Kelvin's POV
The clock above the jury-room door read 2:17 p.m. Fifteen minutes into the lunch recess. Twelve strangers locked in a windowless box with lukewarm coffee, half-eaten sandwiches, and the collective knowledge that one of us might send a man to prison for the rest of his life.
Or not.
The air conditioner rattled like it was dying. A woman in a peach cardigan kept reapplying hand lotion — the synthetic floral smell was starting to feel like a personal attack.
The foreman, a retired accountant named Paul, was still trying to organize “structured discussion.”
Nobody was listening.
I sat at the far end of the long table, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, pretending to read the jury instructions for the tenth time.
Across from me… juror number eight, Lena. Thirty-one, maybe. Beau
