Three stopped in her tracks, more out of confusion than anything else. It took a few seconds for the words to process, but once they did she came back to life, shaking the others off and pinning Eight with a bitter glare.
There came a clatter at the door.
“Anything wrong, gentlemares?” asked the bailiff, poking his head in. “I heard some noise.”
“Oh, no,” said the forepony, flapping over, “everything’s all right. Just having a friendly little argument, that’s . . . .” she trailed off, not quite sure she could pull it off. “Listen, we’re through with that diagram, if you want it back?”
She grabbed the posterboard, passing it to the bailiff, happy of an excuse to get the bailiff out of the room. There was an awkward silence as the other jurors milled about the room. Three, for her part, simply went back to the window, ostensibly taking in some fresh air. After a few moments she turned around, realizing that there were eleven pairs of eyes fixed on her.
“What’re you looking at,” she muttered, turning back towards the windows.
The others, slightly embarrassed for her, glanced away. Some took their seats, though most weren’t back where they started.
“Suppose somepony has to start it off again,” ventured Twelve, forcing a fair bit more enthusiasm into her voice than any of them felt.
“It’s getting late,” said Two with a glance towards the window. Outside the bank of windows a pair of streetlights flickered on, but they didn’t do much good in the room, which had by now darkened perceptibly. “Do you suppose they take us out to a restaurant for supper?”
“How would I know?” said the forepony, resigned to engage with Two’s conversation.
“I wonder if they can let us go home if we don’t finish tonight,” she continued, entirely oblivious. “I’ve got a yearling with the pox. Poor filly looks like Nicanter Khru—”
“Beg pardon,” started Eleven, with the resolve of one who had come to a conclusion and wanted to act on it before the moment passed, “I would like to say something.” Two happily waved her on.
“You beg pardon,” snorted Ten, “what are you so polite about?”
Eleven blinked at her. “For the same reason you are not,” she cut back. “It was the way I was brought up.”
The room was again quiet, the moment broken only by the sound of shuffling chairs.
“This fighting,” started Eleven, “that’s not why we are here, to fight. We have a responsibility. This I have always thought is a remarkable thing about Equestria, that we are — what is the word? Notified? — that we are notified to come down to this place and decide on the guilt or innocence of a pony we have never heard of before.
“We have nothing to gain, or to lose, by our verdict. This is one of the reasons why together we are strong.” She halted now, uncomfortable with the attention. “We should not make it a personal thing,” she finished lamely, rubbing the back of her neck.
There was no response. Eleven shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and in the silence Twelve leaned forward.
“Well, if nopony else has an idea, I might have a cutie here,” she ventured. “I mean, I haven’t put much thought into it. Anyway, let’s throw it out on the stoop, see if the cat licks it up. I —”
“The cat licks it up?” wondered the forepony idly. She laughed, and for that one moment all the tension eased out of the room as everypony found their own brand of humor in it. Even Twelve forced a snicker or two at her own expense.
“Well, it wasn’t much of an idea,” she said dismissively.
“Boy, look how dark it’s getting out there,” said Seven, who was wandering about by the windows. “We’re going to have a storm.”
“It’s really hot,” muttered Five in agreement. Next to her, Four merely raised an eyebrow, mane supremely unruffled.
“Pardon me,” said Five, unable to contain herself, “but . . . don’t you ever sweat?”
“No.” Four lowered the eyebrow with impeccable precision. “I don’t.”
“Uh, listen,” said Six, “I was wondering if maybe . . . maybe we should take another vote.”
“Oh, great,” said Seven, hovering over her and back to her chair. “Maybe we can follow this one up with dancing and refreshments, huh?”
“Madam Forepony?” asked Six.
“Well that’s okay with me,” said the forepony. “Anypony doesn’t want to vote?” No one answered for a moment. “All right.”
“I think we ought to have an open ballot,” said Three, attempting to buy her way back into the room’s good graces. “You know, call out our votes. See who stands where.”
“Well, that sounds fair to me. Anypony object?” Again there was silence. “Okay then. I’ll call off your jury numbers. One?” She paused, then chuckled. “Oh, that’s me. I vote guilty. Two?”
“Not guilty,” said the pegasus with a thoughtful air.
“Number Three?”
“Guilty,” she declared, the word almost a challenge.
“Number Four?”
“Guilty,” in clipped tones.
“Number Five?”
“Not guilty,” resting her head upon a hoof.
“Number Six?”
“Not guilty,” after a moment’s hesitation.
“Number Seven?”
“Guilty,” as if reading it off a page.
“Number Eight.”
“Not guilty.”
“Number Nine?”
“Not guilty,” quick off the gun.
“Number Ten?”
“Guilty,” with a grim tone.
“Number Eleven?”
“Not guilty,” face unreadable.
“Number Twelve?”
A pause.
“Number Twelve?”
“Guilty,” she said with slight irritation.
The forepony tallied them up again. “The vote is now six to six,” she declared.
“Ah, and that’s the sound of overtime,” said Seven, shaking her head. “That’s what you get.”
“Six to six,” spat Ten. “I’m telling you, some of you must be out of your minds. A colt like that!”
“I don’t think the kind of colt he is has anything to do with it,” observed Nine. “The facts are supposed to determine the case.”
“Don’t give me that,” snapped Ten. “I’m sick and tired of facts. You can twist them any way you like, know what I mean?”
“That’s exactly the point this gentlemare has been making!” said Nine, rising unsteadily to her hooves, waving one of them at Eight. “I mean, you keep shouting at the top of your lungs!”
Ten turned away, ostensibly in a fit of coughing, but she didn’t turn back. Nine sputtered to a halt as Eight placed a hoof on her shoulder, shaking her head.
“Why, I’d like to be a few years younger. That mare gets on my . . . .” She sank back into her chair, suddenly overwhelmed. “My, it’s awfully hot in here.”
“Want a drink of water?” asked Eight quickly.
“No, thanks,” she said, waving the offer away.
But Nine was right; it somehow had managed to become warmer. Perhaps it was simply because the room was oppressively still, all trace of an outside breeze a memory at best. Over by the water cooler, Seven and Two were in various stages of trying to draw a decent drink into one of the little paper cones.
“It’s going to rain,” observed Two in an attempt at small talk.
“No!” said Seven. “How’d you figure that, blue-eyes?” She snorted at the dark masses in the sky. “How come you switched?”
“Well, it just seemed to me there was room for doubt,” said Two, almost cheery.
“You haven’t got a hoof to stand on,” said Seven. “You know that, I hope?”
“Oh, I don’t feel that way,” she countered, engaged. “There were a lot of details that never came out.”
“Well, good luck.”
“Oh, come on,” said Ten, dropping in on the conversation, “you’re like everypony else. You think too much, you get mixed up.” She downed a paper cone’s worth of water, barely sufficient to wet the lips. “Know what I mean?”
“Listen, I don’t think you have any right . . . .” but it was too late; Ten had walked away. Two scuffed a hoof at the floorboards. “Loudmouth,” she said softly.
Back at the table it was quieter and darker than before. Most were seated, but nopony was about to start anything. They could barely hear themselves think over the sound of silence —
And suddenly it came, water pouring from the heavens, a thousand chitterings of blissful raindrops over the distant roll of thunder. A few jurors jumped up to close the windows a fraction lest the water come in; they ended up soaked to the elbows, but it wasn’t an entirely unwelcome sensation.
Outside, lightning flashed; inside, the ceiling lights flickered on in response, stabilizing to a harsh white light. Though the windows were closed enough so the rain didn’t come in, there was still enough space to stick one’s forehooves out and get a solid splashing of cool rain. A number of jurors did just that, taking advantage of the impromptu break.
“Boy,” said the forepony, shaking her head idly, “would you look at that. Think it’ll cool things off?”
“Hope so,” said Eight sagely.
“You know, it reminds me of a storm we had November of . . . oh, a few years ago. I was down in Saddaloo City, just in the middle of a game.” Her eyes glazed over in memory. “We were up, just starting to make real progress with the ball. Had this foal, he must have had some bison in him. Unstoppable once he got up to speed, you know?”
“Yeah?” said Eight in that tone that prompted the other pony to go on, yet didn’t quite convey full apprehension of what was being said.
“Oh,” said the forepony, realizing her mistake. “I was coach down there at Memorial High. Went for a few years during the reconstruction, you know? Back up here now, but I miss those foals.”
“Ah,” murmured Eight. “Mmhmm.”
“So anyway, we’re moving real nice. I’m telling you, this bison! And all of a sudden it starts to come down cats and dogs, just like this. Whoosh, right down.” She sighed. “Well, it was murder. I swear, I almost bawled. Couldn’t go nowhere.”
“Mmm.”
A slight exclamation came from the wall opposite them. “Hey!” cried Seven, gesturing triumphantly to the wall-mounted fan, which had just started chugging along. “Would you look at that. Must have been on the same switch as the lights. Well, things are looking up here, wouldn’t you say.”
Nopony responded.
“Yeah,” she echoed to herself. “Looking up.”
Over by the washroom door, Four was leaning against a wall, enjoying what cool air she could. Three came over to take advantage of a paper towel to dry off her forehooves.
“Pardon me,” said Four, shifting slightly so Three could get at the small stack next to the washbasin.
“How do you like it,” asked Three, grabbing a hooffull of towels and mopping herself dry. “Even-steven. Kind of surprising, isn’t it.”
Four glanced out the window.
“Yes.”
Three crumpled the paper towels into the wastebin. “You know, that business before,” she said quietly, moving closer, “where that tall mare, what’s-her-horn, was trying to bait me, that doesn't prove anything.
“Listen, I’m a very excitable pony. So where does she get off calling me a public avenger, a sadist, everything? Anypony in her right mind would blow her stack, wouldn’t she?” She shook her head dismissively. “She was just trying to bait me.”
Four gave a curt nod. “She did an excellent job.”
As Four walked away, Three’s face again curled into a grimace. How many more betrayals could she take? One by one the other ponies were coming back to the table. How much would she have to do to convince them of what was right?
Off on one side of the table, Ten was well and truly fed up with it all.
“I’ll tell you what I think,” she declared to the room, “we’re going nowhere here. I’m ready to walk into court right now and declare a hung jury. There’s no point in this thing going on any more.”
“Yeah, I’d go for that too,” said Seven quickly. “Let’s take it in to the judge, let the colt take his chances with twelve other ponies.”
“I don’t think the court would accept a hung jury,” said Eight with a frown. “We haven’t been in here very long.”
Seven made a broad gesture. “Well let’s find out!”
“I am not in favor of that,” said Eleven.
“Listen,” said Seven, “this colt wouldn’t stand a chance with another jury and you know it. C’mon, we’re hung! Nopony’s gonna change her vote. Let’s take it inside.”
“You still don’t think there’s any room for reasonable doubt?” asked Five, leaning forward.
“No, I don’t,” she said quickly.
“Pardon,” offered Eleven, “Maybe you don’t fully understand the term ‘reasonable doubt.’”
“What do you mean, I don’t understand?” asked Seven sharply. “How’d you like this mare? I’m telling you, they’re all alike. They come to Equestria, running for their lives, and before they can even take a deep breath they’re telling us how to run the show? The arrogance of this mare!”
“You mean you’re calling her arrogant because she wasn’t born here?” asked Five pointedly. “Fine. I’m calling you arrogant because you were. How’s that?”
“Please, please,” said Eleven, though her expression had darkened considerably. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Look, sister,” said Seven, “nopony around here’s going to tell me what words I understand and what words I don’t. And it don’t matter if they were born over wherever she came from, or right here in real Equestria, or down there in the forest trenches —”
“Hey all right!” said the forepony quickly as Five tensed up. “Let’s stop arguing for about two minutes in here! Now who’s got something constructive to say?”
“I’d like to go over something,” said Eight, “if you gentlemares don’t mind. An important point for the Crown was the fact that, after the colt claimed he was at the theatre during the hours the killing took place, he couldn’t remember the name of the show he saw or the leading actors in it.” She indicated Four. “This mare has repeated that point in here several times.”
“That’s correct,” said Four, glad to meet Eight’s discussion with an argument based on logic and fact. “It was the only alibi the colt offered, and he himself couldn’t back it up with any detail at all.”
“Putting yourself in the colt’s place, do you think you could remember details of a performance that occurred after an upsetting experience such as being slapped in the face by your own mother?”
“I think so,” she said levelly. “If there were any special details to remember. He couldn’t remember the play at the theatre that night because he wasn’t there.”
“According to the police testimony in court the colt was questioned by the detectives in the kitchen of his own apartment while the body of his mother was lying on the floor of the front room of the apartment.” Eight cocked her head. “You think you could remember details under such circumstances?”
“I do.” No hesitation.
“Under great emotional stress?”
“Under great emotional stress.”
“He remembered it correctly in court, he named it, named the actors who played in it.”
“Yes,” said Four with the faintest hint of sarcasm, “his lawyer took great pains to bring that out. His lawyer had three months from the date of the murder to figure out which traveling troupe was in town and have his client memorize the show, the actors, their names, their appearances.” She shook her head slightly. “I’ll take the testimony of the policemare who interrogated him right after the murder, when he couldn’t remember a thing about the play, great emotional stress or not.”
“I’d like to ask you a personal question,” said Eight, changing tack.
“Go ahead.”
“Where were you last night?”
“I was home.”
“How about the night before that?”
“Come on,” said Ten, “what is this . . .”
“It’s perfectly all right,” said Four, quelling her with a hoof. “I went from court to my office, where I stayed until eight-thirty. Then I went home and straight to bed.”
“The night before that,” pressed Eight.
“That was . . . Tuesday night? The night of the scopa tournament. I play scopa.”
“And Monday night?”
“When you get to winter solstice of ’69 you let me know.” called Seven.
“Monday night,” prompted Eight, ignoring her.
“Monday night,” echoed Four, glancing to one side. “Monday night . . . my husband and I went to the theatre.”
“What did you see?”
“Ten Little Buffalo,” she said quickly, “a very clever who-done-it.”
“Then who did it?”
“The crooked judge,” said Four, appreciating the irony.
“Who played him?”
“Mister . . . Walt . . . Walter . . . Stable. Walter Stable.”
“Who played opposite?”
“Robert . . . ah. Robert. Robert Gilly.”
“I saw that!” cried Two. “It was Robert Goings.”
Four paused for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, Robert Goings. I think that’s right.”
“The female lead,” demanded Eight, as a single bead of sweat formed on Four’s forehead.
“It was . . . Agate . . . Agate . . . Canter . . . Canter, or something else . . .”
“Who else.”
“Well, I’d never heard of them before,” she said quietly, pressing on for the sake of getting words out there if nothing else. “It was a new troupe . . . new to town, with . . . with unknown . . . .”
She stumbled to a halt.
“And you weren’t under any emotional stress, were you,” said Eight, the words falling into place like slabs of granite.
“No,” she said quietly, reaching up a hoofkerchief to pad the single bead of sweat away. “I wasn’t.”
Eight nodded to herself and sat.
“I think the point is made,” trumpeted Nine.
“Big point,” scoffed Ten, suppressing a cough. “You can talk until your tongue is dragging on the floor, the colt is guilty, period. Know what I mean, my friend?” She cleared her throat again and glanced at Two. “Who’s got those cough drops?”
“They’re all gone, my friend,” said Two, meeting her gaze levelly.
Ten, not used to being contradicted, much less by Two, blinked twice and snorted at the whole situation.
“Look at it come down out there,” said Twelve idly, head resting on her hooves. “There goes your ball game,” she said in Seven’s direction.
“It’s always shot,” grumbled Seven. “With our sort of coverage.”
“Say,” piped up Two, perhaps emboldened by her staredown of the large Ten, “could I see that dagger a minute?”
Eight picked it up and walked it down to the pegasus. As she did, the forepony glanced at the clock.
“Well, we’re still tied up six to six. Who’s got a suggestion?”
“I have,” said Twelve, “it’s five after six; let’s get some dinner.”
“Why don’t we wait until seven?” said Five. “Give it another hour.”
“Okay with me,” shrugged Twelve.
“Ah,” said Two, rising slowly, “there’s something I’d like to say. I mean, it’s been bothering me a little, and as long as we’re stuck . . . .” Her reedy voice carried through the room, absent anything else to drown it out. “There was this whole business about the stab wound and how it was made. The angle of it, you know?”
Three shook her head at that. “Don’t tell me we’re going to start with that again. They went over and over it.”
“Well I know they did, but I don’t go along with it,” said Two. “The colt was young, and strong enough, but his mother was a full-grown mare with a full-grown mare’s muscles. It’s a very awkward thing to stab a combat dagger a full six inches into an adult pony’s chest.”
“Give me that,” commanded Three, grabbing the dagger from Two’s hoof as she rose to her feet. “I’ll demonstrate. Somepony stand up.”
With Three gripping the hilt of the dagger, nopony did — but Eight was already up, standing to one side a few paces from Two, where she had deposited the dagger in the first place. Their eyes met, and by silent agreement Three walked over.
“Okay. Now watch this. I don’t want to have to do it again.” Three placed herself directly in front of Eight, holding the dagger firmly in her right hoof. “I’m younger than you, weaker than you, but you aren’t expecting it. Right?”
“Right,” said Eight.
“Okay.”
For a moment, she said nothing. Then in one swift motion Three curled her hoof around the dagger and pulled it back, ready in an instant to plunge it deep —
“Look out!” shouted Two as half the room jumped forward in Eight’s defense. Eight herself remained silent.
“Huh,” grunted Three, holding the dagger back but not doing anything more with it. “Nopony’s hurt. Right.”
“No,” agreed Eight, more for the benefit of the others, several of whom were still standing. “Nopony’s hurt.”
With painful slowness Three inched the dagger forward, until it rested a few hairs from Eight’s chest.
“Now that’s how I’d stab a mare bigger and older than I was. Straight in, no hesitation. Wouldn’t pull my punch at all. Straight in.” She dropped the dagger into Eight’s hoof and walked off. “Now tell me I’m wrong.”
Twelve crossed over to Eight, took the dagger, and mimicked the action, stabbing straight in.
“Straight in,” she said, eyeballing the motions experimentally. “Guess there’s no doubt.”
“That’s how they taught us in the Army,” said Six with a nod. And so did Ten, for once agreeing with something.
“Straight in, pokes right through the armor.” Ten gave a grim nod. “That’s how I did it.”
“Straight in,” murmured Five, then jumped to her feet. “Wait a minute. Give me that.”
Twelve gladly handed over the dagger; Five accepted it gingerly, weighing it, feeling the blade.
“I hate these things,” she said offhoofedly. “Spares from the war? Grew up with them.” She grasped the weapon firmly now, almost familiarly. “You ever train with one of these?”
Eight shook her head.
“You?”
“No,” said Twelve.
“Anypony here ever train with a B—” she started, then caught herself. “An Everfree combat dagger?”
The table replied with vague negative mutterings.
“Well, I have,” said Five quietly. “Too many times. In the camps, in my backyard. Keeps you alive, where I’m from. Heck, they come with the land where I’m from.” She laughed. “Funny I never thought of it before. Guess you try to forget these things.”
“How do you use one of them?” prompted Eight.
“Well,” said Five, holding the dagger up so the rest could see, “it’s a double-edged dagger, but only one side’s straight. That’s your cutting edge. The other side is serrated. That’s your killing edge.
“You would never use it like this,” she said, making as to stab straight forward and pull straight back. “Doesn’t make the most of the weapon. Here’s how,” she said, stabbing forward and then pulling up and back, letting the serrations pull through the hapless imaginary target. “You saw through whatever’s in your way.”
She made the gesture again, stabbing in and then ripping the dagger back up. It took no great stretch of the imagination to think what such a motion would have done to unarmored ponyflesh. “Like that. Nopony who’s ever used an Everfree dagger would handle it any other way.”
“Are you sure?” asked Eight.
“I’m sure,” she nodded. “That’s why one blade’s serrated. Won’t work as well against armor, but the serrations’ll save your life against a wild animal. Plenty of those in the forest.”
“The colt was pretty handy with a dagger,” said Eight. “Think he would have made the kind of wound that killed his mother?”
“Nu-uh,” said Five, turning to address the rest of the jurors. “Not with the experience he had with these things. He’d have pulled up. That’s how he learned, that’s how he’d do it.”
“How do you know?” demanded Three, jerking her chin at her. “Were you in the room when his mother was killed?”
“No, and neither was anypony else,” said Five, passing the dagger back to Twelve.
“Then what are you giving us all this mumbo-jumbo for?” she cried. “I don’t believe it!”
Four also shook her head. “I don’t think you can determine what type of wound this colt might or might not have made simply because he learned to use a dagger one way instead of another.”
Twelve held the dagger, making experimental thrusts at the air.
“What do you think?” asked Eight.
She thought for a moment. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” demanded Three.
Twelve looked the dagger over one last time before sticking it back in the table where it had come from. “I just don’t know!”
Eight paced down the table and glanced at Seven, who looked particularly disgruntled. “What about you?”
“I don’t know about the rest of them,” she said with a determined air, “but I’m sick of this whole yapping back and forth already. It’s getting us nowhere. So I guess I’ll have to break it up.” She glanced at the forepony. “I change my vote to not guilty.”
It took Three a moment to process, but once the words came through they did so with a vengeance.
“You what?”
“You heard me, I . . . I’ve had enough.”
“What do you mean — you’ve had enough? That’s no answer!”
“Hey listen, you just, just take care of yourself. You know?”
“He’s right,” chimed in Eleven. “That’s not an answer. What kind of a pony are you? You have sat here and voted guilty along with everypony else because there are some tickets burning a hole in your purse? And now you have changed your vote because you say you’re sick of all the talking here?”
Seven was on her feet with a flap of the wing. “Hey, listen, sister —”
“Who tells you that you have the right to play like this with a pony’s freedom?” demanded Eleven, advancing towards her. “Don’t you care?”
“Now wait a minute! You can’t talk like that to me!”
“I can talk like that to you,” said the zebra through clenched teeth. “If you want to vote not guilty, then do it because you’re convinced the colt is not guilty, not because you’ve had enough. And if you think he is guilty, then vote that way. Or — don’t you have the guts to do what you think is right?”
“Now listen —”
“Guilty or not guilty?” demanded Eleven.
“I told you,” said Seven, affronted. “Not guilty.”
“Why?”
Seven came up short for a moment. “Look,” she blustered on, “I don’t have to —”
“But you do have to!” she said, a fury in her eyes. “Say it! Why?”
“I, uh, I don’t think he’s guilty.”
Eleven fixed her with a piercing gaze for a long, hard second. Then she turned away, disgusted. The pegasus stood, defeated.
“I want another vote,” said Eight, quietly.
“Okay, there’s another vote called for. Guess the quickest way is a show of hooves. Anypony object?” Nopony did, and the forepony droned on. “Okay, all those voting not guilty, raise your hooves.”
Two’s shot up. So did Five, Six, Eight, Nine, and Eleven’s. After a moment’s hesitation, so did Seven’s. And then, after a moment more, so did Twelve’s.
“That makes eight,” said the forepony. She stopped counting, looked around the table, and, almost embarrassed, raised her own hoof. “Nine.”
She lowered it quickly.
“All those voting guilty.”
Three, Four, and Ten.
“Nine to three, favor of not guilty,” declared the forepony.
Ten sprang up from her chair like a starter’s pistol had gone off. “I don’t understand you ponies!” she hollered. “I mean, all these picky little points you keep bringing up. They don’t mean nothing! You saw this colt just like I did. You’re not going to tell me you believe that phony story about losing the dagger and being at the theatre?”
Three nodded along, but nevertheless stood and paced over to the window.
“You know how those people lie! It’s born in them!” she crowed, fully worked up now. “I mean, by the Princess, I don’t have to tell you! They don’t know what the truth is! Now let me tell you, they don’t need any real big reason to kill somepony either! No ma’am, they proved that in the war all right.”
Five slammed a hoof on the table, bit off a sharp retort, and walked away.
“No ma’am, they get drunk. Oh, they’re real big drinkers, all of them. Forest moonshine, you know that. And bang, somepony’s lying in the trenches. Well nopony’s blaming them for it; that’s the way they are. By nature. Violent!”
Nine slowly rose to join Five in a corner, carefully keeping her head away from Ten’s invective.
“Where are you going? Equestrian life doesn’t mean as much to them as it does to us!”
On the other side of her, Eleven mirrored Nine’s motions, shuffling away.
“Look — they’re mushing it up and fighting all the time! They did it against us and when they lost they did it against themselves! If somepony gets killed, they don’t care! Oh, sure, there are some good things about them too, I’m the first one to say it. I’ve known a couple who were okay, but that’s the exception!”
Eight’s chair squeaked slightly as she pushed back and went to stand by the windows.
“Know what I mean? Most of them have no feelings; they can do anything!”
Two slipped out of her chair. Towards the other end of the table, so did Six.
“What’s going on here? I’m — I’m trying to tell you, you’re making a big mistake. This colt’s a liar. I know all about them.”
The forepony rose with a silent beat of her wings, drifting off.
“Listen to me. They’re no good. There’s not one of them who’s any good. I mean — what’s happening in here? I speak my piece, and you —”
Twelve rose, staring pointedly at one of the windows.
“We — we’re — this colt on trial, his kind. Well, don’t you know about them? Refugees, coming in. There’s a danger here . . . .”
Seven, who was balanced precariously on the edge of her chair, hopped out of it.
“These ponies are dangerous. They’re wild, just like their land. Covered in magic, dangerous. Even the plants’ll eat you. Killing to survive. They’re wild . . . absolutely wild . . . .”
Ten realized that the only pony still sitting — indeed, the only pony still at the table in any way, shape, or form — was Four.
“Listen to me,” she begged.
“I have,” said Four, her voice a whip. “Now sit down and don’t open your mouth again.”
Ten started to say something, but Four’s hawk-eyed gaze stared her down and shut her up. Slowly, she tottered away from her place at the table, settling into a corner, her back to the others, where she could do no harm to anypony.
A few ponies came back to their seats, but most remained standing, staring off into space or out a window. All did their best to ignore the hollow-eyed pony in the corner. They were above such displays. Surely they were?
Eight was the first to break the silence.
“It’s very hard to keep personal prejudice out of a thing like this,” she said, head bowed slightly. “And wherever you run into it, prejudice obscures the truth. I don’t really know what the truth is. Don’t suppose anypony will ever really know.”
Though her voice was quiet, it carried throughout the room, above the steady sound of the rain outside.
“Nine of us now seem to feel that the defendant is innocent, but we’re just gambling on probabilities. Maybe we’re wrong. Maybe we’re trying to let a guilty pony go free. I don’t know. Nopony can. But,” she said, raising her head again to glance at each of the ponies in turn, most of whom were now back in their seats, “we have a reasonable doubt. And that’s something that’s . . . very valuable in our system. No jury can declare a pony guilty unless it’s sure.
“We nine,” she said, sweeping the bulk of the table, “can’t understand how you three are still so sure. Maybe you can tell us.”
“I’ll try,” said Four curtly, eager for any opportunity to move on from the pony in the corner. “You’ve made some excellent points, but I still believe the colt is guilty of murder, and I have two reasons. One, the evidence given by the stallion across the street, who actually saw the murder committed.”
“As far as I’m concerned, that’s the most important testimony,” said Three sagely. Four focused on Eight instead.
“And two, the fact that he described the stabbing by saying he saw the colt make a single motion, in and out, plunging the blade into his mother’s chest. Not to a side. Straight in. He saw him do it — the wrong way.”
“That’s absolutely right!” affirmed Three.
Four’s lips thinned at Three’s voice, but she continued on despite her erstwhile comrade. “Now, let’s talk about this stallion for a moment. He said that he went to bed about eleven o’clock that night. His bed was next to the window, and he could look out, while lying down, and see directly into the colt’s window across the street. He tossed and turned for over an hour, unable to fall asleep.
“Finally, he turned towards the window at about ten minutes past twelve, and as he looked out he saw the killing through the windows of a passing train. He says the lights went out immediately after the killing, but he got a good look at the colt in the act of stabbing his mother.” She folded her hooves on the table in front of her. “As far as I can see, this is unshakeable testimony.”
Three gave a broad shrug. “Well that’s the whole case.”
Four raised an eyebrow. “What do you think?”
Eight remained silent. What could she say? She was thinking as hard as she could, but to no avail. She just didn’t know.
“What about you?” asked Four, glancing at Twelve. “What do you think?”
Startled, Twelve put on her glasses, using the motion to buy another precious second.
“Well — I don’t know,” she said. “So much evidence to sift. This is a pretty complicated business.”
“Frankly, I don’t see how you can vote for acquittal,” said Four firmly.
“Well, it’s not easy to arrange the evidence in order.”
“You can throw out all the other evidence!” cried Three. “The stallion saw him do it! What else do you want!”
“Well, maybe . . .” started Twelve, flustered.
“Let’s vote on it,” declared Three.
“Okay,” said the forepony, “there’s another vote called for. Anypony object?”
Twelve ran a tongue along her teeth. “All right, I’m changing my vote. He’s guilty.”
Three stood at once. “Anypony else? The vote is eight to four.”
“Why is this such a personal triumph for you?” asked Eleven gently. “This one vote.”
“Okay, I say we’re a hung jury,” said Three, a grim look on her face. “I say we take it to the judge. How about it. I want to hear arguments.” Finding no immediate takers, she jerked her chin at Eight. “You. You’re the leader of the cause. How about it?”
Eight looked up slowly, then back down, in thought.
“Let’s go over it again.”
Three hissed slightly. “We’ve been over it again!” she belted. “The mare with the notepad here is bouncing backwards and forwards like a tennis ball.”
Twelve met her eyes but kept a poker face.
“There’s no point in getting nasty,” said Four, distinctly uncomfortable with her neighbor. “Or in trying to turn this into a contest.”
With great effort, Three sat.
“Okay.”
“Maybe we can talk about setting some sort of time limit,” suggested Four.
“Yeah,” said Seven. “Once around for the dealer, huh?”
Four glanced at the wall clock, removed her glasses, and rubbed her muzzle in a supreme display of frustration. “Somepony before mentioned seven o’clock. I think that might be the point at which we begin to discuss whether we’re a hung jury or not.”
Nine stared at her. “Don’t you feel well?” asked the old mare in a curious tone.
“I feel perfectly fine,” said Four, irritated. “As I was saying, seven o’clock might be a reasonable time —”
“The reason I ask was that you were rubbing your muzzle like . . . oh,” said Nine, entirely oblivious, “I’m sorry for interrupting. But you made a gesture that reminded me of something.”
“I’m trying to settle something here. Do you mind?”
“Well I think this is important.”
Four glanced at the ceiling in resignation. “Very well.”
“Thank you,” said Nine, just a hint too eager. “I’m sure you’ll pardon me for this, but I was wondering why you were rubbing your muzzle like that.”
“Are we really doing this?” shot Seven.
“Oh come on, will you?” asked Three.
“Right now I happen to be talking to this mare sitting next to you,” said Nine, voice suddenly loud. “Now — why were you rubbing your muzzle?”
“Well if it’s any of your business,” said Four, accepting the need to mollify the old mare to get on to matters of import, “I was rubbing it because it bothers me a little.”
“Oh I’m sorry,” said Nine, and whether her tone was sincere or not was anypony’s guess. “Is it because of your eyeglasses?”
“It is,” said Four, humoring her. “Now, can we get on to something else?”
“Your eyeglasses made two deep impressions on the side of your muzzle,” pressed the old pegasus, ignoring her entirely. “I hadn’t noticed that before. That must be annoying.”
“It is very annoying.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” said Nine, flexing a spindly wing. “Pegasus eyes are pretty good. I’ve never worn glasses.”
“Listen,” said Seven, “would you come on already with the optometrist bit. We got a thing here.”
Nine glanced at her, then back to Four.
“The stallion who testified that he saw the killing,” she said, a smile on her face, “had those same marks on the sides of his muzzle.”
There was a chorus of sound as conversations broke out left and right.
“Please,” continued Nine, “just a minute and I’ll be finished. I don’t know if anypony else noticed that about him. I didn’t think about it then, but . . . I’ve been going over his face in my mind. He had those same marks. Kept rubbing them in court.”
“She’s right,” exclaimed Five. “He did do that a lot!”
“This stallion was a combat veteran of the war,” said Nine. “Past his prime, but making a tremendous effort to look back in his prime for a public appearance. Fresh crew cut on his mane. Cultivated stubble. Brand-new tailored suit that should have been worn by a younger pony. No glasses. See if you can get a mental picture of him.”
“What do you mean, no glasses?” demanded Three. “You don’t know if he was wearing glasses. Just because he was rubbing his nose . . .”
“He had those marks,” said Five. “I saw them.”
“Well, so what? What do you think that means?”
“Listen,” said Six, jumping to her feet, “I’m getting’ so sick of your yelling —”
“Come on,” said Five, holding her down with a hoof. “Calm down, okay?”
“Hey listen!” exclaimed the forepony, “I saw them too! She’s right. I was the closest one to him.” The pegasus lifted a hoof to her muzzle, which was of course devoid of marks. “He had those deep things, what do you call them . . . uh, you know . . .”
“Well what point are you making here?” exclaimed Three. “He had a fresh cut, new suit, and marks on his nose; what does that mean?”
“Could those marks have been made by anything,” queried Nine with a hoof to her mouth, “other than eyeglasses?”
The elder pegasus was grinning like an idiot but Four couldn’t in good conscience lie to her. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “They couldn’t.”
“I didn’t see any marks!”
“I did,” said Four, turning to face Three. “Strange, but I didn’t think about it before.”
“Well what about the lawyer?” cried Three. “Why didn’t he say something?”
“There are twelve ponies in here concentrating on the case,” Eight pointed out, “and eleven of us didn’t think of it either.” She clapped Nine’s shoulder with pride.
“Well okay, Clara Darhoe, what about the Crown prosecutor? You think he’d pull a trick like that? Have him testify without his glasses?”
“Did you ever see a pony who had to wear glasses but didn’t want to because it made him look old? Feeble? Less a stallion?”
“That’s my husband,” snorted Six. “I’m telling you, the moment we walk out of the house . . . .”
“Okay,” said Three, eyes almost closed in frustration, “he had marks on his nose. I’m giving you this. From glasses. Right? He didn’t want to wear them out of the house so people would see the vet wasn’t as young as he once was.” Her eyes snapped open and she stabbed a hoof forward. “But when he saw this colt kill his mother, he was in his house. Alone! That’s all.”
Eight responded by catching Four’s attention.
“Do you wear glasses when you go to bed?”
“No. I don’t,” she said, shaking her head. “Nopony wears glasses to bed.”
“It’s logical to assume that he wasn’t wearing them when he was in bed, tossing and turning when he was trying to fall asleep.”
“How do you know?” shot Three.
“I don’t know; I’m guessing! I’m also guessing that he probably didn’t put his glasses on when he casually turned to look out the window, and he testified that the killing took place just as he looked out, the lights went out a split second later, he didn’t have time to put them on.”
“Wait a second —”
“Here’s another guess — maybe he honestly thought he saw the colt kill his mother; I say he only saw a blur.”
“How do you know what he saw!” Three demanded, turning to the other ponies as if they would give her support. “How does she know all these things! You don’t know what kind of glasses he wore. Maybe he was farsighted! Maybe they were sunglasses! What do you know about it!”
“I only know the stallion’s eyesight is in question now,” said Eight, loud but resolute.
Eleven leaned forward. “He had to be able to identify a pony twenty meters away, at night, without glasses.”
“You can’t send someone off forever on evidence like that,” said Two.
“Oh, don’t give me that,” said Three dismissively.
“Don’t you think the stallion might have made a mistake?” asked Eight.
“No.”
“It’s not possible?” she asked incredulously.
“It’s not possible!”
Quick as a flash, Eight was up and at Twelve’s side.
“Is it possible?”
Twelve glanced at her and nodded.
“Not guilty.”
Eight took two more steps, towards the pony in the corner, and lightly rested a hoof on her shoulder.
“Do you think he’s guilty?”
Ten’s head wavered, then shook twice.
“I think he’s guilty,” ventured Three, but Eight walked past her.
“You?”
Slowly, Four rotated to face her, seeing eye to eye.
“No,” she said plainly. “I’m convinced. Not guilty.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I have a reasonable doubt now.”
“Eleven to one!” crowed Nine.
“Well what about all that other evidence? What about — all that stuff; the dagger? The whole business!”
“You said we could throw out all the other evidence,” Two pointed out.
Three sputtered.
“Well,” said Seven, “what do we do now?”
Eight had circled back around to her place, but she remained the only pony standing.
“You’re alone,” she said after a pause.
“I don’t care whether I’m alone or not,” said Three, surly. “It’s my right.”
“It’s your right,” agreed Eight, nodding sadly.
Three glanced from face to face. Eleven still fixed her with an intent stare. Twelve was waiting. Five was serious, Six placid, Seven frustrated.
“Well what do you want? I say he’s guilty.”
Eight let it sink in for a moment, drowned beneath the steady pouring of rain outside.
“We want to hear your arguments.”
“I gave you my arguments.”
“We’re not convinced. We want to hear them again.” Slowly, deliberately, she sat. “We have as much time as it takes.”
Three blinked furiously, glancing back and forth before fixating back on Eight.
“Everything. Every single thing that took place in that courtroom, I mean everything says he’s guilty. What do you think, I’m an idiot or something?” She rose, paced to the window, and whirled back around. “Why don’t you take that stuff about the old mare, the old mare who lived there and heard everything? Or this business about the dagger? What, ‘cause she found another one exactly like it? The old nag saw him! Right there on the stairs! What’s the difference how many seconds it was!”
She turned back to the window. It was dark now, the faint lights outside showing nothing but the rain.
“Every single thing,” she continued slowly. “The dagger falling through a hole in his saddlebag.” Then, she roared. “You can’t prove she didn’t get to the door! Sure, you can take all the time, hobble around the room, but you can’t prove it!
“And what about this business with the train? And the theatre! There’s a phony deal if I ever heard one.” She stabbed a hoof out. “I bet you five thousand bits I’d remember the play I saw. I’m telling you every thing that’s gone on has been twisted!” She waggled a hoof at Eight. “And turned!
“This business with the glasses?” Her arms were sweeping left and right now, encompassing swaths of room. “How do you know he didn’t have them on? This stallion testified in open court! And what about hearing the colt yell!
“I’m telling you I’ve got the facts here,” she thundered, ripping open her purse and rifling through it. “Here!” she said again, throwing down a notepad and a spray of other items — but along with the notepad came a photograph.
She spat, turned away. “Well that’s it; that’s the whole case.” Back at the window she rubbed her neck twice, then turned back to eleven pairs of eyes.
“Well?”
The room was silent, save for the rain.
“Say something!”
Nopony did. Three approached the table again, shaking her head and muttering under her breath.
“You lousy bunch of bleeding hearts,” she said through gritted teeth. “You’re not going to intimidate me. I’m entitled to my opinion.”
Her gaze strayed to the table, where the photograph still lay on top of the purse’s contents. It was small, it was worn, but it was recognizable: a mother and her son. Both were happy.
“Rotten colts,” she hissed, barely in control of her words much less her emotions, “you work your life out and they go off and get —”
She grabbed at the photograph, ripped it in half, then again, again, again.
“I’m the only one that sees,” she said through bleary eyes, tearing at the memory. “I can feel the dagger going in . . . .”
She ripped, she tore, until she could barely hold on, barely see clearly through the tears in her eyes. Slowly the pieces of paper fell from her hooves, and she buried her face in her elbow.
“No,” she half-sobbed. Her body shook and she collapsed into the chair.
“Not guilty,” she said, the words barely more than a ragged whisper.
“Not guilty.”