It was a long walk down the aisle to the plaintiff's chair; longer than it seemed when I was standing in the far back of the doorway. The room is red mahogany in color with no windows, and dark tiled floor. It isn't obnoxiously large in size but it isn't cramped either. It has enough space to seat all pertinent parties and support groups without overcrowding. About two hundred and fifty seats would be my guess.
It almost seems intimidating.
To the right is reserved for myself, the plaintiff, and the opposing counsel, Silver. A few feet over is the jury box filled with exactly two carpeted rows and twelve padded chairs. The left side is where Frank is sitting with his many armed guards. In the center of the room is a small fold-out table covered with items that have been bagged, marked, and labeled as evidence for the trial. Front and center is the rasied, wraparound desk that belongs to the judge. The judge's box is large and looks as though it's perched out over the courtroom, silent and watchful. It has lion carvings lining the edges that look fierce and protective of the one who sits inside their sanctuary.
A golden plaque, with intricate cursive hangs in the middle section of the judge's desk. It reads, "Justice has nothing to do with what goes on inside the courtroom; Justice is what comes out of a courtroom" -Clarence Darrow. I can only hope that justice is present when we leave.
All in all, not bad, I think. Under better circumstances, I might even say the courtroom is beautiful.
In this moment, with the stale court room air brushing against my cheeks like sand paper and the cold, isolating silence, I feel like a prisoner taking her last walk to an execution. Frank is watching every step I take, smiling at me as though he were the wolf and I the prey to be devoured. I could see it in his facial expressions that he was relishing my conflicting emotions and hidden desires to flee. I smile, nod in his direction, and then stride with my head held high to the seat next to Silver.
Aunt Mae and Ted sit on the benches directly behind. I turn my chair and angle my body in Silver's direction. "Silver, why is he here so early? I thought they were going to bring him in last." I whisper.
Silver puts his hands on mine and leans in close. His cologne smells like maple and sawdust; subtle yet distinct. Raw and masculine. Have I smelled this cologne before? From the far corners of my subconscious, a memory peaks it's head and begins to tug. I try to focus on it but the familiarity is foggy and unplaced so I push it aside and listen to the low timber of Silver's voice.
"They wanted to bring him in before the press arrived. The mayor said he couldn't risk Franklin giving a quote to the media and creating more of a panic." He replied.
The double doors in the back creaked open with a loud echo before I could say anything else. In walks a woman with her husband and two teenage boys that could easily pass as fraternal twins. Step for step they marched with determination to the pew behind us and take their seats behind Aunt Mae and Ted.
The woman was short and frail but she sat with her back straight and her hands clasped tightly over her husbands. Her features are pained and her skin is aged by lines of apparent grief and sleepless nights. I looked back at the woman to give her a reassuring smile and found myself falling into the darkness of her glassy stare. Oh God, the pain is unbearable. I can feel her loss surrounding me, choking me with it's desperation and pleas of justice. There is a golden locket clinging to her bony chest that has the initials PB engraved on the front and surrounded by roses. Who had been taken from her? A daughter perhaps? A loving niece?
To the right sat her husband, tall and rigid, too proud to slump in defeat. Despite the grey that's curling at his temples and the wrinkles under his eyes, I can still see the shadow of the man he once was, determined and willful, ready for the mission ahead. The couple couldn't be older than their late 40's but death had taken it's toll and stolen time from their family. Even the teen boys sit somber and resigned with their eyes glazed over and downcast.
YOU ARE READING
Wild Thing
Mystery / ThrillerLily Calvinson grew up on a compound that would later be described as "the cult of the century." Followers were taught obedience, that God was their enemy, and any interaction or affiliation with churches, Bibles, or Christians could be punishable b...
