The 12th Juror

I received a notice to report for jury duty. When I reported on the assigned day, I entered a room, was checked in, and sat down to wait with 200 other people. For those unfamiliar with the process, let me explain how a jury is selected in our city.

I live in a large city on the west coast. When they require jurors, they bring in over 200 people at once. We were seated in a large room. Throughout the day they would call names over the speaker system. The people called would report to one of courtrooms which needed jurors. They would usually send about 60 people at a time, from which they would attempt to seat twelve jurors.

I sat around most of the day without my name being called. They called twenty people, then started calling twenty more. My name was the seventh in this second group of twenty. That meant that there was twenty six people ahead of me in line for this jury. I thought to my self, “They’ll never get around to me.” I was relieved that this would be my last day.

When we reported to the courtroom, we learned what case was to be tried. I knew about this case! I had been following it closely in the news. This man, Ronald Williams, was accused of raping and murdering a little girl. He had been caught attempting to molest another girl, and was suspected of even more murders.

Suddenly, I wanted to be on this jury! I wanted to have a part in putting this fiend on a gurney-a needle stuck in his arm, but there were twenty-six potential jurors ahead of me. The chance that I might be picked was slim.

It could potentially be a long trial. They estimated that it could take two weeks. A number of people were excused because of personal business that would conflict with the length of the trial.

They had selected eleven jurors, and there was still one ahead of me. They began questioning him. He was acceptable to the prosecution, but the defense challenged him. I was next.

They questioned me. When they asked me if I had any knowledge of the case, or had read about it in the papers-I had read everything printed, followed every news report-I said, “No.”

I was picked. I was the 12th Juror. It would be almost as good as sticking the needle in his arm myself. I hadn’t heard a minute of testimony, but I knew what my verdict would be-guilty!

There was little testimony in the early part of the trial. The defense made motion after motion. Much of the time we, the jury, were removed from the courtroom.

After one lengthy stay our waiting room, we were dismissed for the day. When we returned the next day, we were due for a shock. They had dismissed the murder charge against this creep! It was a technicality. The search that had provided proof that he had committed the murder was illegal. All evidence was thrown out. Without the evidence, they couldn’t sustain the murder charge. All that was left was an attempted molestation charge! Even if convicted, he would be out in a couple of years.

We were told that we couldn’t even consider the other charges, that we could only consider the testimony and evidence that the judge allowed to be presented in our presence in court.

When I railed against the injustice, I was reminded that we weren’t to discuss the case until all testimony was completed, and it was presented to the jury for deliberation.

Without the murder charge it was a short trial. We retired to the jury room to deliberate.

I said nothing during the deliberation. It was obvious that the verdict would be guilty. We each marked our vote on slips of paper and passed them to the foreman. The vote was eleven to one to convict! No one could believe that anyone had voted to acquit.

“What idiot voted to acquit? We all know this guy is guilty, not only of these charges, but much more as well,” one juror said.

The foreman said, “We can only consider the molestation charges, but there was direct testimony from the victim about that.” This guy is definitely guilty of those charges.”

Everyone talked at once, all affirming his guilt. I said nothing.

“Let’s have another vote,” said the foreman. “This time we’ll have a show of hands. If you’re in favor of conviction, raise your hand.”

Eleven hands went up. Mine remained on the table.

Everyone screamed at me at once. “How could I not vote to convict? Weren’t you the one that wanted to see the needle stuck in this guy?

I said nothing.

For two days, they railed, pleaded, cursed. Every vote was eleven to one. I never argued my side, never replied to their comments, but always voted to acquit. Finally, the foreman told the judge that we were hopelessly deadlocked. A mistrial was declared.

When we were dismissed, the other jurors wouldn’t look at me, or talk to me.

The parents of the little girl didn’t want to put her through another trial. Without her testimony they had no case. The prosecution declined to retry him.

For six months the police watched his house, but he was patient. He did nothing suspicious. I was patient, too. When he began cruising the parks and the malls looking for another victim, I was there. I knew it was time.

Late one night, I broke into his house. I wore a ski mask to hide my identity. He was asleep. With a weighted sock, I struck him several times on the head. When I was certain that he was unconscious, I tied him to the bed-gagged him. Then I revived him.

He was wearing a tee shirt and white jockey shorts. I cut his shorts off him with my knife. As I put my knife to his scrotum, he began screaming behind his gag. I cut around his scrotum, pulled it free, leaving his balls hanging in the open, hanging by their cords. I started to cut them off, but, instead, grabbed them both in one hand. In one motion, I yanked, pulling them free, the cords making a popping sound as they separated. He fainted.

I revived him again. There was more to come. I took hold of his penis, placing the blade of my knife to the shaft at its base. I severed it-blood squirted from his groin. He fainted again.

I didn’t revive him this time. I untied his left arm and leg-rolled him over onto his side. I placed the tip of my knife at his backbone at the small of his back. With a quick jab, I severed his spinal cord.

If he lived-I hoped that he would-let’s see if he could rape any more little girls with no penis, no balls-from a wheel chair. If I had voted to convict, he would have gone to prison for only two years. I didn’t know where he would have gone after being released. I may never been able to find him.

I called 911 for an ambulance.