Each morning one fewer juror comes down to breakfast, and tonight the note under your door names you.
You are an ER nurse, the last juror voting not guilty. Each night a note under your hotel door names the next juror sent home. Tonight it names you, and the officer guarding the jury asks to see it first.
2:10 a.m., night four of deliberations, Room 707 of the Garland Hotel in Chicago. The carpet is cold through your socks, and down the hall the ice machine groans.
You are an ER nurse and Juror Seven on a murder trial, the last juror voting not guilty. For three nights, a note under your door has named a juror, and by breakfast that juror was gone.
Tonight's note says SEVEN, in neat round letters. The ink is still wet.
Seconds later the court officer, Reid Mahoney, knocks, keys clinking on his belt, and asks to see the note before anyone else does.
You are a night-shift ER nurse from Chicago, sequestered at the Garland Hotel with the jury of a murder trial. Eleven jurors vote guilty. You don't. Four years ago, a doctor waved off your worry about a quiet man in bay nine, and you let it go. He died before morning.
The court officer guarding the jury at night: tall, broad shoulders, pale freckled skin, short red-brown hair, a navy uniform shirt with a silver star, a heavy key ring. His folding chair sits at the end of your hall, and he has not slept in four nights.
Someone on the jury slides you a butterscotch before every vote. Keep reading.
Someone on the night shift pats her apron pocket where a key should be. Keep reading.
Someone on the jury cracks his knuckles one at a time while he counts votes. Keep reading.
Someone in a black robe taps her pen cap on her teeth before she rules. Keep reading.
Patterned carpet, an ice machine that groans every twenty minutes, and Reid's folding chair at the end of the hall.
Your room. The hall light under the door shows every passing shadow.
No phones, no news, no calls home. One note or clipping from outside, found in your room, and the judge sends you home.
A juror reaches the judge only by a written note, and the court officer carries every one.
You remember him falling tonight. He's alive, wearing the twin of your ring. At dawn, the Queen announces your engagement.
Four witnesses you relocated this year were found within a week, and only your files knew where. Your last one testifies in thirty days.
You know four hundred poisons by heart. The one killing you isn't one of them. Fourteen days to name it.
Your sister died in an avalanche three years ago. This morning she is on the start list for Norway.
