No.

"No, no, no! You aren't listening to the facts."

"Yes, he's quite right, the fact is that this gentleman is guilty. Plain and simple…"

"We know it's hard for your type to accept such heinousness, but..."

"Yes, who on God's green earth put a woman on a jury to begin with?"

In another life, Elizabeth would have winced at that last comment. Though, her current life had been filled with them-- men who talk loudly and overlap one another with their wagging tongues-- she felt sure that the eleven incredibly diverse specimens of the male species—well, as diverse as a room full of old white men can be, that is to say, very little—which stood around her barking out their opinions would not halt until she gave them what they wanted.

Elizabeth was incredibly used to giving men what they want. She thought to herself that she may as well give in this time, too. The men were not likely to hear her arguments or even shut up long enough to acknowledge them. She could “change her mind,” as she’d so often done in the past during arguments with her father or her husband. She knew that she could just agree with the men now and be home in time for supper.

Thoughts of the young man in question flooded her mind. She saw him sitting, quivering, behind the stand, unable to look at the lawyers or jury—probably for the fear of being labeled too bold for a black boy. Elizabeth had heard the evidence against him. It was purely circumstantial, and she felt sure that if young Arthur had been a white boy of the same age of 14 his innocence would not be in question.

“Miss,” one of the more tolerable men who swarmed about the room appealed to her now, “we would all like to get home for supper just as much as you—”

“Yes, and I’m sure you’ve got some cooking to do for your husband as well.”

The tolerable one spoke again, “The punishment for stealing isn’t too bad in Alabama. If you would just… agree.”

But the boy wasn’t just accused of stealing. That was why he was on trial, yes, but Elizabeth knew there had been a much darker reason for his arrest. Judge Taymour’s wife had been sneaking the boy an apple every Sunday so that he would have food in his belly before church—Elizabeth had witnessed it herself. The boy never stole a thing other than that woman’s affection, and Taymour couldn’t stand a little black boy so close to his wife.

“Miss,” he didn’t know she was married, “all you need to do is say yes. Just a simple yes will do.”

The room filled with silence, drained, for once, of the constant buzzing of men’s mighty voices, and the air was thick with, well, with whatever possessed men to be quiet. They all stood on their toes, staring like predators at the place where poor Elizabeth sat.

“No,” she said.

A loud grumble rolled about the room, and just like that, the buzzing was back. Some threw their meaty arms up impatiently, some plopped into chairs defeatedly, others paced about the room.

Elizabeth allowed the them to accept her answer, wondering if the men would ever accept being told no, and then she spoke,

“I am going to speak now, do you all understand?” Her words broke through the buzzing and hissing of others’ voices, and, perhaps shocked to hear a woman speak with such authority, the men fell silent. She went on, “I have quietly listened to all of you slander a poor, defenseless boy for hours now. Not one of you has mentioned the word ‘evidence’ let alone spoken about Taymour’s relation to the child.”

“Relation, dear?”

Elizabeth looked the man straight in the eyes and replied, “Arthur never committed any crime other than accepting a gift from Harold Taymour’s wife.”

“That is a serious accusation you’re tip-toeing around there, dear.”

Elizabeth snapped back, “No more serious than locking up a 14-year-old boy over an apple, I assure you.” She went on, “I’ve seen with my own eyes Mrs. Taymour handing the boy his Sunday apple and kissing him on the cheek, as a matter—”

“You’ve seen? Woman, may I remind you that a jury is to be completely dethatched from the defendant and free from all partiality toward him. How do you reckon you’ll be able to see through your obvious feelings about the boy and make a fair decision?”

Elizabeth smiled the same smile she always gave her husband when he was being an ass and said, “Well, I ‘reckon’ the same way you pretend your own fear of black skin isn’t what makes the ‘boy’ guilty, Sir.”

The room fell silent again, a different kind of silence from before. The man’s face grew red, either form anger or embarrassment, and Elizabeth stood, now in the middle of eleven men who may never let go of their grandfathers’ ways and said,

“Arthur is alone in this court—one black boy in a sea of white men telling him he’s guilty of accepting kindness from a stranger. Think for one second. Other than the boy on the stand, how many black people were in that courtroom?”

“None.”

“That’s right,” she said, “None. Not even Arthurs own parents showed up to the trial to support him because they knew what might happen to them if they went around offending white men.”

“That’s preposterous. The boy’s only 14. His parents are legally obligated to be in the room when—”

“When little black boys go to prison for touching a white woman’s heart, legality is no longer the issue.”

Elizabeth nodded in agreement.