13 Jurors

A Story by mr_19

Just read it;)

The room was beyond quiet. In fact, so much so that silence was jealous. Our tranquil situation was what had become of a hard fought, gruesome battle. I, Richard Lamb, had been put on trial for a murder, rape, and kidnapping which I did not commit. I had been framed by the government under which I lived; the very thing I had made the mistake of trusting for most of my life. It was a cover up in order to try and cause a distraction to lay off allegations of fraud against the CIA and the FBI. It had been well played by them; they knew what they were doing. It was neither mistake nor accident, yet that’s what it looked like from those on the outside looking in.
Again and again I proclaimed my innocence, but again and again I was mocked. Nobody would take me seriously. For the most part, the people watching probably cared more about college badminton than what happened to me. I was up for the death penalty as the max, with life without parole being the minimum if it were so that I was found guilty in their court of law. One interesting thing, if you will, about this whole situation was that it had come down to 13 jury members to decide my fate. 13 people stood between me, death, and the front door. The legal proceedings and complications had made the progression go even slower.
           Over the various phases of my “trial life”, I always seemed to keep those whom I loved in mind. Whether it be my wife, back in Oregon, or my son in the orphanage next door to the courtroom, they stayed about my mind without fail. Over and over I had presented evidence that disproved the accusers and what they thought they had against me, but it began to feel like I would’ve been better off saving myself the trouble and dealing with the things as they came about. For the longest time I had believed in justice, equal process for everyone as required by the laws of the land, but my trial was anything but fair. I stood at the defendants table with my lawyer, Mr. Phillip T. Salmon. It was an early morning for sentencing, but again not like my say would actually account for anything in the matter.
          I stood chained to the very wood that kept me upright, like an animal locked up as part of some demented training. It was almost like I were a caged bird, the only difference being that birds have to try incredibly hard to kill, but I was ready to snap their necks with no more regard than I would have snapping a twig. To me, they made the same sound and, crazy enough, I was going mad. It wasn’t so much that I was becoming impatient as I was becoming aggravated with the process itself. See, if they could actually find me and prove me guilty in a fair and just trial, I would have to accept the consequences for my actions. But I was an innocent man, no more accusable than an infant for the debt of a nation.
          In the detention facility in which they kept me while the case continued on, I had been beat up several times through what the others in that place called “Throw down Thursday.” Throw down Thursday was when we would all fend for ourselves and fight for a week’s worth of food. If you didn’t win, you didn’t eat. Those were the only rules. People got fatally mutilated just for a few scraps of Taco Bell or school lunches even from nearby. It showed me the scale upon which my sanity was based. And, at least compared to those in that small place, I was the sanest of the lot of them.
Even though I was far more capable of a reasonable cognition than anybody else, it did not give me an advantage when it came to the court. They didn’t care. They were not sensitive, sentimental, or emotional, it seemed, in any way whatsoever.
          I had a swollen and purple left eye from the detainment center scuffles, as well as numerous cuts on my torso which were hidden by the bright orange jumpsuit I was forced to wear. About five minutes went by before the 13 jurors walked in to give their verdict of my case. My life was quite literally hanging in the balance. The way they were going to determine what to do with me was to have the 13 individuals, seven women and six men, line up before the judge while holding a wireless microphone and state either “I hereby find the defendant guilty” or “I find the defendant innocent.” Then, the judge would adhere to whichever verdict was reached. The first to seven votes would be the outcome I would have to face. I was ready for anything, but the suspense of the moment was almost too great to overcome. It was overwhelming.
          They were to stand in groups of four and, if need be, the 13th and deciding juror would stand by him or herself and decide. The first four split the decision, two against me and two for me. Then the next four stood and went a three-to-one split, making it five against me and three for me. The third group of four jurors arose. The first vote went against me, making it so that they needed one more to kill me or put me away for the rest of my life as a result of something I had not done. It was six to three, and time to face the music. But not so fast, the next three jurors voted in my favor. A six to six tie, it would come down to the thirteenth juror.
          He walked as slow as possible with the microphone in his hand. The words came slower than an event caught in slow motion. The words needed were uttered from his mouth, and the reaction of the crowd was grief. The court’s decision was final, what had been said had been said, there was no going back. And I, Richard Lamb, was in nothing but disbelief.