Rocking the boat like Columbo.

Laquisha had quietly taken notes. She had listened and she had observed and as the other eleven members of the jury bickered boisterously, airing their puerile opinions, she had developed a silent yet strong conviction that the accused was in fact, contrary to popular opinion, innocent.

“He did it.” Juror number 5 summarized, emphasizing the period mark after his statement, the finality confirmed by the folding of his arms, the crossing of his legs and the sitting back in his stackable plastic chair.

His conclusive comment was met with nods and a wave of concurrence throughout the room. The randomly selected group of her peers, a jury of 12, a chosen cross section of society, had quickly reached a consensus.

Well, eleven out of twelve anyway.

It wasn’t in Laquisha’s nature to rock the boat. She had always been an unassuming and taciturn girl. People often talked over her or down to her and she had on many occasions overheard people talking about her ; she had become accustomed to it and was what she had come to expect. Maybe it was a symptom of middle child syndrome, or maybe her a result of having an overbearing if not slightly narcissistic mother, or maybe it was just the nature of an introvert.

Regardless, justice trumps emotion. A man’s life was on the line, so now was the time to put any reticence aside and speak up .

She cleared her throat and shuffled in her chair.

The timorous raising of her hand to get the room’s attention had absolutely no effect but the lowering of her hand, simultaneously knocking over her glass of water, ensured all heads turned in her direction.

After apologising profusely she mustered the confidence to offer her insights.

“I think there may be a few things we’ve overlooked. ” She stuttered, reminiscent of Peter Falk’s iconic detective Columbo (sans dusty trench coat.)

“Like what ?“The obstinate and self- appointed spokesman, that was juror number 5, probed. “Look at the evidence. Fingerprints. DNA. Gun analysis.” He bullet pointed by counting his meaty fingers as he spoke. “He did it! The evidence speaks for itself. ”

Laquisha cleared her throat again, adjusted her glasses and straightened her spine as she spoke.

It was now or never.

“Did you know, that street lights in this area are sodium based lights not LED ?” She asked, posing the seemingly arbitrary question to the room.

The non-sequitur was greeted with puzzled looks and condescending smirks.

″ So what?” Juror 8 , another loud and opinionated woman, asked tersely.

“Sodium based lights give off a yellow glow which distorts colour, so a blue car for example would seem grey.” Laquisha expanded politely.

“The eyewitness said she saw a grey car , which is the car colour of the accused. But under this street lighting, the police should have looked for a blue one.”

She noticed a few shifting in their seat. She observed some questioning frowns. One of the jurors picked up a CCTV photograph provided in an evidence pack and studied it.

It emboldened her to continue. She took out her well-used notebook and flipped a page.

“The make and model of the car are standard- issue company cars in the organization he works for, so this points us to someone who works there, a work colleague, the accused’s best friend for example.”

She pulled out her phone as a visual aid and enlarged a picture on the screen.

“If you look at this Facebook picture, the best friend is with his company car , same make and model but it’s blue. Even the partial number plate , presented as evidence, matches too.”

She passed the phone to a few seated around the table and she could sense an infinitesimal shift in the atmosphere. A thawing of their previously rock-solid mental posturing.

When her phone returned from the round- the-room pass along, she opened a second picture and enlarged it for the group.

“This is another picture from the best friend’s Facebook page, taken last year. He was in Colombia. Does anyone recognize this tree in the background ?” She enquired as she held the attention of the group.

“A tree? Is that supposed to be evidence of a crime?” Juror number 2, a tall, attractive mother of two piped up, in an audibly patronizing tone.

″ Well actually, it could be .“Laquisha, explained undeterred by the snappy reaction. “It’s a Borrachero tree, also known as the “drunken binge” tree .A substance derived from it, is called scopolamine. It’s illegal here in the States because it blocks a person’s ability to form memories and make free will choices. If it’s blown in someone’s face or put in a drink, the person will do anything you tell them to. These trees are extremely rare and regulated, yet the best friend appears to have access to one. This picture was taken on his uncle’s land, according to the photo caption. ”

She noted the raised eyebrows , this time smirk-free. She spotted the pursed lips and exchanged glances, brows furrowed with doubts.

“It would explain why the accused has no memory of the night in question. ” Juror number 10 surmised, the realization signalling a reversal of mindset.

“Exactly,” Laquisha confirmed “Now, just

one more thing: motive. The accused’s best friend was also in their lottery syndicate. They had all won $1 million and were going to split it four ways. But now two of them are out of the picture: one is dead and the other one on trial for murder. Here’s a photo of the two remaining winners: the best friend and his girlfriend. They’re currently in Mexico, according to their latest Facebook post, on a beach drinking Mai Thais.”

The room was abuzz with murmuring and whispering, several whipped out their phones out to check the Facebook page she had mentioned.

Then silence. Even number 5 had no rebuttal.

“So,” She took to stuttering again, adjusting her glasses as she spoke. “I hate to rock the boat but maybe there are just few facts the police need to look into first ....don’t you think?”