number three shot back.ĭefensively, number six looked down at her rose-painted fingernails. A significant number of them shuffled uneasily in their seats. The declaration came from juror number six, loud enough to carry to all of the room’s occupants. The seconds between-at first, a breezy sixty-grew longer as time and patience wore thin. The sound of the long hand on the outdated clock on the wall rifled through the air, a click every minute. The strangers eventually ran out of meaningless things to say. But he smiled through it and bobbed his head in polite agreement. Discomfort flashed noticeably in his eyes. “Or, depending on your politics, as much as prosecutors.” Number three raised his eyebrows curiously. “You’re hated as much as defense attorneys.” He wore tiny glasses that all but disappeared on the enormity of his round face. He sat with his arms resting on the rolls of fat collecting at his stomach. The responder was black, of the same age, but heavier in build. “I’m a tax collector,” said number three. He smiled broadly and nodded compulsively as others spoke, whether he agreed with them or not. The speaker was white, in his fifties, and portly. “What do you do?” juror number one asked juror number three. Carved onto its side, within eyesight of only juror number sixteen, were the words “Set me free.” He fingered the grooves with his thumb. Juror number one added to the cacophony by rapping his fingers against the top of the oblong, mahogany table that swallowed the space with its grandeur. The soundtrack from the city below-wailing sirens, honking horns, and screeching tires-floated in past a closed window. The air-conditioning rattled and hummed, blowing frigid air their way.
The five men and two women of the jury sat in silence.
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