The air in Department 307 of the Santa Barbara County courthouse was thick, recycled, and utterly still. It smelled of old wood polish, wool suits warmed by nervous bodies, and the faint, sharp scent of ink from the reporters' notebooks. Every rustle of paper was a thunderclap. The jury foreman, a middle-aged man with a deliberate manner, stood. He held the verdict forms. His voice was a flat, dry monotone, each word a stone dropped into a silent pool.
'Count one: Not guilty.'
A muffled gasp, quickly swallowed. Michael Jackson, in a pale suit, did not move. His parents behind him. His lead attorney, Thomas Mesereau Jr., placed a steadying hand on his client's shoulder, a gesture of both restraint and support.
'Count two: Not guilty.'
The monotony of the acquittals became a rhythm. Charge after charge, ten in total, all met with the same two syllables. With each one, the tension in the room didn't break, but rather, it transformed. The prosecutorial fortress of the last four months was being dismantled, brick by brick, with a calm voice. Jackson dabbed at his eyes with a tissue. There was no celebration, only a profound, trembling exhaustion.
When the last 'not guilty' was read, the judge thanked the jury. The formalities continued for a few more minutes, a bizarre normalcy imposed upon the seismic shift. Only when the jury was dismissed and the judge left the bench did the room erupt. Jackson turned and fell into a long, weeping embrace with his mother. The sound was now of sobs, of chairs scraping, of camera shutters firing like frantic crickets. The law had spoken in a quiet room, and a global icon, for that moment, was just a man, weeping with relief on his mother's shoulder.