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Juror #5 had listened to the court proceedings earnestly and gravely. He felt incredibly lucky, but at the same time fragile, because of the unshakable thought that, had a few choice details been switched, that man in the accused's dock could have been him.
And then they were left to consider their verdict, in a room of strangers, who knew not who each other were. Juror #5 remembered thinking that that could have been a good thing. Anonymity. He could have been anyone.
And they had talked. There was some evidence, proper evidence, to discuss, but most of the talk was assertions. That kids growing up in slums lied all the time, they were criminals, they all grew up violent. That the kid could have killed his father just like that, because of where and how he lived. With each statement, Juror #5 felt an angry tightness growing in his chest, building up until he felt as though he must choke. And so he told them.
"I've lived in a slum all my life…"
Of course, as he had expected, most of them did not look at him the same way after that. He became inferior, suddenly different from them. He began to be seen as an individual, separate from the group, unreliable, alien. He could read in their eyes the accusation -- that kid is a murderer. That kid is like you.
But there had been that one man, that Juror #8, who had seen the accused as a human, as worthy as anyone else, despite his upbringing and background. And that, in the end, was enough; for the jury, but also for the soul of Juror #5.