It’s Monday in Morrison County, and that means the courthouse is open for… business? No, justice. The jurors are about to exonerate the defendant when Stevens appears at the door. He isn’t on the roster. He’s not even an American citizen. “Who are you?” asks the head juror, Peter-Paul. Stevens blows a cloud of smoke into his face. “The solution.”
Stevens strolls into the room, and each juror moves to give up their seat. Stevens opts to sit on the center of the jury table instead. “What are we deciding on today?” he asks, gesturing to the junior-most juror to get him two steaks and a bottle of jack. He’d been sober for 16 years, but if there’s any shot of solving this case, he’s gonna need a little help from ol’ faithful.
“Pass the evidence here, son,” Stevens grunts at Peter-Paul, who is 20 years his senior. After Peter–Paul hands him the evidence papers, Stevens lets out a rye chuckle. He stares at the bundle momentarily, then lights it on fire. He wasn’t going to waste his time reading a silly little packet.
“Guilty.” Stevens takes a swig of the jack, smiling sadly. The defendant was clearly innocent, but Stevens was just too good. He didn’t want to convict. But he had to. That’s the thing with justice. Either you play the game, or the game plays you. And Stevens knew this fact all too well.
After the jury officially declares five-year-old Carly Phillips guilty of an upgraded first-degree-murder charge, the judge pulls Stevens aside. He tells Stevens about Carly’s big dreams and her even bigger heart. The judge begs—pleads—for Carly’s life. Stevens simply pats the judge on the head, and without a word, strolls out of the courthouse.
Carly got the electric chair three days later.