What is justice??

That’s the question I’ve asked myself, repeatedly, over the past eight days.

Is it following the law to the letter? Or is it ensuring real justice is carried out, even if it means slightly bending the rules? Most people never need to think about it.

Would I class myself as a rebel? Yes, I suppose I would. A rule-breaker? No.

I know which rules I can twist without getting caught. But it’s only ever been for the greater good. Selling this concept to a jury, however, is another matter. What they need to see isn’t necessarily the “truth,” but whatever appears just. You think those are the same things, don’t you? They’re not. Especially in this case.

I know from experience that if jury members turn around to look at you when they enter the courtroom to deliver their verdict, you’re about to be acquitted. If they don’t, they’re going to find you guilty.

It makes sense, I suppose. You wouldn’t want to look directly into the eyes of someone you’re about to send to prison.

A killer.

I’ve studied them all, sitting in the jury box to my left. Seven men and five women. Together, twelve ordinary members of society will decide my fate, having listened to the gruesome evidence that has stained the air of Court 1 with its squeaky spring benches and windowless walls.

It’s a modern courtroom, not like the old ones you see on TV. I imagine it was designed to feel spacious, going by the abnormally high ceilings and soft gray paneling, but, at the end of the day, it’s still a room where people are forced to pay for their sins under the glare of fluorescent strip lights.