The man humped in his chair. He looked back at the audience from the corner of his eye, trying to guess what the hundreds of eyes were reading that was written on his forehead. Guilty, murderer… monster, he thought. But there was no label on his forehead beyond his wrinkles and his frown that were a record of his anguish. And there was no need for a label, the flashy orange uniform and shiny handcuffs were enough branding.
The bell rang and everyone in the court stood up. People said it was to receive the judge, but he was no fool. The bell was because of him. It was a stigma, like with lepers. To trumpet the misdeeds of evil people so they could be isolated. Because evil is a disease and it is contagious. But morbidity outweighed fear for those packing the court that day. People love to point their fingers more than anything, and that day the entire jury's fingers were on him.
The district attorney called the main witness. The audience broke up and an emaciated woman walked to the stand amid a cacophony of gossip until the judge's gavel returned silence to the courtroom.
“Do you recognize this man? The lawyer asked the witness.
“Yes,” the woman responded without turning to look at the accused, but even with this gesture of indifference, the accused smiled briefly, which was quite an event considering that he was stripped of his smile and his freedom simultaneously.
“Do you think this man…” the lawyer walked up to the table and pointed at the defendant almost in his face as if to eliminate any possibility of error. “…Is he responsible for the horrendous crime that cost the lives of several and injured hundreds?”
“Indeed, I believe that he is responsible for the crime,” the woman remained silent for a few seconds with her eyes lost on the mahogany floor. “A crime of love,” she finally concluded.
The uproar took over the room. “Silence,” the judge ordered, hammering the table.
“Are you suggesting it was a crime of passion?” The lawyer waved his hand asking the woman to elaborate on her response.
“It was a lack of love,” the woman explained. “He did it to please his brother, the mastermind behind this crime. Naivety, loneliness and lack of self-esteem are the true sins of this man. But that does not detract from their responsibility.”
“So you find him guilty?”
"Yeah." The courtroom erupted in screams and the judge tried to calm the crowd of people.
The lawyer approached the woman and whispered. “Are you aware that life in prison is the lowest sentence you could receive?” The woman nodded her head. “Okay, please continue.”
“Yes, he is guilty,” the woman reaffirmed in a decisive voice. “He must pay for what he did.”
Hearing the woman's words, the horrified accused turned into an empty shell of a man. Without blinking, without breathing, with his face absent of expression, in a word, petrified. His soul had left his body and escaped to another place. But from the look in his eyes it was not a pleasant place, it was a purgatory or even worse, hell.
“But I have a request for the jury and the judge,” the woman said and the entire room fell silent. “If he is found guilty and imprisoned for life, I ask you to lock me up at his side, because I am the one truly responsible for this crime. I abandoned him when he needed me most. It was the absence of my love that prevented him from understanding the meaning of compassion, forgiveness and kindness.” The woman burst into tears before continuing. “And if you decide to take his life in exchange… you must take mine too because no mother deserves to bury her son.”
M. Ch. Landa
