This was one of those old black-and-white films I saw as a kid. I think the lasting impression was that a. it involved a murder, b. there was some guy with a name like Fondy? Fondue? in there that was famous or something, c. it's in the city. I live near the city. Now that I've actually read the teledrama it was based off, I can appreciate the details Rose put into the story more. 
 The background is that there's a jury of twelve men judging a case where an inner-city slums kid is accused of murder. The victim? His father. Well, he wasn't a beacon of a gentleman either, but murder is murder and unless the jury can settle it otherwise, the kid is going to the electric chair. And that's the thing. All of them think the kid is guilty - except Juror #8. He has his doubts, but he doesn't want to send an innocent man to his death. 
 This is the type of writing that I read partially to dissect the writing style. It's clear and concise. The dialogue doesn't give you more than what is needed, though we do get details that form ideas of the jurors and their backgrounds - the advertising executive who comes up with snappy slogans, the impatient guy who has tickets to that night's ballgame and wants it over as soon as possible, regardless of whose life is at stake. 
 Is the final verdict really the right one? Who can say? But Rose makes sure that by the time you finish the book, you have a new appreciation for jury duty. At least, I did.