Failing the Smell Test

Content Note: Story contains wrongful conviction, capital punishment, grief, set in the hour before a scheduled execution. A darkly comic character study, not a polemic.

She had been the lone hold out after they took the first vote: 11-1. The foreman, a big, beefy man named Figueroa who had left his hardware store in the hands of an incompetent nephew for the duration of the trial, looked pleased.

“This shouldn’t take us long, now, will it?” He beamed a smile out to them all, then took a handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe the line of sweat that had broken out on his upper lip. The air conditioning unit in the window couldn’t keep pace with the heat and humidity. On the drive in that morning, Vera heard on the radio the record-setting temperatures would continue through the weekend.

Sweaty Figueroa looked at each of them in turn. “It seems we’re pretty much in agreement, except for Miss—“ He stopped. He’d already forgotten Vera’s name. She still didn’t understand why the other jurors had wanted him to be foreman, but Vera knew when to pick a battle, and the election of jury foreman wasn’t it.

“Vera Cross,” she told him again.

The fat man’s face reddened slightly, possibly out of embarrassment but probably not. He was grossly overweight, and even though he had ordered a salad every day for lunch, Vera felt certain he stopped for fast food on his way home. She wondered if he might suffer a stroke during deliberations. Then maybe she would be elected to replace him. 

“Of course. Vera Cross. I’m terrible with names. Vera, why don’t you give us your reasons for voting guilty, and then maybe the rest of us can explain our positions and perhaps we can all be home in time for dinner.”

Dinner. Of course that’s what Sweaty, Fat Figueroa had on his mind. He didn’t care about justice at all.

Vera knew better than to lay out the real reasons behind her vote. She had been observing her fellow jurors all week and had decided none of them had the intellectual capacity to understand the science behind Dr. Lysandra McDowell’s research on the correlation between criminal behavior and the size of one’s nose. The data was overwhelming: 91% of prisoners in state penitentiaries had noses 65% smaller than the average nose in the general population, across all demographic groups. The accused, Corinna Brandt, had one of the smallest noses Vera had ever seen. Throughout most of the trial, Vera had been distracted by thoughts of how the woman managed to breathe through it.

No, Vera couldn’t use logic and science to convince the rest of the jury of Corinna’s guilt. There was also the chance one of them, probably the Bookworm, a juror who spent every break with her nose buried in a thick paperback, would attempt to engage Vera in debate on the issue, having read the work of Dr. McDowell’s detractors. Lord knows there were plenty of them, spreading their disinformation all over the internet, debunking the science that was as clear as—well, as clear as the nose on your face!

No, Vera would have to rely on the facts of the trial.

It had been easier than she thought it would be to convince them they were wrong and she was right. First, Corinna’s alibi was shaky. The eyesight of the sisters of the Blessed Mother of Sorrows could not be trusted, not at their age. Second, Corinna didn’t need a motive to bash Percival Haddington’s head in, and the prosecution didn’t need to prove that she had one. The judge had told them that in the instructions: “Every element of the crime must be proved beyond a reasonable doubt, but motive is not an element of the crime.” And anyone could get their hands on a rock heavy enough to do the deed. Vera’s own garden had wheelbarrows full of them. They were the reason why she had only ever been able to grow noxious weeds there. 

She could see their change of opinion in the expressions on their faces. First, they had frowned at her, their jaws set hard against her stubbornness. Then, as she spoke, the tension in their facial muscles released, their eyebrows raised, and their mouths relaxed. When they started nodding with each word she spoke, she knew she had won, and when Sweaty Figueroa took another vote, it came back 12-0. 

Guilty.

“And plenty of time for dinner!” Sweaty Figueroa said as they walked back into the courtroom to give their verdict.

Upon hearing the words, “Guilty on all counts,” Corinna Brandt had thrown herself across the defense table and began weeping. Vera had to cover her mouth with a hand to hide the smirk she couldn’t stop from spreading there. She didn’t want any of the reporters in the courtroom to catch her less than decorous reaction. The trial had been sensationalized in the press, and more than one juror expected to be a guest on the morning news shows.

“Why?” Corinna cried out, sobbing and banging her fists on the table. “Why?”

Because of your nose, Vera thought, but did not say out loud.

* * *

Vera had bought a new pair of shoes for the execution. They were tight, and she could feel the beginnings of a blister at her heel, but they made her legs look too good not to wear them. She had been sent a special invitation from the Governor to attend the event, as he credited the Brandt conviction as vindication of his law and order policies and the reason for his re-election last fall. Vera had even joined him at several campaign events, after she attained a bit of celebrity in the wake of the trial, as she made the rounds on the morning television shows. She had even been invited to audition for a spot on the local news, as a special correspondent on law and crime, but the segment had been shelved due to budget constraints.

She took a seat in the back of the gallery, an inconspicuous spot where she could remove her shoes for a moment and give her feet some relief. She waved to two reporters she recognized sitting at the front. They would no doubt want a quote from her once this was all over. The Governor was there, with his aides, but they left after a few moments, pleading urgent state business. Then the relatives were ushered in: the Haddington family, at least a dozen of them, and then Corinna Brandt’s mother, who took the only seat remaining, in the back, next to Vera.

Mrs. Brandt didn’t recognize her, and, at first, Vera found herself oddly offended by not being acknowledged. Then she laughed to herself, figuring she should be relieved that Corinna’s mother didn’t realize she sat next to the person most responsible for bringing her daughter to justice.

Vera placed a hand on the old woman’s arm. “This is a terrible tragedy for everyone,” she said.

The woman looked over, an expression of surprise on her face, as though she had not expected anyone to be sitting next to her.

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Such a lovely girl,” Vera said, and meant it. Corinna Brandt was beautiful, even with her minuscule nose. No wonder Percival Haddington had fallen victim to her charms.

“Yes, she never thought so, though.” The woman’s eyes swelled with tears. “Always changing her hair, fixing her makeup, buying new clothes. I could never make her realize she was perfect as she was. Thought her nose was too big, too. And it was big, bigger than most, I’ll grant you that, but she didn’t need to get that nose job.”