A stunned silence fills the room the moment after I say, "Not Guilty."

Wham!

Juror Number Ten thumps the table.  I glance at his reddening jowls, and try not to think of the bulldog that bit me when I was five.

"You can't be serious." He spits the words at me like venom, making me thankful I'm three chairs away. "We'll be here all night; no, probably another week, thanks to you."

Sitting between us, Juror Number Seven dabs her mouth with a hankie. "George, calm yourself. We agreed to discuss this like rational adults."

Bulldog is still glaring at me like he's hoping I'll catch on fire and disintegrate before his eyes.  

Swallowing hard, I look around, trying to make eye contact with everyone, even George. Juror Number Five holds my gaze the longest. A potential ally? I reach out.

"I think we can work through this," I say, focusing my attention on Seven, still twisting her napkin in those slender, white fingers. "First of all, I think the eyewitness is uncertain. He kept making eye contact with the husband, and -- "

George scoffs. "Eyewitness, eye-contact. Not bad for someone as blind to the facts as you are."

Juror Eight, the Foreman,  glares at Bulldog George. "Your attitude isn't helping." He looks at me, and extends his hand. "Please go on. Tell us why you voted not guilty. You must have seen something the rest of us didn't."

I nod. "Thanks, Sam. Okay, everyone, doesn't it strike you as convenient? Dane is set up for life if Susan is convicted of capital murder. The defense team told us his mistress, Carla, made him the beneficiary of her life insurance policy. Susan was filing for divorce and child support. Now he gets rid of Susan, doesn't have to pay child support, and the seven-hundred thousand is his."

Juror Three lifts her hand. "He still has to take care of the children," she whispers.

"Yes. He made sure he told us how much he loves his kids, didn't he? Except, when he waved to his daughter, she cringed. Susan and her parents claim he abused her and the kids." I hesitate, wanting my statement to sink in. "Susan has no history of violent behavior. She's never even gotten a speeding ticket. Dane on the other hand --"

"I don't want to disillusion you, but Dane isn't the one on trial," our foreman says, tapping his pencil on the table. "Susan has no alibi. The mistress's DNA was found in her car. Blood, spit, hair. Susan's fingerprints were on the knife!"

I grimace. "I know it looks damning. But what if Susan is telling the truth? What if she really did get sent out to pick up papers for Dane? What if she did come home to find Carla bleeding to death in her kitchen and moved the knife out of the way to roll her over and resuscitate her? She said she felt sorry for Carla being involved with Dane. What if she really did try to get her to a hospital?"

"Why not call 911? Wait for an ambulance?" 

I smile across the table at Mark, a.k.a. Juror Number One. "Good question, Mark, and I can tell you why. Susan knew Carla's only chance was to reach help as soon as possible. Seconds count. She was terrified of waiting in the house, in case Dane returned. She had to be wondering, 'Am I next?' He threatened to kill her countless times."

"Dane was playing golf with his buddy. He couldn't have murdered Carla."

"A funny day to be playing golf, in the rain," I say. "Besides, he wasn't."

A murmur fills the room, as I hold up one hand. "Wait, don't say it. I know his alibi is waterproof. Unless, that is, you happen to consider the fact Dane Robbins is a twin."

Everyone is looking at me now, except for Mr. Bulldog. I continue. "You didn't notice? He sat in the balcony for the past two days but never joined the rest of the family. The prosecution mentioned Dane's brother, but not the fact they were identical twins."

"Why didn't the defense jump on that?"

"I can only guess they didn't know. There are advantages to sitting right on the end of the jury bench. Today, when the children were getting ready to testify,  I heard one of them say, 'Daddy's sitting up in the balcony.'" Their aunt shushed her, but I started looking around and saw a familiar face in the balcony. I knew it couldn't be Dane, because we'd just watched both him and Susan leave the room for the children's testimony. But it sure looked like him. After lunch, when we came back through the courthouse hallway, I adjusted the thermostat on the central-air unit. We walked right by it. Sure enough, after about a half-hour, the man in the balcony removed his hat, just for a moment, to wipe his brow. It was like staring at Dane the Second."

"This changes everything," Juror Number Six says, leaning forward.

"Not so fast," Mark says. "If Dane murdered Carla and set Susan up, why isn't his DNA anywhere to be found on the victim's clothing?

"Don't you remember what Susan said? She claimed Carla was wearing a fur-coat."

"That's plain stupid. Why would anyone be wearing a fur coat inside in August?" Ten barks.

I smile and nod. "Yes, it would be stupid. Unless the coat was a gift to a mistress. Unless Carla is trying it on, thinking how beautiful it is. He tells her to turn around and when she does, he stabs her in the back with one of Susan's brand-new kitchen knives. Dane's brother stands in for Dane to play golf, wearing a raincoat and hood, claiming he's hoarse from a cold."

"There was no coat on Carla at the hospital and the cops didn't find one at the house. So you're saying Dane's brother is in on this, too? You watch too much L.A. Law."

"Susan swears the coat was on the kitchen floor next to Carla, both covered in blood. If I was a murderer, I sure wouldn't leave that coat hanging around, with my DNA all over it. Yes, I'm saying the brother is in on it. Forgive me the clichés, but blood is thicker than water and money talks."

Puzzled glances dart around the table and I know I've created reasonable doubt in everyone except the bulldog. I turn to Number Eight. "Sam, when you looked at Susan during the trial, did she ever look away? Did she ever avoid your gaze?" 

Sam shifts in his chair. "No, she didn't."

"I believe she's innocent, folks. I can't shake that. Do you remember when we had our jury selection? They called it 'Voir Dire,' or, 'to speak the truth.' We promised to make an impartial decision. Just because Susan found her husband's mistress in her home, doesn't make her a murderer. She never faltered, not once, when questioned by the prosecution. She never changed her story about the coat, even when they made her cry, calling her a liar and a cold-blooded killer."

I walk across to the coffee machine and pour myself a cup, willing my hands to stop shaking. Turning, I sip the searing liquid. Facing the window, I look outside at wispy clouds trying to blanket a robin-egg sky. "I'm convinced she was framed."

"I agree with you," Juror Number Nine says, rubbing his bald head. "I never was certain she was guilty, anyway."

I sink into my chair.

The foreman calls for a new vote. "All who now vote not guilty, raise your hand." 

Everyone does except Bulldog. I look at him and he meets my gaze. With a huge sigh, he raises his hand. "I hope you're right, lady. Not guilty. Are you sure you weren't a pitbull in a previous life?"

Resisting the urge to pat his head, I smile. 

I'm right. Susan is innocent. It's too bad I can't tell them I had an unfair advantage from the start.

You see, I'm Dane's first wife. That son-of-a-bitch tried to murder me ten years ago, because I knew too much about his ties to organized crime. His filthy mob money bought the jury and he was acquitted. Good old twin brother, Daryl,  put out a hit on me. I didn't really touch the thermostat. I'd recognize that piece of slime anywhere. Dane changed his name and moved to a different state. I knew he'd remarry. He has to control women and one's never enough. One day, I'll see him rot in hell, jail, or both. The idiot should have known better than to try the expensive fur coat ploy for his second murder attempt.
 
Poor Susan. I wanted to warn her.

At least I could be here for her now. 

It's amazing what the Witness Protection Program and plastic surgery can do for a woman.