A Jury of One

Chapter 1

Darkness. Considered to be spooky and mysterious, many things happen in the dark. Murder, robbery, assault, you name it, it probably happened under the cover of darkness. That's why people are afraid of the dark. The unknown. They cannot see their fears, cannot make sense of all the noises they hear. They don't know what just went bump in the night. It could be a murderer, coming to kill your whole family, or it could just be your father walking to the bathroom in the middle of the night. But as long as you are unsure of what is in the dark, we fear it.

John had never subscribed to those fears. He felt that it was stupid to let your mind play tricks on you, to let fear dominate your life when it was just a simple explanation to the noises you heard. John walked confidently out of his second floor apartment and down the creaky old stairs. Someone really should get these fixed, he mused as he trod down every step carefully. With these halfway-rotted stairs, who knew when they would finally break and send someone tumbling down into the basement? That was something tangible to be afraid of. Not any of these things that are a figment of an overactive imagination. John opened the door into the cool night and breathed in the fresh, crisp air. He actually enjoyed the nighttime. Nobody is out and about, and he could just be alone with his thoughts. Besides, he still hadn't found Anna.

She would have to pay dearly for even daring to run away from him. Anger clouded John's vision as he strode towards his car. He didn't hear the rustling of the leaves. He couldn't register the footsteps behind him. And so, when John found himself in a tight grip and a knife to his throat, he was surprised. The knife blade hovered inches away from his neck, but he knew that whomever his assailant was, they wouldn't hesitate to use it. "You are going to go back inside your apartment building. You are going to unlock the door to your apartment. You are not going to do anything funny or else..."

A deep voice rumbled the unspoken threat. John was pretty sure he knew what would happen if he didn't comply, and all of the scenarios ended with him dead on the pavement, blood pooling around his body. "What do you want from me?" He pleaded. "You can have my wallet, anything you want. Go take anything you want from my apartment. The keys are in my pocket. Please, sir, I'll give anything." But the figure behind him remained silent. The two men marched towards the back door. All the while John was absolutely terrified. All his life he had thought he would be in control. And he had been in control, over his parents, over every girlfriend he ever had, over friends and business partners. But now, he was the one being pushed around, doing the bidding of an unknown person. And that terrified John.

"Open the door." The deep voice rumbled ominously, like a gathering storm. John slowly pulled his keys from his pocket. His hands were trembling as they inserted the key into the lock. They continued to shake uncontrollably as he opened the door. The masked man pushed him through the door and shut it behind him, all the while maintaining the cold blade at John's throat. "Now you are going to go up the stairs, and you are not going to make any noise. You will unlock the door. You will go inside, all silently. You make a noise, and you're dead. Understood?" John gulped and nodded.

The two made their way up the same old, creaky stairs that John had just come down. John found himself wishing that the old, rotting wood would just give way and take his attacker into the abyss. But lo and behold, John discovered that they were on the second floor landing and in one piece. He felt his heart racing as he unlocked yet another door for the assailant. The man marched him inside and gently closed the door with a large boot. That was the part that scared him the most. The man was calm and collected, not missing a beat. He seemed to have made the perfect plan. None of the neighbors were home.  The McCarthy's upstairs were out partying and likely wouldn't be back home until 3 AM. And Mr. Morehouse, downstairs, was out of town visiting family. Nobody would hear him scream.

The man shoved John into a chair and secured him with duct tape. "What do you want, sir? I'll give you any of my belongings. What do you want?" John asked the large man towering in front of him. The man said nothing, just snapped on some gloves. "Please, sir," John whined. The man was oblivious as he approached John steadily with the large, gleaming knife in his hand. He was inches away from John when he spoke.

"You, John Wainwright, are being put on trial for your abuse of Anna O'Brien. Have you anything to say for yourself?" John was rooted to the spot in fear. But this didn't deter the man. "Have you anything to say for yourself?" The man asked again, examining the blade of his knife. John looked on in fear. He had never felt a fear so paralyzing, so complete as this. He found his body shaking under the restraints.

"Well, I see this man doesn't know the charges against him. Shall we read the charges?" He said this while looking directly at John, a piercing gaze under a dark mask. John gulped and nodded reluctantly. The man, dressed in all black, pulled a folder from his pocket with precision. The folder snapped open and the man slid his finger down the page. "Rape. Rape. Brutal beating. Torture. Psychological torment. Rape. The list goes on." John thought that maybe if he denied the allegations he might live.

"That is absolutely absurd! I have done none of those things," John said, his voice strong.

"And your plea is not guilty, I see?"

"Yes, of course."

The man paced the room, heavy footfalls resonating around John. He stopped somewhere behind the chair. "So, you are telling me that today you didn't find Anna packing her bags to leave you?" John started to tremble harder and his heart felt as if it would beat out of his chest. He didn't respond. "And you didn't find her and beat her, telling her that she was worthless?"John felt the man trail his knife across his throat gently, the cool metal pressed against his warm skin. "And you didn't rape her brutally and then lock her in her room?" The man's voice, which had started out calm, turned into unbridled anger. He slashed his knife across John's bicep, drawing blood and making him whimper.

"Mr. Wainwright, are you denying these charges even throughout all the evidence against you?" The man's anger was apparent as he showed John many pictures of Anna, after she had been abused. He was showing him hospital records, and every documented thing that John had done to her. A tear slid down John's cheek, but then he steeled his resolve. "That was not me," John defiantly said in a barely trembling voice.

The man slashed into John's other forearm, causing John to cry out in pain. "You monster!" The man's eyes burned with fury. "Did you enjoy it? Did you get a rush from controlling her? Did you love it when you took her and brutally raped her until she was bleeding and pleading for help? Did you feel in control when you shoved her down the stairs? Did you?" John shook as the tears poured down his face. He had seen his wrong ways, but he couldn't bring himself to admit it. He couldn't bring himself to face all the horrible things he had done.

Suddenly calm, the man now speaks again. "The jury will now deliberate." He calmly paced around the room, silver blade dripping with John's blood. John shook under his restraints. He knew that the man would only come out with one verdict. There would be no way out. "I'm sorry," John cries out in a feeble attempt to change the man's mind.

"Sorry doesn't change the guilty verdict," the man said, slowly turning around. He quickly slid his blade across John's throat. The blood began to pour out of the large wound, drenching John. John tried to cry out but his blood was choking him. He couldn't speak. John felt his life pouring out of him and slipping slowly away. He tried in vain to struggle against his restraints, but the tape was too strong and his body too weak. His wide eyes saw the man doing something peculiar. He walked over to John, touched him, then walked over to the wall. John's barely functioning body puzzled over this odd man. Before his eyes closed, he saw the man had written something on the wall in a peculiar red ink. The Jury Has Reached a Verdict. And indeed he had.