Shacking Up - Abby Knox Page 0,22

Of course there were traces of her own DNA on those pillowcases.

“Finally, I would argue that in her inebriated state, Mrs. Jacobsen—a petite, impaired woman—would not have been able to asphyxiate her husband—a large man, a healthy man. A small, inebriated woman who, as evidence shows, was asleep on the sofa at the time of his death.

“Let the record show that the senator had enemies. He had passed bills that many people did not like. He received death threats via email. Some of those were investigated and those investigations resulted in a few citations and arrests, but not all. And none of those people who had threatened him in the past were interviewed in the murder investigation.

Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, I ask you to consider that someone laid in wait for the senator, and it was not his wife. Someone planned ahead. Someone knew she would be at her neighbor’s home at this time. They wanted it to be quick, no mess, and quiet. Climbed in through an open window. Killed the victim with great force. Got startled when she came home early and ran away the same way they came in. Do justice for the senator. Send the message to the police and to the DA that they need to go and find the real killer; he or she is still out there.”

When closing arguments are finished, we retire to the jury room to deliberate.

To my surprise, the group votes for me as foreman.

Although I don't relish it, I feel like this won't take long.

“All right then, let’s take our first vote. Raise your hand if you think the defendant is guilty.”

To my complete shock, everyone raises their hands. Everyone, but Wren.

I stare at her. My heart races. Is she messing with me?

“Ma’am?”

“All those who think the defendant is not guilty, raise your hand.”

Wren raises her hand.

People around the table mutter. A few utter curses under their breath.

“Of course that one has to disagree.”

I have to control the urge to backhand that dude. “Ms. ... I mean, Juror Number 12, explain why you think the defendant is not guilty.”

She looks around timidly. I feel bad. But she’s got to convince us. It’s the only way to avoid a hung jury.

“Well,” she says. “It just doesn't make sense. I think she had ample opportunities to kill him, many of which would have been better. They owned guns. She had a pharmacy full of drugs in her medicine cabinet. There were any number of less personal ways for her to kill him. And she wasn’t even in a fit of rage at the time. She was drunk, and everyone she knows told us she was a happy drunk. They’d never seen her physically act out.”

Wren goes on to point out all the inconsistencies in the arguments of the prosecution.

Finally, after about an hour of back and forth, she gets one more vote.

Mine.

Everyone eyes me suspiciously.

“This was supposed to be an open and shut case,” whines Juror Number Seven.

“This is supposed to be about us using our brains and doing the right thing, Seven,” I say.

Arguments go on for another hour, until it’s time for a break and the bailiff brings us our food orders.

But neither Wren nor I can eat. I hate seeing her get verbally beaten down.

She’s right though. There’s not enough evidence to convince me beyond a reasonable doubt.

I still believe she did it. But I have enough doubt that I can’t convict her according to the instructions we’ve been given.

The deliberations continue after lunch. One by one, the jurors seem to come around to understand Wren’s arguments.

She’s one hell of an arguer. And she becomes more and more confident the more people decide she’s correct.

At 4 p.m., I call for another vote.

This time, it’s unanimous. I inform the bailiff and we are escorted back into the courtroom.

I deliver the verdict with shaking hands. “Your Honor, we, the members of the jury, find the defendant, Ellen Jacobsen, accused of the charge of murder in the first degree, not guilty.”

The defendant drops her head onto her forearms in relief and what appears to be grief. The prosecution team looks stunned. People in the courtroom gallery grumble in anger and some cry out in gratitude.

The judge pounds her gavel and demands order.

We, the jurors, are quickly escorted out of the courtroom, processed out, and told to wait together for the shuttle to take us back to the hotel so we can gather our things.

We get our phones back from