Court

The Court Room

The walls are brown. The clock won't stop tick- tick- tick- ticking.

Tall people dressed in business suits are passing by. I can feel my bones shaking. I want to get out of here.

"Will the victim please come up to the witness stand?" The judge's voice pulls me away from my thoughts. I stand up. I try not to make eye contact with him because I know I'll fall into a ball of tears if we even make the slightest of connection. I keep my head down and mentally remind myself of how walking works. One foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other. Ten centuries pass by, and I finally make it to the stand.

"What is your name?" The judge asks with a stern look expressed across her face.

I shake. I shake as much as a spaghetti noodle does when my mom tries pouring them out of the box when she makes dinner.

"Joleena." My voice cracks and I look up at my mother who's across the room with water filling her eyes. She nods. I don't look away. She looks so weak and frail. She's sitting there alone without any support, while he has a lawyer of his own. How is that fair?

"Joleena? Did you hear that?"

Hear what? I stutter. "C-can you repeat what you said please?"

"What were you wearing? The night of the incident. How would you describe your attire?"

What the fuck does that have to do with anything?

"I was wearing pajamas."

The judge looks at me and her shoulders fall, but I can tell she's getting irritated.

"What do you consider pajamas?" She asks again.

I close my eyes and breathe. I try to stop myself from going off, but I really don't understand why it matters what clothes I was wearing! I pull the old, but shiny chair up closer so that I can reach the microphone without stretching my entire body.

"Pajama shorts and a t-shirt." My eyes fill with water and my lip quivers as I push those words out of me. I glance at my mom again and she's crying even harder.

"Your honor, I have a couple questions I would like to ask." His lawyer stands up and walks in front of the nicely polished grey tables.

"Go ahead."

I look at the lawyer, attempting not to make eye contact with him again, but I fail. I fall into the trap of tortuous eye contact with him and once that first tear breaks free, I begin to sob. A security guard hands me some tissues.

"Joleena, is it?" His lawyer asks. She stands there with her shoulders slumped over, and her orange notebook filled with notes.

"I understand you live with your mom. Is that correct?"

My eyes continue to pour out more tears than a waterfall. I grasp the tissues with my hands to brace myself, look over at the security guard next to me, and speak into the microphone.

"Yes. I live with my mom and my two sisters."

"Is that everyone who lives with you?" She asks.

"Yes."

Her eyebrows raise and she begins to stumble. She looks back at him, and my eyes follow. He takes a deep breath and scrambles through his notes as if he's trying to find evidence for something.

"It says here," she points to her notes, "that your mom previously had a significant other and his son staying with you. His name is Timothy and the son's name is Albert."