Apatheia

Apatheia

The beginning is always the same: a seed blooms for nine months before emerging into the world screaming with tears of joy. However, at the end of life, things get much more interesting. Out of a million ways to die, only a fraction of those are at the hands of another human. The justice system ultimately puts the fate of another into the hands of twelve selected jurors as they seek truth from the arguments of opposing counsel. Right now, these arguments are aimed toward the eleven other jurors who surround me in the courtroom.

“All rise.” The room is filled with the scuff of shoes against the marble floor. A hefty grunt escapes from juror number three beside me as he stands to greet the judge.

“The court is now in session, the honorable Judge Hackett presiding," the bailiff speaks as focus shifts to the middle-aged man, whose head reflects the fluorescent light as he shuffles into his seat. The tick of the clock above me becomes overwhelmingly loud, and the air feels like it's gained weight.

“You may be seated," Judge Hackett speaks. As I lower myself into the chair, the scent of juror number five's cologne burns the hairs in my nose. He wears the same suit so often I fear he may sleep in it. I try to imagine each of the jurors' real names, his maybe being Steve, just to keep myself occupied while being sequestered. The judge begins speaking, but I tune it out, unable to keep up with all the court lingo. I imagined being a part of a trial would be much more interesting; however, it’s a lot less climactic than desired. The echo of the judges' fierce gavel shakes the room's attention, and DA Strickland rises, his fingers fumbling around the base of his tie. My seatmate tips in waiting as he holds my gaze briefly before glancing around at the other jurors.

“Members of the jury, a man's life has been stolen from him. " He rests his fingertips on the ledge near the jury.

“Derek DuPont was attacked and left alone to spend his final moments in agony. His life flashed before his eyes; he thought of his family, and then he thought of all the things he’d never get to do.” He shakes his head slowly in anguish, his gelled hair staying slicked to his head.

“You will hear evidence that clearly depicts that Ellis Ashwood is responsible for this murder.” His shiny shoes walk slowly toward the center of the room. DA Strickland is conducting a sort of ballet, gliding about the room passionately, fighting for the justice of a victim.

“It is your duty as a juror to determine if he is, in fact, the person responsible for this act.” He stands still looking about the room, painting the walls with hush.

“I want to be clear that my goal is not to send an innocent man to jail but to find the person responsible and bring closure to the DuPont family, who have lost something irreplaceable. So, jury, I urge you to set aside any judgments regarding my words or those of the defense. Instead, focus on seeking the truth using all the resources at your disposal. Thank you.” He nods toward the jury before turning away; the loud squeak of his chair follows.

My eyes travel from Prosecutor Strickland across to the defense table, lingering on the defendant. His face is painted in large purple bruises, and bandages cover his nose and forehead. His eyes connect with mine; they still. Despite the circumstances, his eyes are kind, and his cheeks swell in sadness. Within my mind, I wish to see the contents of his own mind. To see the truth and understand the circumstance in which our paths cross. I feel connected to him as if we’d known each other in a past life despite never hearing his name before this trial. In the silence of the room, I feel wedded to his pain. Attorney Moroni stands beside the defendant, running his hands down the length of wool covering his chest.

“Jury, Ellis Ashwood is a hard-working man. A brother. A Son. And a compassionate man." Moroni speaks to the jury, pointing us toward the defendant. Ellis’s head hangs during his introduction before an attorney beside him rubs the length of his back, prompting him to straighten his spine.

“During this trial you will hear evidence that Derek DuPont was murdered," Moroni speaks as a pause stretches.

“But not by Mr. Ashwood, as the facts show he was not responsible for this nefarious act.” Moroni continues; a sob breaks out from the gallery but is quickly silenced before the judge can respond. The judge looks over his glasses in warning toward the gallery before Moroni continues speaking.

“Jury, it is your duty to find the truth and bring justice to this courtroom.” Moroni finishes just before the gavel sounds within the small space, and the room stills in response. The defense attorney signals to the judge.

“Council may approach."Moroni and Strickland rush to the judge, speaking in hushed tones over one another. The gavel sounds once more as they settle back onto their benches.

“In light of the defendant's injuries conflicting with his ability to withstand trial, we will stand in recess until Thursday the 2nd. Court will reconvene at 9:00 am. " The gavel sounds once more.

“All rise," the bailiff yells as the judge shuffles out of the room; we follow her soon after, escorted by the bailiff.

At night as I lay in my bed, I toss and turn to the sound of the cicadas outside my window. My hotel room is lonely compared to my life in the outside world. I think of how lonely a jail cell must be in comparison, a mental prison with crappy amenities.

I turn in bed, and the moonlight peaks through the edge of the blinds. Its gray hues spell me back into the courtroom earlier that day. Ellis Ashwood and his dopey gray eyes haunt me.

When Derek’s murder hit the news headlines, my older sister said she remembered him from high school and told me that in school he wasn’t the guy holding the door open for you but the kind that stuffed the younger kids into lockers after stealing their lunch money. Wonder whispers in my ear if Derek deserved what he got.

I think about the man on trial and search for puzzle pieces in my memory that tell me his innocence or lack thereof. This is my job in the outside world, reading people, telling them what their own thoughts mean and how to cope with them. I think back to the actions of the defendant the first day of trial. The shock that danced across his face when DA Strickland stated the evidence would show his guilt was natural, unlikely to have been rehearsed. And despite the injuries rotting away on his face, his knuckles were untouched, meaning that he didn’t retaliate against whoever hurt him. All these things simply don’t align with a knife-toting killer, and although I’m not sure of what happened to Derek DuPont, I’m beginning to think Ellis Ashwood had nothing to do with it.

The next morning, as we shuffle into the courtroom, my coffee begins to unsettle in my stomach as we look into the open gallery. DA Strickland enters the room first, and the attorney Moroni enters the room after, towering over Ellis. Sweat drips down Moroni’s forehead; he wipes it away with a handkerchief before settling onto his bench. Ellis sits beside him, almost unrecognizable. I blink several times, soaking in his improved appearance. His long beard is shaved, and his face has healed nicely. My body stills in my seat as my limbs become heavy. I try to tear my eyes away from him, but I'm slowly sinking into the familiar sight of him. Wait, do I know him? It can't be him...could it?

My eyes travel down the length of his arms to his wrist, pausing before switching to my own. Both branded with the same owl tattoo.

“It is him... It’s O." My chest splits open and my heart falls out as the thoughts sink into me.

My eyes focus on the tattoo on my wrist. O. Ellis went by the name OJOS as a teen, although he never said why. I remembered the way his chin dips in the middle, the smell of his sunscreen and saltwater in his curls.

This was O, my O. My first love

The O that laughed with me and ordered one milkshake with two straws and kissed until our lips were numb. A time when I rode my bike everywhere and my life consisted of tending to my grandmother's flower bed and convincing my mom to let me stay until the end of the summer. Suddenly, thirty days didn’t feel like enough time to learn how O got the scar above his eyebrow and how he liked his burgers. However, forever is where Ink would leave his memory on my skin. The map of our lives has diverged from the end of the summer until now.

The road ahead diverges in front of me, splitting between the two benches. I can’t look up at him again; however, the sight of him in shackles, beaten, was burned into my memory. He now lives in the quiet spaces that used to belong only to me. I could listen to the evidence and decide then. If I speak up and tell the truth that I know the defendant, it could ruin everything for O. But if I stay quiet, I become a part of it and possibly help him outsmart the system.

“All rise," the bailiff sings, but I'm in stasis in my thoughts. Unable to move until Juror Number Two reaches over to pinch me, I spring out of my seat in time for the judge to enter the room.

"Prosecution, begin your examination of the witness." Judge Hackett settles further into his seat as Strickland approaches the witness stand.

“Detective Banks, you were lead detective on the DuPont murder, correct?”

“Yes, correct."

“Can you please illustrate the crime scene for the jury?”

“Yes, the victim was found in the alleyway lying on his back, with a single wound to the chest.” Detective Banks speaks with ease.

“Can you tell me what evidence helped you deduce Mr. Ashwood as the lead suspect in this case?”

“Sure, DNA was left at the scene matching the defendants as well as a black hair and a boot print. Several witnesses say that they were seen arguing the night of the crime.” The courtroom quakes with this revelation, and juror three blows out a hot breath as the truth settles with him.

"It's hard to deny the facts of DNA." Strickland shrugs at us before he begins speaking again.

“Detective Banks, can you tell me the events of Mr. Ashwood's arrest?”

“Upon arrival to the defendant's home, officers saw him jumping out of a window to evade arrest.” He flicks his head to the side as he speaks; a soft grin presents itself on his face.

“Typically," Strickland pauses once more, turning to the jury. “Innocent men don’t run," he scoffs, and juror five stifles a laugh next to me.

"Objection, your honor, speculation." Moroni shoots up from his seat.

a crack behind.

“The prosecution has no further questions for the witness." Strickland's lips curve at the sight of Moroni’s frown as he settles back into his bench.

“It is hard to deny DNA." Moroni shakes his head.

“Except you didn’t find Mr. Ashwood's DNA at the crime scene, did you?” Moroni lets his words sink into the detective's stomach.

“Objection, the defense is leading the witness," Strickland shouts into the courtroom.

Sustained. Defense, rephrase your question to the witness. " The judge replies.

“Detective Banks, was Mr. Ashwood's DNA located at the crime scene?" Moroni speaks.

“It is believed that Mr. Ashwood's hair and boot print were found at the—"

“But can this fact be proven by your investigators?” Moroni's questions.

“No." An edge finds its way into Banks' throat as he speaks.

“Members of the jury, officers found a boot print, black hair, and blood at the scene, evidence which has no factual connection to my client.” He speaks before beginning again.

“I would now like to present another piece of evidence to the witness," Moroni speaks as the TV by the edge of the courtroom blooms to life. A video from a doorbell camera shows police officers storming into the home.

“Detective Banks, did officers announce themselves before entering the defendant's home?” Moroni's questions.

“No, it appears they did not." He speaks, hanging his head down as the words leave a bitter taste on his tongue.

“Members of the jury, most of us would fear for our lives if we believed someone was breaking into our home. And like Mr. Ashwood, they would enter flight mode in fear for their lives. “He stares at us as he speaks before walking back to his desk.

“The defense has no further questions for the witness." The room stills at the end of the questions from Moroni. And as the trial progresses, we hear from many witnesses. The defendant's co-worker states he is a stand-up guy who never had a temper. Another man, who plays rec basketball with the victim, states he was a kind soul and often sought to de-escalate situations.

“The defense brings in witness Dr. Pierre to the stand," Moroni speaks as a tall man with coily hair slinks into the courtroom.

“Dr. Pierre, as lead examiner on the autopsy, can you please state your findings?”

“Yes, the victim suffered a perimortem stab wound to his left atrium.” He begins.

“So if the stab wound was inflicted during death, what is the leading cause of death?”

“It was concluded that the cause of death was most likely asphyxiation.” Dr. Pierre continues sliding his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“And was the defendant's DNA found on the victim?”

“There was O negative blood on the victim; however, no matching DNA was found." The room sinks, swallowing Strickland's argument into its abysses.

“So, no evidence of the defendant was found on the victim?”

“No sir, there was not. Only hair fibers from his girlfriend and mother.” Pierre continues with a quick nod.

“No further questions for the witness, Your Honor." Moroni quips.

“Prosecution rejects cross-examination," Strickland replies, his mouth lined across his face.

“All those in favor of guilty raise your hand," Juror two says into the deliberation room; six hands shoot up.

“C’mon, the evidence is paper thin," Juror One states.

“But the victim's girlfriend saw them arguing before the murder," Juror Nine points out.

“No murder weapon, no DNA. He’s innocent," Juror Five chimes in.

“So why did he lie to police about the argument?” Eleven questions

“Omitting the truth doesn’t mean he’s guilty."

“What about the blood and hair samples?”

“All vague pieces of the argument. It could have been my blood and hair for all we know!”

“Here are the facts: a man was at a nightclub with his girlfriend. After he’s seen arguing with the defendant, he goes to take a smoke break, and someone strangles him from behind. A scuffle happens, and the victim is stabbed in the chest.”

“Meaning, the attacker watched him leave and followed him outside—"

“Or, someone just caught him in the alleyway while walking down the street."

“Nonetheless, the defendant is not seen again until fifteen minutes after the crime.”

“Wearing the same clothes, with no blood or knife captured on camera.”

“But if the victim was already planning to kill, he wouldn’t have wanted to cause a scene beforehand—"

“But if the murder was caused by the earlier argument then—"

“Then he would have panicked, ditching the evidence along his route home."

“Juror four, what do you think?” The eyes in the room shift toward me at the foot of the table.

"Yea, four, speaking as a psychologist, what’s your expert opinion?” Juror five states.

“Well," I began, blowing out a breath as I sort through the contents of my mind.

“The girlfriend told Strickland they got a drink before the argument but told Moroni he was sober during the argument so—"

“So, the girlfriend is lying?”

“Maybe?”

"At the beginning of the trial he was badly hurt, but his hands were untouched.”

“Meaning, he didn’t fight back."

“Killers always fight back; their ego compels them to. " I say with a nod.

“And what else?” a juror questions as another begins, "But—"

“The girlfriend had a slight limp as she took the stand. The backs of her heels had band-aids on them.”

“Shoes that don’t fit," one says. “Who says that wasn’t from last night?” another argues.

A pause settles over the table.

One by one, the certainties start to slip.

“She claimed she followed him outside and chased the defendant."

The room is still.

“But someone with heels torn open like that… doesn’t run down an alley.”

“This proves nothing," someone snaps. "You're reaching!”

“And how would she strangle a grown man from behind?”

“Not that hard.”

“Especially if it's unexpected," another finishes.

“But she had an alibi," one continues as another counters with, "Yeah, from a bartender who is not reliable!”

“So, we just shouldn’t believe the bartender or the girl because you say so?” A juror directs it toward me.

“Or that this case is so flimsy that a Band-Aid raises doubt. " I counter.

“Let's vote again," number two states.

“All those in favor of not guilty..."

No one moves at first.

A hand lifts.

And everything shifts.

"We, the jury, find the defendant." The room stills.

As the verdict is read, I don’t look at Ellis.

I don’t have to.

I know I’ll see him in the outside world soon enough.

“Not Guilty.”