The Call-

We all walk into the back of the courtroom into a chamber where every juror must state what they think of the case. It is a large room, made out of beautiful dark oak, ornately carved into intricate patterns which captures the eyes and imagination of everyone. Whenever people enter this room for the first time, it mesmerises them. Now I see why. It is truly amazing.

We sit in a circle. Going around the room, we all have to vote on what we think of the case. “All in favor of the defendant being guilty, say “Aye,” says Jackson. He is plump, with tomatoes for cheeks and a huge circular nose, and as the senior juror, he shows the newer jurors what to do and how everything is run. As if a perfectly synchronized routine, all the other jurors say “Aye,” except for me.

There is a pause before a crisp shrill voice cuts through the air, like she is pointing a dagger at me. “Miranda, why don’t you tell us why the defendant isn’t guilty.” She has a smile on her face that says, “Go mess up in front of everyone. I want to see you try to prove yourself.”

“Well, Barbra,” I say, my hands getting clammy and starting to sweat. It's my first jury duty and I have already been put on the chopping block. “The defendant said he was leaving the party when the shots were fired, for one, which means that he was on the other side of the yard. Not only that, but a gun was never found in his car, in his house, anywhere that he had been except for the party.”

Frederick cuts me off. He is a science teacher and always looks at the logical side of things. “Not to interrupt, but if you were the shooter, wouldn't you leave the gun at the party? That would make it harder to track.”

“Exactly. That argument doesn’t have enough evidence to back it up,” says Cathy, our mayor.

“Well,” I say, cutting everyone off before something catastrophic happens. “The other thing is, the finger prints on the gun were inconclusive. Not only that, but I did some research and there were two other Jonathan’s at the party. So it could have been one of them that the witnesses were talking about.”

“Very well done, Miranda,” Jackson says. “Does this change anyone’s opinion?”

Everyone shakes their heads. Defeat is imminent and I know it. No one will agree with the crazy theories that prove Jonathan innocent.

“Let’s get back to the courtroom then.” Jackson says. Ushering us back in, I linger behind. Someone else also lingers, probably to say something.

Tall, skinny, shy. I don’t know his name, but I know he believes me. He is sitting in his chair, visibly thinking and wondering about everything that I had said to him and everyone else. “I agree with you, Miranda,” he says.

Everyone stops.

It was very sudden and quick. Like it slipped out of his mouth without him realizing it, and before anyone could say anything to him, his phone starts to ring. Everyone else is standing there, shook that he agreed, while he fumbles with his phone.

I know I need to say something, and fast. But what?

As if the missing piece of the puzzle was found, everything starts to make sense. “Wait a second,” I say to everyone. “Someone called 911, and it must have been Jonathan. No one else was far enough away to not be too distracted by running away from the shooter, but still at the party to know that the shooting happened.”

There's a silence that collectively falls over the room when I say this. Everyone, thinking it over, turning it in circles in their brain. I need to fortify my evidence, “Think about it. He was in his car when the shooting happened in the backyard. He could have been at the perfect angle to see the shooting and also be far enough away to be safe to make the call. It makes sense.” My arms are flying around the room wildly now. I don’t know how they will respond. But I just know that I am right. There is no other way for that to have worked out.

“Very valid point,” Frederick says slowly, testing the water before jumping in head first. “But how can we prove that he was in his car during the shooting?”

“It has already been proven that he was in his car the minute before the shooting happened. Everyone just thought that he was going to get his gun.” I say, coming up with all of this evidence on the fly. Half of my theory doesn’t seem fortified, yet all the evidence that we already know about can support it if said in a different way.

“She may be right.” Jackson says. That stops everything. Everybody listens to Jackson when he speaks.

“So, what now?” I ask. “Never really done this whole thing before.” I chuckle nervously.

“Let's go back out and tell the judge.” He says. And we do. Everyone files back out into the courtroom and takes their seat. The room quiets down and the Judge asks, “Well, what is your ruling?”

“Miranda has something to say.” Jackson says, ushering me to stand up.

Everyone in the courtroom looks at me. Butterflies swarm into a tornado in my stomach as I realize the insane parts of my theory. “Yes, we need to see Jonathan’s phone. We need to know if he made the call to 911 the night of the party.”

When we open his phone, and look at the call list, we find the 911 call there within a minute of when the shots were fired. He couldn’t have been the shooter, he saved people, and now I have saved him.

After the trial, I try to leave but everyone comes up to me. The family, the judge, the whole jury. I am offered a special program for attorneys.

Decline.

Personal justice detective.

Decline.

Dinner with Gregory?

Accept.