Madame Juror.

Chapter 9

"I believe this case" I began "starts a whole lot further back than anyone really could have imagined. In fact, it was probably pure luck that it was told at all. But then I've learned to live off luck, so I take it as it comes. The story of how a young man's life was ruined by a careless mistake."

"What's that got to do with anything?" Adelaide scoffed.

"Everything" I said coolly. "Because it was this incident, this little mistake, that led us to where we are today."

"How?" Mr. Smith asked forcefully, surprising us all with his speech. I realized that, once again, I had slipped into my usual dramatical routine, and even though now I knew, I wasn't going to stop. It was far too much fun.

"It left a deep amount of hatred brewing" I explained. "Or at least, when the parents admitted the real reason for his wheelchair to their son, it did. And one thing about pure hatred, it doesn't go away easily."

"I'll second that" Vendradaire smirked. "I've met many women on my travels..."

"Oh, do shut up!" Mr. Price snapped. I was momentarily surprised, but eventually took it in my stride.

"Guilt, too, is another emotion that's hard to get rid of" I continued. "Imagine having to watch your child-your child-suffer because of a simple mistake you made. Imagine the pain."

"This is getting us nowhere!" Abernarthy snapped.

"If I don't explain it like this, then it won't make sense later!" I retorted. "I've listened to all your ideas, it's only fair you listen to mine like a proper gentlem..."

"That's enough!" Brenkley stepped in firmly. "From both of you."

Despite feeling decidedly cheesed off, I had to admit Brenkley was doing an excellent job of keeping neutral. It was just what we needed in this situation.

"Hatred and guilt. That's all that was needed. The guilt of the parents, and the hatred of the son" I added.

"The son?" about four astounded voices chorused.

"But he was upstairs the whole time! How could he have been involved?" Abernarthy pointed out. If Brenkley hadn't been there I would have made some sort of degrading remark about Abernarthy's intelligence, but Brenkley was there, so I didn't.

"You think the son pushed his father down the stairs" Brenkley himself sighed slowly. I nodded.

"I do."

"But that's preposterous!" Adelaide spluttered.

"Is it?" I asked. "Considering what I've just told you, about hatred and guilt?"

"Well..." the man with the moustache stammered uncertainly, as, I fancied, his brain finally began to work properly.

"You can't prove any of this!" Abernarthy scoffed. "It's just as plausible as anything I've put forward!"

"It's nothing like anything you've put forward!" I snapped. " Because unlike yours I..."

"Enough!" Brenkley barked.

"Sorry" I said meekly.

There was a silence, as nobody was quite sure what to say next.

"Can anyone pick any holes in this?" I asked. "I mean, granted, I haven't finished explaining it yet, but..."

"Holes?" Abernarthy snorted. "There isn't anything to pick holes in! It's a fanciful notion!"

"Right" I breathed, trying desperately to stay calm. "Alright. Marcus Harrison waits until he knows only he and his parents will be in the house, and pushes his father down the stairs-"