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Ultimately, it will not matter if the knife drips blood, or if John Lennon talks backward on the cassettes or if enough hairs are plucked from O.J. Simpson’s head to make him indistinguishable from Otis Sistrunk.

What will matter is the identification of a jury.

Twelve adults unaffiliated with defendant and victims, and oblivious to the case that has provided southern California with perhaps its first truly connective conversation.

Twelve adults who have not yet hit the board at full speed and jumped to a conclusion.

Twelve jurors, on this earth.

Good luck.