Chapter 537 - 251: 12 Angry Men
"HAH!"
Juror Number Seven, the salesman in the Philadelphia Eagles baseball cap, slammed his pen down on the table.
The pen bounced a few times on the hardwood surface before rolling onto the floor.
"Are you kidding me?"
Juror Number Seven’s eyes were wide as he glared around at everyone.
"The Eagles have a home game at eight tonight! I bought tickets! The best seats!"
He pointed at the watch on his wrist, his voice edged with anxiety.
"What is there to discuss with this case? It’s crystal clear on the security footage. Do we really need to be wasting our time here?"
"Who voted that way?"
Juror Number Ten, the old man who owned a repair shop, wiped his nose with a handkerchief that smelled of motor oil and let out a loud sneer.
"Alright, no need to guess. It must have been some bleeding heart who thinks that murderer looks like his own good-for-nothing son."
"These people, they’re just born bad seeds. That Luigi, I read his file. Once someone like him feels society owes him something, he’s capable of anything."
"I voted not guilty."
Facing the attack, Juror Number Eight raised his hand.
His name was Davis. He wore a faded, light gray suit, his hair was thinning, and he had on a pair of gold-rimmed glasses.
He sat in the corner of the long table, facing the collective fury, and simply gazed calmly at the gray brick wall.
The man in the third seat shot to his feet.
His name was Cobb, and he ran a trucking company with a fleet of fifty vehicles.
He was a burly, hot-tempered man who hated people who disrupted order more than anything.
Cobb planted his hands on the table, directing a wave of pressure right at Juror Number Eight.
"How long are you going to make us sit here?"
Cobb’s voice was loud.
"The facts are indisputable! He wrote a manifesto himself! He wrote it down clear as day on that damned piece of paper, said he was doing it for justice, for revenge!"
"Does this even need discussion? This is first-degree murder! Premeditated! A brutal murder!"
Cobb snatched the case file from the table and slapped it down forcefully.
"That CEO may have been a bastard, but he was still a human being! If we let this killer go, tomorrow there will be more people storming into offices with guns!"
"Whoever voted not guilty, whether it was you or someone else."
Cobb pointed at Juror Number Eight, his finger nearly poking him in the nose.
"You’re committing a crime! You’re enabling a terrorist!"
Facing this storm of accusations, Juror Number Eight, Davis, finally turned his head.
He pushed up his glasses, his gaze firm as it met Cobb’s furious eyes through the lenses.
"I didn’t say he’s innocent."
Davis’s voice was soft, but it cut through the noisy room with exceptional clarity.
"What?" Mike frowned. "But you clearly cast a not-guilty vote."
"That’s procedure," Davis said calmly. "Legally, as long as I have a doubt, I cannot vote guilty. I’m not saying he definitely didn’t kill him. I’m just saying..."
Davis paused, his gaze sweeping over the other eleven people present.
"This is a man’s life."
"Luigi Randall is only twenty-four years old. If we raise our hands here and sign a piece of paper, he’ll be sent to prison, and for the rest of his life."
"Five minutes."
Davis held up five fingers.
"We’ve only discussed this for five minutes, and we’re about to decide the rest of a man’s life."
"I think... we should at least talk about it."
"Talk about what?" Juror Number Seven cut in impatiently. "Talk about his tragic childhood? Talk about how damn society was unfair to him? That’s the lawyer’s job! We’re the jury. We’re only responsible for looking at the evidence!"
"Then let’s talk about the evidence."
Davis ignored Juror Number Seven’s sarcasm. From the messy pile of documents, he pulled out a photograph.
It was a screenshot from the security footage.
In the image, Luigi was raising a gun, aiming it at Arthur Vance.
"The prosecution says this was a long-premeditated execution."
Davis pointed to Luigi’s hand in the photo.
"Look closely."
Everyone’s attention was drawn to it.
It was a magnified close-up. Luigi’s finger was on the trigger, the barrel of the gun pointed forward.
"His hand is shaking."
Davis said.
"Shaking?" Juror Number Three, Cobb, sneered. "That’s from the recoil! Or maybe he was just too excited!"
"No, this was before he fired."
Davis took another photo from his pocket, a screenshot from the second before the shot was fired.
"Look at this blurred edge. This is the vibration captured by the camera. His hand was trembling violently."
Davis stood up and mimicked the posture.
"Would a cold-blooded killer, dead set on murder, a man described by the prosecution as a trained terrorist—would his hand shake like this when facing a target who couldn’t fight back at all?"
"What does that prove?" the old woman, Juror Number Nine, asked in a low voice.
"It proves he was afraid."
Davis looked at the others.
"It proves that in that moment, he was filled with inner conflict."
"The prosecution keeps emphasizing his manifesto, emphasizing his ’judgment.’"
"But if we look at these two things together..."
Davis’s voice grew lower.
"A young man, terrified to the point his hands are shaking, forcing himself to carry out an execution."
"Was that really out of malice? Or was it out of some kind of... mission he felt he had to complete?"
"If it’s the latter, then this isn’t premeditated murder. It’s closer to a crime of passion, or a stress response under extreme mental pressure."
"That’s a major legal distinction."
Davis looked at Juror Number Three, Cobb.
"What if he was mentally coerced? What if he was pushed into a corner by the system, by that despair, a corner where he had no choice but to pull the trigger?"
"In that case, first-degree murder doesn’t hold up."
"What he would be guilty of is possibly second-degree murder, or even manslaughter."
"And the difference between those is worlds apart."
A brief silence fell over the room.
The air conditioner was still broken, and the stuffy, hot air was suffocating.
But this time, mixed in with the simple frustration, there was something else.
Doubt.
A subtle flicker of doubt.
Cobb froze for a moment, then his face flushed an even deeper red.
"Sophistry!"
Cobb bellowed.
"This is all just poison that Lawyer Wayne fed you! That lawyer is a scoundrel! He was screaming in the courtroom until the bailiffs had to drag him away. Doesn’t that tell you something?"
"He’s trying to muddy the waters! Trying to package a murderer as a victim!"
Cobb walked around the table and stood in front of Davis.
"Listen here, Mr. Architect."
"I don’t care if his hand was shaking, and I don’t care if he was having an inner conflict."
"All I know is that the old man lying in a pool of his own blood didn’t get a chance to struggle."
"He’s dead."
"With three bullets through his chest."
"If you think a shaky hand exempts someone from criminal law, then we might as well tear down all the prisons and turn them into counseling centers!"
Spit from Cobb’s tirade flew onto the lenses of Davis’s glasses.
Davis didn’t wipe them.
He just watched the enraged man quietly.
"I didn’t say he should be exempt from the law."
Davis took off his glasses, pulled a soft cloth from his pocket, and began to slowly wipe them.
"I just said we can’t be so hasty."
"Mr. Cobb, you run a trucking company. If one of your drivers hit someone on the road, would you immediately admit he did it on purpose? Wouldn’t you first ask about the road conditions, ask if the brakes were working, ask if the other person ran a red light?"
"That’s different!" Cobb retorted.
"The principle is the same."
Davis put his glasses back on.
"We are here to represent the conscience of the law."
"If we aren’t even willing to give this young man ten minutes of discussion, if we rush to send him to his death just because we want to watch a game or because it’s hot..."
"Then what’s the difference between us and that CEO who sat in his office using an algorithm to deny claims, indirectly killing thousands of people?"
"We would become part of the killing machine, too."
The words hung heavy in the air.
Heavy enough that several people in the room lowered their heads.
The salesman, Juror Number Seven, who had been constantly checking his watch, lowered his hand, a flicker of discomfort on his face.
The young black man, Juror Number Five, looked at Luigi’s photo on the table, his expression wavering.
Juror Number Twelve, the young man who worked at an ad agency and hadn’t spoken yet, stopped shaking his leg.
He remembered the photo that had gone viral online.
The picture of Luigi bowing before the "Wailing Wall."
"I think..."
Juror Number Twelve suddenly spoke up, his voice soft.
"I think Number Eight has a point."
All eyes turned to him.
Juror Number Twelve scratched his head awkwardly.
"I’ve seen that picture of the Wailing Wall. It was plastered with photos of patients who had died."
"If my family was treated like that, if my only hope was destroyed by a single claim denial form..."
Juror Number Twelve glanced at Cobb.
"I don’t know if I would’ve pulled the trigger."
"But I’m sure my hand would have been shaking, too."
"Because I’d know I was committing a crime, but I wouldn’t have a choice."
Cobb’s eyes widened, ready to erupt.
But before he could speak, the construction worker next to him, Juror Number Six, also spoke up.
"I also think this is too fast."
Juror Number Six looked down at his own calloused hands.
"It really is hot in here, and I want to go home, too."
"But this is a man’s life we’re talking about."
"If we get this wrong, it’ll be a nightmare for the rest of our lives."
"How about... we talk a little more?"
The tide was turning.
Juror Number One, Mike, watched the subtle shift and sighed.
He knew his plan for a quick verdict was up in smoke.
He picked up a towel and wiped the sweat from his neck.
"Alright."
Mike said.
"Since some of you want to talk, let’s talk."
"It’s not like we can leave anyway."
He pointed at the closed door.
"Davis, since you brought this up."
"You can start."
"Tell us, besides the shaky hand, what else did you find?"
Davis nodded.
He pulled another document from the pile of files.
It was the ballistics report for the gun.
"Thank you."
Davis pushed up his glasses, his gaze sharpening.
"Let’s look at the second bullet."
"The prosecution said it was a follow-up shot, an execution-style shot."
"But I found a very interesting detail."
"The ballistics show that the trajectory of the second bullet was a little... different..."