Later That Afternoon – Jury Holding Room
The door clicked shut softly behind them as the twelve jurors returned to their private room. For the first time since the trial began, none of them spoke right away.
The fluorescent lights buzzed softly above. The silence was not one of boredom or indifference, but of weight.
Juror #3, an older man with glasses and a meticulous notepad, tapped his pen but didn't write. "Sixteen times," he finally said. "That's not impulse. That's... something else."
"But something else doesn't mean murder," countered Juror #8, a middle-aged woman in a green blouse. "Not the kind they're charging her with. Not cold-blooded. Did you see her? She was reliving it—every single word."
Juror #11, a soft-spoken young man who had barely spoken all day, leaned forward. "She didn't even try to make herself look good. That's what got me. Most people would try to justify every step. She owned it."
