"They want to kill a man with a borrowed knife."
"But this knife isn't for loan."
Cobb looked up, at Mike, at Davis, at everyone.
He enunciated his decision, word by word.
"Not guilty."
"Fuck the law."
"Fuck the evidence."
"As long as that insurance company hasn't been put on trial, I will never find this kid guilty."
"My vote is—not guilty."
Mike's arm slowly came down.
Then Davis's, then Juror Number Four's, then everyone's.
All eleven hands were lowered.
An eerie silence fell over the room.
Normally, when twelve jurors finally reached a consensus, when the problem that had tortured them for over ten hours was finally solved, the room should have been filled with sighs of relief, or celebratory glances exchanged between them.
But there was none of that here.
Instead, the air grew thicker, so heavy it was hard to breathe.
They looked at each other, their eyes holding not the joy of victors, but a deep, profound fear.
They had just done something huge.
