Sworn to Love

CW: Obsessive sexual behavior

INT. COURTROOM 207 - TALLADEGA COUNTY COURTHOUSE

“Do you solemnly swear or affirm that the testimony you are about to give will be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” 

The question spilled from the thin, elegantly mauve lined lips of the court clerk. Ever since I was old enough to raise my mother’s balky dime store mascara to my lashes, I’ve noticed the makeup and styling of the women around me.

My grandmother would call it a “gift”, something akin to belting onstage or building a miniature skyscraper from popsicle sticks. It was a sweet nothing we shared in the summers I’d spend with her while my mother flit from one hangover to the next, as natural as the hazel eyes she was so proud of.

I affirm the oath, thoughtlessly, letting my right hand rise and fall as the judge shuffles his papers. My left contact itches and I try to blink the irritation away. It’s too early to start with the waterworks. Looking out into the crowd there’s a glassy eyed white woman scribbling onto a legal pad.

My mind reels to all the courtroom sketches I’d seen on the news over the years, angular stills where everyone involved seemed so anguished. Lord knows I never considered I’d be in one. I reach for a conveniently placed box of Kleenex and catch the first tear before it can roll over the apple of my cheek. I didn’t bring my purse to the stand, I don’t have my compact, and the prosecutor in his charcoal slacks is making his way to the pit of the well.

“Good morning, all. I’d like to begin by establishing some basic facts regarding what occurred at 2558 Juniper Way on the evening of May 8th, 2024.”

The prosecutor looks at me, square in the face. His jaw is square and there’s a tinge of redness in his face. He’s freshly shaven and conservatively well dressed, a charcoal suit with a navy tie and silver cufflinks and a classic watch. My eyes flash down to his hands, married.

“Ms. Nilson, can you tell us where you were on the aforementioned evening? Say around 7pm?”

Back to his face. I nod and meet his eyes before scanning the room again.

“Yes, I was at work.”

“And where do you work, Ms. Nilson?”

“I manage a boutique specializing in cosmetics. Best in Beauty. It’s on Bronson, in the same plaza as the Wok N’ Roll and the post office.”

“Yes, thank you. And can you tell me where your children were while you were working?”

“Everyone was at home when I left. I didn’t know that Jai left. Tionne is always covering for her. They all cover for each other.”

“Your children, Ms. Nilson?”

He took a step closer, cocking his head slightly like a confused puppy. It was subtle but infuriating in its theatricality. My lawyers assured me several times there’d be no cameras during the proceedings but if there had been he’d have surely just had his first “moment”. I could feel it then that he’d have more. It was like watching a comedian chuckle before moving to the next punchline. My stomach turned. I nodded and looked at Judge Howe, whose usually ornery scholarly face showed the slightest glimpse of a morbid glee. As if I needed to be reminded that this case; all the Zoom interviews, the incessant podcast invitations, and the deluge of online outrage centered on my children.

“Yes, my children,” I said, feeling my brows knit and my lips pout as I respond, I pause to gather my thoughts, and the prosecutor straightens.

“Tionne…my oldest, she was sitting dinner out when I left. She cooks. Jailen and Kendall were in their rooms. Jailen was on the phone, talking to some boy. Kendall tapping around on his computer, watching some superhero show. Ju-Julien….”

My breath catches on his name. My son. His face has been plastered and smeared all around town but today is the first time I've seen him since. I threw a grand vigil for Tionne that a parade of box-dyed broads with cheap plastic signs prancing around as if they knew Tionne better than me did their best to overshadow. Her as a media martyr for feminism and me as the monstrous man-coddling mother who couldn’t hold her son accountable. By June it’d curdled into something bitter and constant.

Then some "friend" of hers went and told the world Tionne used to play around with girls, like that was anybody's business, like it changed what happened to her, and every queer from Talladega to Bushwick found God overnight. My lawyers called it virtue signaling. I called it a lynching with hashtags. Even now, the wispy little sketch artist who keeps glancing at me is just another set of eyes checking the knot. 

“Ms. Nilson, you mentioned your son Julien?”

The prosecutor turns to the gallery again, reveling in the hitch in my breath as Julien’s name befalls the reporters. I can almost see their tongues begin to wag. Before I can answer, my lawyer's cold hand finds my forearm. She’s very pretty, even with her square glasses. Her head whips to Judge Howe. I gazed at Julien, while she clears her throat to speak. His hair has grown wilder and the thin line of his mustache is thicker. I wish he’d look up from the floor. I wish he’d lock eyes with me, then I could know what he’s thinking. Mother’s always know.  

“Objection, badgering the witness.” She pushed her glasses up her nose, indignantly. “My client is in one of the darkest, most vulnerable periods of her life, we’d appreciate patience as she braves the stand.”

“Overruled.” Judge Howe doesn’t take his eyes from the prosecutor. His face is sallow in the lighting but I can make out the tiniest glimmer of a kinship between them. He’s enjoying this. 

“Ms. Nilson, your son Julien…you were saying?”

“Yes. Julien. He was in the laundry room, loading the dryer. I heard it start,” I said with a stern nod. I’d answered these questions more times than I could count, I knew how to be sure. “He loaded the dryer. I remember because Tionne wouldn’t stop fussing at him about it the week before. He would forget the clothes in the washer all the time.”

A smile threatened the edge of my lips but I bit it back. Julien’s eyes remained lowered, his knees touching and his back bent forward as if he’s trying to fold in on himself. I realize he’s rubbing at his eyes. He was always doing that, always a yawn before the hard thing. He was nervous, so I knew I couldn’t be. 

“So you last saw your daughter, Tionne Nilson, in the kitchen. You heard your daughter, Jailen Gates, in her bedroom on a phone call. You saw your son, Kendall Rhoades, watching something superhero related in his bedroom. You heard your son, Julien Holmes, loading the dryer in the laundry room.” He adds emphasis to each differing last name, painting me out to be an untrustworthy whore or welfare queen. Just ol’ Jalisa Nilson, with all my children still living with me, with only my womb to unite them. 

“That’s correct.” I affirm his summary as thoughtlessly as I recited the oath. 

It’s the way he says Tionne’s name that strikes me though. Tionne Nilson. My chosen baby. After the long line of endometriosis amongst the women in my family came a’knocking, and the white doctors in the white rooms told me I’d never be a mother, never a grandmother, I felt hollow. I was doomed, it seemed, to roam this small town as just a girl, forever. 

Until, I saw a commercial about family planning that mentioned adoption. No one in my family had ever adopted, in all honesty I’d never seriously considered it but I completed an application and submitted myself to the background checks. I was twenty six, most of my homegirls were on their second child and/or their first marriage, and so I decided then on my couch in my shoddy apartment. I swore I would never be alone again. Many pay stubs and home visits later, I met her. The girl with the gorgeous hazel eyes. The girl who’d become my first daughter. The light as laughter, sweet little girl I swept into my arms and swore I’d be her best friend.

“Your honor, may I approach the witness?” He stepped forward as the judge muttered weakly in agreeance.

He stepped forward quickly, taking out a portfolio from his slender briefcase. He opened it and held it out to me, locking eyes for a moment before I looked away.

“Ms. Nilson, do you recognize this document?”

I scanned it, finding Jailen’s name easily.

“These are phone records, Jailen’s phone records.” I glanced at the sketching waif again, as if she’d be of any assistance against whatever point the prosecutor was beginning to enact.

“Yes, they are Jailen’s phone records. Phone records that show that from 5pm until 8:23pm, only mere minutes after the estimated time of death of Tionne, Jailen was in fact not on the phone with some boy. If you look closely you’ll see the call closest to that window in which you might’ve overheard her talking in her room, her phone actually pings to Weaver, Alabama, roughly 48 minutes away from your home.”

I didn’t bother looking down or give him the glory of pretending to be shocked. I knew Jailen wasn’t home when I said it, but I wouldn’t have them looking down on me as if I just let my children run the streets willy-nilly with no type of home trainin’. My lawyer whispers something I’ve forgotten.  

Julien’s eyes finally meet mine, midway through tossing his head back to look at the ceiling, the way he always did when he was embarrassed. A heat flushed across my face as I resisted the urge to turn away or smile. His usually half-sleepy, half-sarcastic, eyes were dull and slow. It’s cliche, but the whole world seemed to slow around us. 

In his eyes, I found a memory. He was 14 then and so Tionne was 19, and I’d gotten her Mrs. Norwood’s old car for her 18th. I told Tionne when I first got the car that she’d be helping out with grocery shopping and giving her siblings rides. I’m only one person and Best in Beauty keeps me busy damn near sunup to sundown. That shop just doesn’t run without me, so I told her and the kids when I’m busy and Tionne’s not working that’s the second car for the family. 

It worked fine for weeks, Tionne and the kids made the list. Tionne would get the groceries and keep us all fed while I worked. Sometimes she’d even pick up Kendall’s meds for me. Fair trade, I thought; Lord knows I had it harder at her age. But no, not for Tionne. Nothing was ever good enough for her. 

Then she started slipping, always working, always taking Jailen somewhere. I let it slide, a text here, an eyeroll there. It wasn't until Julien mentioned he'd asked her to a movie and she'd refused him that I took real issue, my baby just wanted a little time with her, and she acted put out by it. After the blowout, he retreated to his room, and it took bribing to get him out for weeks after. Everybody just needed to chill out. A tear threatened my mascara as the prosecutor's eyes found mine, then Julien's, and pinned us there.

“I-I’m sorry,” I start, my voice thin and choked as I search the prosecutor’s face for any trace of sympathy and find only neatly shaved stubble. “I-I’m doin’ the best I can. It’s hard to keep th-things straight when everything’s been a nightmare since she died. Y’know the days blur together and sometimes I look up an–”

“We understand, Ms. Nilson. I’m happy to move on.” The prosecutor smiled but there was no joy in it, just as functional and empty as a cheap motel room. He reaches into his briefcase again, stepping close enough to slip the thin manila folder into my hand.

“Can you tell the court what you’re holding, Ms. Nilson?”

“These are…Kendall’s….video searches…?” I look at Julien but he’s folded again, why mention Kendall? The sketching girl seems to have finished, her pencil is still and her eyes bounce between me and the Judge as if we’re parts in an equation suddenly becoming clear to her. 

“No ma’am, this is the watch history across Kendall’s devices. Ms. Nilson, would you say you monitor how your children use their devices?”

I look to my lawyer, she gives me a polite and equally clueless smirk back.

“Well sir,” I begin, my voice starting before I can settle on a response. “They’re not little kids anymore. I work sometimes 10-12 hour shifts, I can’t be running from room to room checking computers and cell phones when I get home. I mean come on, what’s your point here?”

My lawyer nods carefully before chiming in, “Objection, relevance?” 

“Your Honor,” the prosecutor turns to Judge Howe abruptly, clearly annoyed at having to reveal his plan preemptively. “I am establishing that Ms. Nilson’s son, Kendall was completely inactive online within the window that Ms. Nilson testified that she observed him watching superhero related content on his personal computer.”

“I’ll allow it counsel, but let's not dawdle.” Judge Howe’s voice brought a chill of anticipation to the room, even Julien looked up from the floor. I should’ve stopped then, Lord knows I wish I’d have bit my tongue until it bled rather than what actually happened. But, I would not be bullied. Not when I was the one holding back tears as her son stared at his handcuffs.

“It’s not like children come with manuals, counsel!” I spouted, my words weighted with vitriol. 

“Ms. Nilson….” Judge Howe’s initial warning going in one ear and clean through the other.

“It’s not easy to keep track of all the videos my son watches when all he does is watch videos. It's not easy when your oldest son won’t talk to you. When he hits himself if you hug him too lo–”

“Ms. Nilson….” My lawyer’s cold hand on my left wrist as I leaned forward into the mic, another tear streaking through my concealer. The facade beginning to fade.

“It’s not easy when your daughter can’t do the laundry or cook dinner without complaining. When the other daughter takes your son’s pills and every opportunity to complain and nag about her life as if she’s in a goddamned Cinderella story. And they get together and laugh about it, as if–”

“MS. NILSON,” Judge Howe repeats with a chastising scowl. “You will answer when asked, please.”

The sketch artist picks up her pencil again and I grit my teeth. My lawyers pass me a Kleenex and I smudge away the tears, but they don’t stop. The prosecutor is still, his face neutral as something deep within me begins to unravel.

“Children don’t come with instructions Ms. Nilson, but there are laws and morals to guide us” He reaches for his briefcase again, walking slowly up to the stand. “You’ve been uninformed and incorrect about the whereabouts and the online activities of your children, so allow me to introduce you to State’s Exhibit 16, these are screenshots of online conversations the defendant carried on with others on a messaging site where he’s been active using the anonymous profile, “JJ.SIGMA.”

The prosecutor exhales and peers out at the gallery. I can see the back of his balding, gleaming head as his eyes find Julien. I shut my eyes and a scream rips through my lungs.

“YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO HIM!”

The world slows again, but this time Julien’s eyes are shut tight. My eyes dart from face to face but there isn’t one without a scowl or more useless tears. I stammer and sob, keeping a white-knuckled grip around the base of the stand microphone and recoiling from my lawyer’s touch as her hand finds my shoulderblade.

“He just liked her! And I told him to stop it with the pills! It was Jailen, he got the idea from Jailen. She- she told him! she told him she be taking Kendall’s pills and I told her to stop it.”

My lawyer was red in the face, the whole room cried and shook with me. 

“Ms. Nilson, in these messages your son over the course of several months shares pictures and even video footage of your daughter Tionne. Most of them are highly suggestive. He tells his anonymous friends about their life together as if she’s his girlfriend. You can see further on Exhibit 34 him admitting to stealing her used underwear with intent to sell it.”  

“Every boy has fantasies, it's just online porn stuff. He would never actually hurt her. Never! He asked her to dinner, to the movies. He would never hurt her. He thought it would just chill her out. He just wanted her to like him back. They aren’t even related.” 

Some people describe seeing a wash of red or absolute darkness overtake their vision when emotions are high like that. I didn’t get any of that. I got Julien’s face, his eyes wet and hard as he recited, “stop” like a mantra. But I wouldn’t stop, I couldn’t. I squeezed the mic even tighter, pressing my lips into a snarl against it. Who would love me now? Who would want the cakey-faced whore and her children, now that one lies dead and another's a sick headline?   

“HE NEEDS HELP! HE’S SICK! TELL THEM JULIEN!”

I don’t remember much of what happened next, but I can still hear Julien begging me to stop on the quiet nights after lights out.