He was exceptionally fidgety.

Juror No. 7 noticed right away the way that the man’s eyes kept shifting about, the way that he kept cupping his hand over the table, as though beneath his grip he was sheltering a fugitive, stowing it away from harm. Wisps of the man’s wild gray hair kept blowing with the air conditioning, and as he slouched at the witness stand, Juror No. 7 felt uneasiness creeping up and down his back, tantalizing him with its jeering jabs at his spine. He knew why the man was here.

For a while, the man jittered around in his seat, his eyes shading back and forth desperately between his attorney and the jurors. No. 7 looked around, coursing his fingers through his dark hair and glancing over at the tigress tattoo inked on his arm, trying to avoid the man’s gaze. Next to him, he noticed the frustration scrawled across the face of No. 8, who kept glancing down furiously at his watch and tapping his foot as though this test of his patience was something entirely unfair. No. 10 was biting at her fingernails, crossing her eyes to get a better glance at them, and she kept sighing heavily, as though being in the courtroom was nothing but a nuisance, a burden which she had undoubtedly tried to avoid. And No. 7 didn’t even want to get started about No. 4—the older gentleman’s eyes were glazed over, his heart rate surely slowed as his mind took him on a journey to some far-off, unrelated place. In total disbelief, No. 7 smiled. These people were so ignorant.

It took the attorney a few moments before he finally buttoned his jacket and moved to approach the witness. In the beginning, it was silly questions that floated about in the air. What was the defendant’s name? Where was he on the night of July 7th? The usual. But No.7 didn’t care about these minutiae, these little, insignificant details. To him, this man was not a name or a face or a person. He was not his mother’s son or his children’s father. He was a man sitting in front of a court telling a story, a tale which he could die for. He was an entertainer, and he was doing a terrible job of entertaining No. 7 at that moment.
No. 7 might’ve joined No. 4 in dozing off had it not been for the attorney’s simple question, “What did you see at the scene of the crime?”

The man straightened up, licking his lips, his shifty eyes falling on No. 7. For a moment, it was almost as though he stopped himself, as though he were biting his tongue, holding something back, and No. 7’s heart began to race with anticipation, excitement, nerves. But as soon as No. 7 had noticed this hesitation, the man cleared his throat and, wiggling his fingers, began.

“Sitting I was sitting in my car minding my own business who wouldn’t be minding their own business didn’t even see it coming I didn’t even see it coming it was something really something there I am minding my own business when a guy with a tat wearing some serious gloves didn’t see his face well he comes out and he throws something in the open window of my car swear on my life throws it right in my car and soon as I look I realize it’s a knife stained with all this blood and I’m like oh my G-d oh G-d oh G-d.”

No. 7 tugged at his sleeve calmly as the man’s frantic eyes flitted all around the room, as No. 10 chowed down on her nails loudly, as No. 4 dozed off. Now this—this was a story. You had to be a real lunatic to think that any jury would believe that. No. 7 certainly wasn’t about to fall for it. Looking around, he wondered how many of the others had vested interest in the manic man, but only one other, No. 3, seemed to be paying any mind. He seemed to be in pensive thought as the man continued on with his story about how he hadn’t known what to do, how he was scared, how he reacted the only normal way a person would’ve known how to react. No. 7 wondered why the man’s attorneys hadn’t pushed for the insanity plea—surely, they would’ve gotten it.

It was only a short while later that the jury deliberated. The glazed over glances of all the other individuals settled in No. 7’s heart and made him a little more at ease in the room. He had heard the divisive nature of other jury rooms, but the members of this jury seemed particularly calm.

No. 1 cleared his throat and asked, “So… what do you think?”
Silence at first. No one made a move, feeling the weight of a human life bearing down on their shoulders. If they made a mistake, that man would die for nothing. If they made a mistake, that man’s story would be eradicated for nothing. If they made a mistake, their hands would be stained with just as much blood as those of the actual criminal himself. A shiver shook the room.

But No. 7 saw behind the masks of the others. He knew that they were just now realizing that they should have paid more attention, that they should have listened more intently. No. 4’s hands were firmly placed on the table in front of her as she stared directly ahead, and No. 10 seemed exceptionally awake. None of these people knew anything.

“Guilty,” No. 7 asserted, awakening in the room an awareness that had otherwise lay dormant.

The word circled around in the minds of the other jurors momentarily before No. 4 finally whispered, “Guilty.”

“…Guilty…”

“…Guilty…”

“…Guilty…”

And so on. The last holdout was No. 3, who know met the eyes of No. 7 hesitantly. At first it seemed like he was going to protest, but then, as though a realization that his voice, a silent whisper in the wind, would undoubtedly go unnoticed, would not be respected, would be ignored, he muttered, “Guilty.”

It was that word which rebounded off the high walls of the courtroom as the man’s fidgety hands tugged at his pants. The look of horror which crossed the man’s face shot a pang of remorse down the spine of No. 7, but he shook it off, knowing that it was what he had to do. That man had to die. He had to. That man no longer could have a story. That man no longer could be his mother’s son or his children’s father. That man could no longer be a man telling a story. He was a dead man. A dead man who was at the wrong place at the wrong time. A dead man who was dying for the deaths of others. A dead man who history wouldn’t care to remember.

As the man was escorted off in handcuffs, his sobs echoing throughout the entire chamber of the room, Juror No. 7 walked out of the courtroom, exceptionally fidgety, his hands stained with blood. He couldn’t believe he had gotten away with it.