Outside Inside
Outside, dark clouds were beginning to shroud the sun. Outside, the wind brushed through the oaks and elms that guarded the courthouse, their branches swaying, their leaves turning over, signaling the coming storm. Outside, a man in suit ate his lunch, throwing pieces from his sandwich to skittish pigeons, as if he had all the time in the world. Outside, the world was still moving, breathing, free.
In here, in this room, the air was still, the fluorescent light was harsh, time was precious. In here, there was the click of the second hand on the wall clock. In here, there were furtive glances, or threatening glares from the 11 who had completed their work, done their duty, weighed the facts, and were ready to go home.
“Say, what time they bring dinner?” The fat man in the sweat soaked John Deere hat, juror number 3, said to no one in particular.
The foreman stopped drumming his fingers on the table. “They bring it when they bring it.” His tone cut deep and the fat man nodded a quick apology. The others took notice and sat up straighter, or cleared their throats, or moved their papers into position. “Now lets get back to business.”
The foreman loosened his tie, laced his fingers on the table in front of him, and leaned forward. “So next door in the jail, we’ve got Clifford Dawkins, our towns resident trouble maker. He walks in to The Sunnyside Up diner across the square there, pulls out a .22 caliber revolver, and shoots Ray Stokes, a beloved and highly respected school teacher in the chest, right there in front of 15 people. Then he just stands there, and waits for the police to arrest him. First degree murder, case closed.”
“We know this case, we’ve been over this all before.” Juror number 7, the bookstore owner, stared at the ceiling. “That Dawkins kid killed poor Mr. Stokes plain and simple.” Now she looked down at her red, claw like fingernails . “I knew it was only a matter of time with that one. I had to have him arrested for stealing a cook book from my store last summer.”
“You’re absolutely right Martina.” The foreman looked at her over the half frame reading glasses perched on his nose, and then at the others, some nodding in agreement.
“We’ve been over this case several times.” Now his gaze fixed on juror number 2, the retired bartender, the man standing in the way of going home to their own beds, their own people, their normal lives. “And we’re all in agreement, except for one.”
Juror number 2 was looking out the window, leaning back in his chair, smiling a secret smile, removed from the work to be done.
“Do you mind joining us?”
He gave the others a startled look, and let his chair come down to rest on all fours. “I do apologize.” He unzipped his tan, poplin ‘Old Man’ jacket, and gazed eagerly at the others. “There’s a storm coming in.” He nodded towards the window. “We sure could use the rain.”
A chorus of disgusted sighs, a “Come on!” and a “Really!?” rained down on him. He put his hands up to calm the storm.
“Okay, okay. Where were we then?”
The foreman stood, took off his suit coat and walked around the table, stopping directly behind juror number 2. “Well we were just about to wrap this up by taking another vote. A vote that’s sure to be a unanimous guilty.”
Juror number 2 looked over one shoulder, then the other, trying to place the foreman.
“You know I can’t do that.”
The others erupted in murmurs of anger, disbelief, frustration. “I know it’s hard for you all to believe but I’m still voting not guilty.”
“Damn it.” The foreman said plainly, but with the authority necessary to quiet the room. He walked back to his chair and sat heavily. “Why on earth would you think that killer deserves a not guilty?”
Juror number 2 licked his lips, gave the others a nervous glance, and cleared his throat.
“That’s right, convince us, tell us what’s going in in your head.” The foreman flashed a smug grin.
“Well, um, there really is more to this case than meets the eye.”
“Oh come on!” Juror number 10, the college girl in her junior year up at the State College. “He walked into that Cafe, in the middle of the morning breakfast rush, and he shot that poor man in cold blood, case closed.”
“nnnnnn...” juror number 2 stuttered with excitement. “nnnn...not in cold blood. You see, he, um, he may have had a reason, not an excuse but a legal reason, for doing what he did.”
“Such as?” The foremans voice was all sarcasm.
“Well, first of all, I, um I...I had to consider Mr. Dawkins from an emotional stand point. I know, it’s against our instruction, we’re to only consider the facts. Bbb...but I thought of him emotionally, as a human being. It became clear to me then, that he may not be guilty under the law.”
“I don’t follow.” Juror number 3 had his hand under the John Deere hat, scratching his head.
“Right. So, sssssso...I simply thought of Mr. Dawkins as I would my own son.” Snickers and eye rolling peppered the room. Juror number 2 took a deep breath, to snuff out the stuttering once and for all.
“No, seriously, I thought of him like he was my son. I see my son sitting there, waiting for someone to help him, to hear his side. We sure didn’t get a chance to hear his side.”
“We heard his side, they questioned him repeatedly and he never denied the fact that he killed Ray Stokes.” The foreman’s stare was now all intimidation.
“True, but he sure did give a lot of yes and no answers. Yes he says he killed Mr. Stokes. But when they ask him if he intendead to do it, he only said no. His attorney never followed up. He never got a chance to fully explain.”
The foreman’s eyes were lasers, meant to melt this man. “The psychiatrist explained why. He’s flat out crazy. His foster parents explained why. Mr. Dawkins was in and out of a dozen foster homes. He was expelled from school, arrested numerous times. He was a bad egg from the day he was born.”
Juror number 2 met the laser eyes head on as he spoke. “This Mr. Dawkins has had a rough life, but he is not a hardened killer, my friends. We only see a cold blooded killer, as some of you say, but we are choosing to ignore the facts, sure as sin.” The stare down continued.
“Maybe we feel intimidated.” The foreman snorted in disgust, and looked away. “Maybe we just want to go home.” Several jurors nodded enthusiastically.
“Clifford Dawkins can’t afford for us to be intimidated, or lazy.” A few jurors gave juror number 2 thoughtful nods of affirmation.
“We’ve been blinded by what seems to be an open and shut case. We only want this killer to be put away, to go away, so we can go home, nice and easy. But he is someone’s son, and a son deserves more than just the easy explanation.”
He paused to look around the table at each juror.
“Clifford was not flat out crazy. He is bi-polar, a condition that was not diagnosed until his court ordered psychiatric examination. Yes, he has been in and out of trouble since the day he was born. But why? Was he abused or neglected in those homes? This teacher, Mr. Stokes, why did this boy choose to kill him? What do we really know about him? Yes he taught the boy. But what really happened in those classrooms? The Principal mentioned some past ‘disciplinary infractions.’ What does that even mean, ‘disciplinary infractions?’”
Now the room was quiet, people were thinking. The clicking of the second hand on the wall clock counted off several minutes.
“My point is, we didn’t listen to all of the facts. We judged him as a monster, not as someone’s son.”
“So what?” The foreman continued to avoid looking at juror number 2.
The college girl was thumbing through her notes. “That defense attorney never asked how being bi-polar might have affected Mr. Dawkins, um, Clifford. That cross examination of the Principal was lacking too.” She drummed her pen thoughtfully on the table. “So maybe we do look at this case a little closer.”
Juror number 2 smiled. “The defense attorney didn’t ask a lot of questions at all. Maybe Clifford wasn’t given an adequate defense. That alone is enough to maybe not find him guilty.”
“Okay.” Juror number 3 put his John Deere hat on the table, and shrugged apologetically as some looked accusingly at him. “I’m okay with taking another look.”
“Well he’s a thief for sure, so why not a killer too.” Juror number 7 said.
“He stole a cook book from your store. Why a cook book? Why not steal cigarettes or liquor from another store. Why not just rob you for all the money you had in your register?”
“I don’t know.”
“Exactly. We don’t know.” He looked hard at her. “Why would your son steal a cook book from a store?”
“I said I don’t know.”
“So let’s look closer at this kid, at this case Let’s give him a fair shake.”
She thought for a few seconds, and then threw her hands up. “Fine. Whatever.”
The jurors around the table were suddenly in action. Some were in quiet conversation, someone said ‘Why not?’ Some wereurgently beginning to argue with others. The foreman raised his hand to quiet the room.
“So let’s put it to a vote right now. Let’s see who wants to put a murderer away, and who wants to give Mr. Stokes the justice he deserves.” The room quieted. “All for a guilty verdict, murder in the first degree, raise your hands”
Seven hands, no six hands went up.
“Not guilty?” Six hands went up.
The foreman shook his head in disgust, or surrender. “Fine then. Who wants to start us off, again?” Five hands went up.
And juror number 2, took a look out the window. Outside the first few drops of rain were pitter pattering against the window, or staining the sidewalk. The man in the suit, and his following of pigeons were gone. Then he took a look around the room. Inside now, the still air and the harsh flourescent lights, and the ticking of that clock were overshadowed by something else.
Inside, now, there was hope.