Owning His Truth is Justice Enough for Mr. T

Here's to all of us who believed in Johnny Depp. x

Hands clasped in chains behind his back, the bobby was roughly pushing him to the dimly lit passage leading to the court room. Birdcage Walk, they called it. And with the shadow casted by the iron lattice roof, he understood why they named it as such.

It was not the first time he threaded this path. More than 15 years ago, he was manhandled as roughly while he was scared trembling, his head bowed down to hide his crying. This time, however, his chest was puffed out and his head held high. He had his revenge after all.

The court was full to the brim as he expected. It was more like a circus than a place of any importance. Many me—and women included—regardless of class, have made sure to bring their arses there to gawk on the murderer of the horrible Judge Turpin.

He had failed to consider one thing in his revenge plan. While he stood over Turpin, high in bliss with his revenge, bloodied razor in his hand, spatting "Benjamin Barker" over again while Turpin gargled his last breaths, the bobbies forced his door and caught him red handed. He was too lost on relishing his vengeance, he had missed the chance to send Turpin down the chute to Mrs. Lovett waiting in the bakehouse.

They dragged him out his barbershop into the street, beating him out of his wits, with the very intention to kill. Only Mrs. Lovett's piercing scream that woke up the whole of Fleet Street spared him. It was only because of Mrs. Lovett that his bruised body was delivered to the Old Bailey alive. Remembering her, he craned his neck to the gallery hoping to get a glimpse of her. It did not take long for him to spot her. She was there up front, dead center—of course—with little Toby by her side. Her face was void of emotion, saved for the almost imperceptible down pull in the corners of her mouth. He could not pull his eyes from her but look away he must lest there were people scrutinizing.

The second night after he was dumped in a rotten cell in the Old Bailey, she was there, triumphant in hoodwinking the prison guards. Though he could not see her on the other side of his bolted door, in his mind, he could see her eyes bloodshot with tears. But the strong woman that she was, he was hoping that she was dropping no tears.

"I can't go to the sea without you, Mr. T." She whispered as if she too was facing the end of her life, and maybe she was.

It was all she had raved about, dreaming of a life by the sea with him and the boy. Her heart was so set on it, she trapped him into promising he would go with her. And he figured he really would, had he not been arrested. He was grateful though that she was spared from this misfortune. Maybe it was ordained by the stars that the bobbies came in at the right time. Had they witnessed him sending the corpse down to her in the bake house, surely, they would both be dead by now. At least, he had not managed to bring her to hell with him. At least, she could still go to the sea.

"You must go, Mrs. Lovett..." He meant both out of the Old Bailey and to the sea. To silence her incoming protests, he added after swallowing the bile in his throat, "I'm...sorry...I broke my promise."

He heard her sniffing for a while until she mustered a cheerful voice. "Oh no, you don't, Mr. T. We'll get there."

Then he heard her sang her favorite ditty until she was whisked away but the prison guards.

"By the sea

Don't you love the weather?

By the sea

We'll grow old together

By the seaside, whoa-oh

By the beautiful sea"

The guard unceremoniously pushed him to the stand, but he did not sway. He stood there looking proud as Turpin's replacement judge—Cook they called him—sneered at him, baring his pointed teeth. He would bet his good penny to Mrs. Lovett that the grisly judge was bald too underneath that curly wig.