by Drew Katronick

This is a creative fan-fiction of what happens after the play, Twelve Angry Men, ends from the perspective of the 8th Juror.

“Not guilty” announced the Foreman.

And that was it— the case was closed, the trial was finished.  Three brutal days had passed in the stiflingly warm rooms of the courthouse.  Now all the heat that had been pent up during the deliberation in the jurors’ minds passed as they exited the courthouse to the cold, yet refreshing rain.

The 10th Juror rushed to his car before speeding away.  While the 8th Juror was excited to finally go home after a long day, he wasn’t in much of a hurry.  The deliberation was just such a crazy whirlwind.  It seemed like every minute was marked by a juror rising to attack another, his anger roused.  Luckily no real fights had broken out, an amazing miracle.

So the 8th Juror slid into his car, gunned the engine, and pulled out into the busy late-rush hour traffic of the largest city on Earth.  Noise surrounded the 8th Juror in the bustling streets, yet he felt at home in the big city.  His mind was quieted from the overdrive it had been on during the trial and he felt truly relaxed for the first time that day.  He knew he had delivered the right verdict— the job was done successfully.  In fact, he was proud of himself for saving the poor boy from the electric chair.  Yet a fear still lingered in the back of his mind.  What if the boy was guilty and the jury had just released a murderer to walk his neighborhood again.  As a matter of fact, the 8th Juror lived only a few blocks from the boy’s apartment.  And he had lied during the deliberation, too.  The guilt formed like a dark storm cloud in his mind.  Suddenly the rain did not feel as refreshing as it did menacing, like a creature seeking revenge.  During the deliberation he had said he used to live in an apartment next to the elevated train tracks.  However, he actually still lived in that apartment.  It felt wrong to say he did, though— he had spent his whole life trying to escape his slum upbringing, just like the 5th Juror.  He knew he was better than the other kids in his neighborhood, and when he was young he was determined to prove it.  The 8th Juror was never involved in any fights when he was young.  He got a scholarship to a nice private high school and then college.  He had spent all those years pretending not to be from the slums, and he wasn’t about to admit to the other jurors.  Suddenly, it occurred to him: he could have been in the same position as the boy when he was young.  He didn’t really have the best parental relationships.  Still, he had succeeded in rising from poverty as a businessman, and he had ensured a better life for his son and daughter.  Maybe issuing the not guilty verdict was his way of repaying the slums.  After all, everyone else had thought the boy guilty.  No— he had done what was right, as was his public duty as juror and there was no turning back now.

Suddenly a honk sounded from the car behind him— it was a green light and he had been so lost in his thoughts that he had forgotten to go.  Then, trying to forget the dark past, he turned on the radio.

“The murder resulted in at least two deaths, and one kidnapping,” yelled the announcer, “police haven’t revealed further details.”

The 8th Juror's violent past stampeded once again to the front of his thoughts.  A month ago, something similar had happened to one of his neighbors, and the family’s son was kidnapped.  “The world we live in is just terrible,” thought the 8th Juror.  He was ready to go back home to the comfort of his wife, son, and daughter.  Then he remembered that his wife had seemed out of sorts recently.  Too bad he had to go on so many business trips.  He missed his family all the time.

As the car rumbled along, he turned the wheel and drove into his apartment complex’s parking lot.  He was startled to notice the yellow police tape around the elevator and the multitude of police cars present.  Mike, one of his few friends, ran up to him and grabbed him by the shoulder.  The 8th Juror could see tears in his eyes.

“It's happened again, Robert,” Mike said in a troubled, alarmed voice, “Your son’s been kidnapped and the cops, they—”.

Hopping out of his car, the 8th Juror screamed in a panic, “What about Lily ‘n’ Mia?”, referring to his wife and daughter.

Mike just looked at the ground in horror, sadness, and agony for his friend when the 8th Juror realized what had happened.