flash fiction: verdict [nanoljers]
For story starter at nanoljers here; it has implied themes which might be a little controversial, so just a little warning there :)
verdict
"Has the jury reached a verdict?"
I close my eyes, clutch my arms. Hold my breath.
"Yes, we have, Your Honor."
Oh, God. Oh, God. This is it.
I can't hardly breathe. I haven't forgotten how to, I just can't. My hands are wrapped so tightly - so protectively - over my chest, they're cutting off circulation to my arms. . .but I have come this far.
4. That had been his number in the line-up. I'd felt my throat close up as the familiar clench of fear threatened to overwhelm me. . .but I'd said the number aloud. Even as I stared into his dead eyes. He can't see you, honey, only you can see him. That's what they told me.
It had been different on the stand. A positive ID hadn't been enough, this guy was smart. I spit the word in my mind. The thought makes me sick. That a man - whom police detectives thought of as smart - could get away with what he'd done.
A shiver racks my shoulders.
I had kept my eyes on the DA's the entire time she questioned me, and I had kept my eyes on her face when his attorney had tried to degrade the truth as it came from my quivering lips, my unsteady voice.
I'm sitting on the other side of the courtroom, in the row behind the DA's desk. She's someone familiar, someone kind, someone who cares about what happens to this case. The photos taken the night of the attack are persuasive, she told me. The jury can't ignore the bruising, the cuts. He is going to pay; my dislocated shoulder and seven skull staples hopes so.
I hadn't gone to pieces on the stand, but I had cried that night, and the morning before coming to court. I'm not wearing mascara; I haven't worn any make-up since the night of the attack.
He called me a tease.
I open my eyes. The DA looks over her shoulder at me, a brief, assuring glance - not quite a smile, she's professional, after all - and turns to the jury as the foreman reads the verdict.
I hold my breath just a little bit longer--
"We find the defendant, not guilty."
verdict
"Has the jury reached a verdict?"
I close my eyes, clutch my arms. Hold my breath.
"Yes, we have, Your Honor."
Oh, God. Oh, God. This is it.
I can't hardly breathe. I haven't forgotten how to, I just can't. My hands are wrapped so tightly - so protectively - over my chest, they're cutting off circulation to my arms. . .but I have come this far.
4. That had been his number in the line-up. I'd felt my throat close up as the familiar clench of fear threatened to overwhelm me. . .but I'd said the number aloud. Even as I stared into his dead eyes. He can't see you, honey, only you can see him. That's what they told me.
It had been different on the stand. A positive ID hadn't been enough, this guy was smart. I spit the word in my mind. The thought makes me sick. That a man - whom police detectives thought of as smart - could get away with what he'd done.
A shiver racks my shoulders.
I had kept my eyes on the DA's the entire time she questioned me, and I had kept my eyes on her face when his attorney had tried to degrade the truth as it came from my quivering lips, my unsteady voice.
I'm sitting on the other side of the courtroom, in the row behind the DA's desk. She's someone familiar, someone kind, someone who cares about what happens to this case. The photos taken the night of the attack are persuasive, she told me. The jury can't ignore the bruising, the cuts. He is going to pay; my dislocated shoulder and seven skull staples hopes so.
I hadn't gone to pieces on the stand, but I had cried that night, and the morning before coming to court. I'm not wearing mascara; I haven't worn any make-up since the night of the attack.
He called me a tease.
I open my eyes. The DA looks over her shoulder at me, a brief, assuring glance - not quite a smile, she's professional, after all - and turns to the jury as the foreman reads the verdict.
I hold my breath just a little bit longer--
"We find the defendant, not guilty."