2011
By Rachel Mead
I’m
innocent.
I twirl a long blonde strand of hair; my hair. Sitting in
the wooded court room has got me in a complete mood. Everything is so dark and
gloomy, like the witch trials or something. Not to mention, nothing matches.
The dark wood walls don’t match the lighter floors which don’t match the even
lighter pine tables. The government can’t even match right.
My lawyer sits next to me listening to witness after
witness, asking some questions and then scribbling illegible notes with some
fancy expensive pen.
I am not allowed
to speak.
I wish I could rip this ugly plaid skirt off. It’s long
and itchy; reminds me of my grandma. Her disgustingly long farm skirts with
plaid designs were always worn with some dirty white button down dress shirt.
She always smelt of rum and weed. I never saw her with any…maybe it was some
special old lady perfume. Badass Perfume for the Old Lady. I can see Grandma
buying that.
The only
difference between me and Grandma right now is the brown blazer I have on over
my white blouse. I look all too professional for a sixteen year old. I want my
ripped jeans and tight tee shirt back. My hair, which I usually let loose and
flow down my back, is now tied back into a braid. It’s too tight and there are
random hairs sticking out, driving me nuts. I pull at the strands in anger.
I’m innocent.
The attorney sighs and quickly writes something on his
jumbo sized legal pad and pushes it in my direction.
Act a little more calm and collected and please pay
attention.
Have I not done enough for this guy
already? I’m wearing this outfit like he wanted. My hair is how he said to do
it. I’m not talking. I’ve told him every single thing that happened to me and
haven’t I placed complete trust in him? I mean, this guy that I didn’t even ask
for is now my only get out of jail free card.
Plus, two days ago I put my hand on the Bible and swore
to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth for this guy. Then he made me
lie, full on blatant lying, to the entire court. I’m going to hell for this
dude, for sure. The least he can do is give me a tiny break.
I’m innocent.
Supposedly it’s
all a part of his plan. His entire master strategy is to get me off of all
charges. But even I have little faith in that. His first real intense criminal
case and he really doesn’t know the ins and outs of a defense attorney…even I
can see that. I could do better than him. But I guess that’s what you get when
the government tries to help you out.
My lawyer was only sure of one thing: deny every single
accusation. Plead not guilty and preach from the witness stand. Spew what a
good girl I am and maybe the jury will buy it. So, two days ago when I sat up
there, with the judge on my right hand side, looking down at me, I pleaded for
my life and innocence.
Everyone lately feels the need to bring up things from my
past, which clearly never happened to begin with. Like, that time at seven
years old when I didn’t scorch the tail of my Uncle’s cat. Or those few times
that Bobby Flay wouldn’t kiss me in middle school so I didn’t push him down the
stairs several times. Oh and I most definitely had to explain how I did not
stab my mother’s boyfriend to death with a large kitchen knife.
That never happened.
I’m innocent.
You know what
else never happened? Him crawling into my bed while I was sleeping.
“Suck it Sweetheart. I won’t bite.”
Except he did. He bit my shoulder when I tried to get
away. He tore at my clothes as I cried and begged no no no. He scratched my
thighs and made bruises on my back. He pushed and pushed me until I screamed
out in pain.
And when he was all done he passed out on top of me in
bed.
I’m innocent.
So no, I did not
push drunken Jeff’s sweaty body off of me at 12:36 am. I never ran to the
bathroom and scrubbed every inch of my body with scorching hot water as the
blood oozed and dripped from holes all over my body. After showering, I never
went to the kitchen and threw open a drawer of silverware. I don’t ever recall
taking a large butcher knife and sprinting into my bed room.
I guess Jeff was still sleeping there, because then
someone took a knife to his dick and chopped that sucker off. Then that person
must have stabbed him repeatedly until he turned into a battered and bloody
animal. I imagine rivers of blood appeared from his body as the knife made
contact with his fat and lumpy surface. His eyes were large with the coming of
death. A glint of surprise and treachery seeped through. His mouth wide open.
But it wasn’t me.
I’m innocent.
That’s all my
lawyer ever told me. “I don’t care what you did. You’re innocent all right? You
just keep telling yourself that.”
But when your mother takes the stand against your
defense, it’s actually hard. She got up there, saying how I was jealous of her “relationship”.
How I was in love with Jeff and wanted romance with him rather than just as a
father figure. That she’s found me attacking him before as he denied me the sex
I oh so wanted.
The jurors keep looking at me as if I’m some freak to be
pitied. A sad lonely girl who had too much anger and pain. So Jeff had an
alcohol problem, does that mean he deserved to die? I guess not for them.
Because the jury never heard how I was brutally raped by some
fifty year old loser. To admit that would be admitting my guilt. Besides there
is no longer proof anyway. I washed it all down the drain.
I’m innocent.
So
Troubled-Killer-Psycho-Teenage-Girl I’ve become to these people. As they listen
to my attorney give a closing statement, I doubt their opinions are changing
much. Surely this wanna be hot shot public defender knows there’s no chance of
getting me off.
My mother sits behind the prosecution. Her face is stern
and serious. Her blood red lipstick lips are pursed together. As an honest to
God hard working stripper, those lips have been places I can’t even stand
thinking about.
It’s not like my mother would ever tell the court the
truth. She is determined to make sure I’m blamed while she gets off the hook.
Hard working Mom was sure to avoid any admittance that she used to charge Jeff
and a number of other men for the warmth of my body and the comfort of a bed.
Then, in some way, she would be found guilty and this could all fall on her
shoulders.
I’m innocent.
So now she’s
eyeing the prosecutor all appraising-like as he preaches his success of proving
me guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. But he really has no freaking clue. For
his role in this, I’m sure he’ll go to hell too.
I wonder what they’ll give me? Death penalty is
definitely off the table. That leaves a number of years in prison or life in
prison swimming around as options. Life? Will I really be living in a cell
until I die? Will I become one of those old tattooed lesbians that have long
straggly grey hair and smoke cigarettes to pass the time?
No, I will not be that.
I’m innocent.
The judge looks
at me. A little disappointment flickers in her eyes. Am I supposed to cry now?
“We will now adjourn until the jury has reached a
verdict.”
Immediately the jury exists through a back door.
I stand to stretch my legs. I yawn, close my eyes and
prepare for the ruling I’m sure will never play in my favor.
I’m innocent.
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