The Twelve in the Room

Not guilty. Not guilty. Not guilty. Not guilty. Not guilty. Not guilty. Not guilty. Not guilty. Not guilty. Not guilty. Not guilty...... Guilty. 

"Oh, come on! Guilty again!?" shouted Juror 8, gripping the edges of the table, rising partially from his seat, peering over the top of his gold rimmed glasses, his forehead knotted and wrinkled, likened to a prune, bearing the pangs of frustration. His plaid shirt clung tightly to his large, round belly that hung slightly over the leather belt that held up his tattered blue jeans. By now he was agitated and ready for closure.  

"There's no proof he did it!" Juror 4 chanted raising an arm in proclamation. He was a slim, middle-aged man with bucked teeth and dark brown cow licks adorning his protruding forehead. He had removed his tie and recently loosened the top button of his white dress after long hours at his office. After making his proclamation, he sat back in his chair and crossed his bony legs one over the other simultaneously with his arms, pouting like a spoiled eight-year old child. He too was ready for the case to be over with.

"There's no DNA, no forensic evidence tying him to the murder! It's all circumstantial!" Yelled Juror 1, a brown-skinned, gray-haired woman in her fifties. Purple was her favorite color which was evident by her purple button up shirt, purple blazer jacket, purple skirt, a large purple church hat, and purple heels. Pearls danced about her wrinkled neck and her curls bounced around in a uniform array as she shook her head and long, narrow pointer finger in ridicule and disdain at Juror 12. She was like the mother in the room due to her older age and her leadership qualities that emerged when it came to taking the lead. She could think of quite a few things she'd rather be doing than waiting on the hold out in the room.

There's just not enough evidence! Let it go! We need to wrap this thing up and bring it to a close!" stated Juror 10 jumping out of his seat like popcorn from a popper, removing his black leather jacket. He was young, sporadic and had a lot of spunk. He was the youngest in the room of the twelve, but even though he was a youth, he had no issue with speaking his mind and giving his opinion along with the other eleven. Three days of deliberation were enough for him.  

They had been subliminally instructed by the judge to come out with a verdict this time and not to leave the room without one. This was their third time meeting and going over evidence. All had been convinced that there wasn't enough proof to convict the defendant, all except Juror 12.  

He was unwavered by the rebuke and scorn of the ones who were growing impatient with him. Though he was outnumbered by all the rest, he would not be intimidated, he would not be moved. 

"There's enough proof he did it alright. I refuse to let a guilty man go free just because I wanna rush home and eat popcorn while watching television. You guys are gonna let a guilty man get away with murder."

Small murmurings rose from the depths of the room and swelled quickly into harsh shouts of anger and opposition toward Juror 12.

Juror 7 rose from the table waving her arms and speaking loudly in an attempt to get everyone's attention and keep order. She was a plant manager and possessed much skill and training in getting a rambunctious crowd to get focused and come to order.  

"QUIET! QUIET everyone! Calm down, calm down." 

The yelling slowly sizzled down to the sound of Juror 3 tapping a pen on the table while peering at Juror 12 in disgust. He was sick of it and had enough along with the rest of them.  

"Now tell us why he's guilty again?" Juror 3 calmly asked him.

"Well first of all, there was no one in the hotel room but Mr. Felt and his wife when she was found, who is no longer here to tell her side of the story conveniently for him. People in the neighboring rooms heard arguing, shouting, and yelling around 11 o'clock and he just happened to come to the hotel and find her one hour later because she hadn't answered the phone? Not to mention an hour is plenty enough time to kill the woman who's been a thorn in your side for half of the marriage. I mean you heard the daughter's testimony! They hated each other!" 

"The murder weapon was a kitchen knife from their home, HIS own home!" he continued. "I mean, yes, I've taken some of my own dishes on vacation with me, but I've never killed anyone with them! That fancy hotel offered two meals a day and continental breakfast. She didn't need a knife! But HE, THE MURDERER DID! A one-hundred thousand dollar insurance policy that he took out and thousands in debt living the high life. A dead wife that you no longer love would make a good pay off for all of that!"

"But it was a hotel," Juror 5 chimed in. "Anybody from anywhere could've done it. She could've been pushed into her room and attacked while entering it." 

"Or what if it wasn't really a business venture and she met someone there having an affair?" Juror 11 added.

"He hasn't even shed a SINGLE tear! Not ONE!" he remained motionless at the opposite end of the table from Juror 8, leaning toward the table donning a black jacket with his gloved hands crossed in his lap.

"He could still be in shock. I mean the poor man just lost his wife." Juror 9 was a woman who had been recently widowed by the death of her husband. 

"Mmhmm, he wouldn't have lost her if he hadn't KILLED HER!"

Juror 2 had been sitting quietly since the last verdict round off taking in the whole situation. "What is it going to take to convince you that there is not enough proof to convict this man who could very well be innocent?"

Juror 6 who had also been silent joined in. "There are no cuts on him, no bruises or marks from a woman fighting off her knife-welding husband."

"We'll have to come back here another day," Juror 1 said clutching her purse. 

They all looked at Juror 12 as he sat there in a stoic manner at the end of the table rocking back and forth staring beyond them while twiddling his thumbs through the gloves that he wore. 

Mr. Ninley, Juror number 12. The juror with the gloved hands. Why are his hands gloved you asked? Well the gloves are hiding the scabbed knife wounds on his hands, wounds received from the hotel room that night when he merciless butchered his former co-worker and former lover Mrs. Felt to death. A baby would've ruined everything for him, his own marriage, his job, his family. How did he become a juror you asked? Well Mr. Ninley isn't really Mr. Ninley. The real Mr. Ninley is buried in a shallow grave with his identity stolen by Juror 12 so that he can sit on the jury stand. Tomorrow the twelve in the room would have to return so he could continue trying to convince them that an innocent man is guilty of a murder that he committed so that he can walk away a free man.