"HAH!"
Juror Number Seven, the salesman in the Philadelphia Eagles baseball cap, slammed his pen down on the table.
The pen bounced a few times on the hardwood surface before rolling onto the floor.
"Are you kidding me?"
Juror Number Seven's eyes were wide as he glared around at everyone.
"The Eagles have a home game at eight tonight! I bought tickets! The best seats!"
He pointed at the watch on his wrist, his voice edged with anxiety.
"What is there to discuss with this case? It's crystal clear on the security footage. Do we really need to be wasting our time here?"
"Who voted that way?"
Juror Number Ten, the old man who owned a repair shop, wiped his nose with a handkerchief that smelled of motor oil and let out a loud sneer.
"Alright, no need to guess. It must have been some bleeding heart who thinks that murderer looks like his own good-for-nothing son."
