RIPP. “You may be seated,” the bailiff said sharply as the judge sat down.

This could have been just another day in court for Vee, but it was nothing short of a nightmare for me. Covered in sweat, wearing a new suit, new shoes, and black glasses, I looked like a misplaced Wall Street executive with a shaved head. I felt as if I was aware of my surroundings, but incapable of truly understanding what was happening. The courtroom was extremely large, full of ornate wood trim, and wooden benches. The overall feel was very intimidating to me. The judge sat on the right side of the courtroom on an elevated platform. Vee and I were seated in the center at a large desk, and the prosecution team was seated to our left. The jurors were directly in front, but across the courtroom from where Vee and I were seated. Immediately behind the prosecution, somewhat hidden by a series of large wooden column, was a seating area for spectators and family.

“For the record, this is in the matter of the state of Texas versus Michael A. Ripton. The charge,” the judge looked down over the top of his glasses onto the upper desk and shuffled through a stack of paperwork.

Does he not even know why we’re here? He has no idea what’s going on.

I’m so fucked.

“Murder in the second degree,” he said as he looked up from the sheet of paper that he held.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have selected the jury, which I might add took considerably longer than I expected. This case was pushed to the front of the docket for reasons unknown. I feel compelled to remind you the court’s time is valuable, and I ask that you remember this as we proceed through this simple case of murder in the second degree. We’ll begin with opening statements,” he paused, looked down at his watch, and hesitated.

“And I imagine following that, I may provide the jury with their instructions, and we’ll call it a day. Now, there are people in my courtroom, seated in the rear. I like to know who is in my courtroom, and I will ask that each of you stand, one at a time, and introduce yourself. Please explain to the court if you are here in support of the plaintiff or the defendant, and your association, if any. Please begin with the far right seat in the front and proceed in order,” he removed his glasses and held them in his hand as he looked across the courtroom.

As Vee had instructed me, I stared straight ahead, emotionless.

“Alec Jacob, sir. Decorated force RECON Marine, sir. Five Purple Hearts, four tours, sir. I am a friend of the defendant, sir.”

“I’m Teddy. I mean, uhhm…Kelsey Theodore Wilson. I’m friends with the defendant, sir.”

“Kelli Parks, your honor. The defendant, we’re good friends.”

“Dr. Erik Ead, your honor. Here in support of the defendant.”

“Sir, Derek Jackson. The defendant. Close personal friend, your honor.”

My heart began to feel strange. As if it was on the verge of exploding. A-Train and his crew had arrived originally to box in a fund raiser we were having at the gym during the ROT Rally. It started as a joke, or a bet that they had made in the club. Erik and A-Train had boxed, and both had won their matches; A-Train by forfeit, and Erik by an almost immediate knockout. In two days, the Motorcycle Club went back to Kansas, and A-Train remained in Texas.

After A-Train learned of my legal problems, and what I had been charged with, he explained that dealing with death wasn’t easy. He further clarified by explaining his military involvement, his knowledge of dealing with the emotions associated with death, and his belief that I would be incapable of going through this alone. Alone, to him, meant not having someone that had dealt with a similar situation. He was, by his explanation, experienced in dealing with death. He assured me he’d stick around as long as he had to.

A-Train’s motorcycle club traveling seven hundred miles to support me was far more than I was capable of comprehending. As they spoke, my heart and mind filled with emotion. I felt small. Humble. This was brotherhood. This was friendship. These people came to provide me with support. As they continued to speak, I swallowed my permanent lump, stared straight ahead, and slowly inhaled Vee’s scent.

“Steve Easter, your honor. Here for the defendant.”

“Gene Parks, your honor. Retired United States Navy and decorated Vietnam veteran. Here in support of the defendant.”

I started to understand what was happening. The jurors were seeing and hearing this level of support. The court room was full of people supporting me. There were none for the deceased. They’d have to wonder why. Now, I looked like I was in the right from the beginning. I had so many people supporting me, some of which were decorated military veterans, and one a doctor. Regardless of the value these people held as a matter of the legal process, it would look good in the eyes of the jury.

“Lewis Ripton, your honor. Father of the defendant.”

“Shirley Ripton, your honor. Mother of the defendant.”

“Austin Malone, sir. Friends of the defendant.”

“Kelsey O’Reilley, your honor. Close personal friend of the defendant and local business owner.”

“Murphy, your honor. Joe Murphy. Local business owner. Close friend of the defendant for fifteen years.”

“Kace Meadows, your honor. I work for Mr. Martin’s office, and I am fiancé to the future Heavyweight Champion of the World.”

That damned girl. I love her.

“Shane Dekkar, your honor.”

Fucking Dekk. Humble bastard.

“Well,” the judge said as he fitted his glasses onto his face.

“I ask that you stay seated through the proceedings. Barring any emergencies, I ask that you remain in the courtroom. I am not a fan of people going in and out of my courtroom - it’s disruptive to the process. Lastly, and this is an important one to me, cell phones will remain off. No exceptions. Even Doctors,” he looked over the top of his glasses toward the rear of the courtroom.

“Now, I will allow five minutes for openers. No more. Use your watches if you have them, but we’re going by the book in my courtroom. Counsel, proceed at will,” the judge stated as he leaned back into his chair.

The prosecutor stood, walked to the center of the courtroom, took a deep breath, turned to face us, and began.

“Counsel,” he nodded his head toward us and turned to face the jury.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Judge Black, friends and family, I’m the prosecutor, Matthew Triston. I represent the great state of Texas. I proudly do so, because in my mind, Texas stands well above the rest of the states. Why, you may ask?” he slowly paced before the jury as he spoke.

“Because Texas is a state that is known to prosecute criminals for crimes other states may look beyond. Texas is the largest state in the United States of America. From border to border the state is full of people, and although we might attempt to prevent it, full of crime. One thing, ladies and gentlemen, which separates this state,” he slowly turned to face me and paused.

“Would be our willingness to prosecute those that have gone beyond what our laws allow. In this case, the state will present facts ladies and gentlemen, facts in support of the charges against the defendant, Mr. Ripton. The facts will support that the defendant,” he paused and pointed his finger to where I was seated.

“Did, on the date in question, choke the deceased to death as he attempted to defend his home with a legally owned and registered firearm. As you may or may not be aware, firearms in the state of Texas are not only legal, allowed, and utilized by residents - they’re encouraged. A firearm in this state may be used to defend your life or the life of your family if you feel that your life is in danger. One doesn’t need to prove their life is in danger, only reasonable belief is needed,” he paused and turned to the right.

Vee slowly stood.

“Your honor, I have never objected to an opening statement in my career, but I feel compelled to do so now,” she said in a voice I was unfamiliar with.

She sounded mean. Tactful, but mean.

The prosecutor stopped speaking.

“Are you objecting, counsel?” the judge asked.

“Yes, your honor, I certainly am,” she responded.

“Grounds?” he asked.

“Prosecutorial misconduct. Your honor, respectfully of course, I will remind the court of the following,” she paused and inhaled a short breath.

“The opening statement is utilized to present the jury with the intent of the state as well as the defense in regard to intended presentation of the case. The instruction of law to the jury is a matter of the honorable court, through the judge, to direct to the jury as the case requires. The opening statement is not, however, a vehicle for prosecution to opine in regard to law. The prosecutor is currently instructing the jury as to what the law will or will not allow. Our laws, and cases that precede this one, your honor, prevent this. Instructions to the jury, regarding law, are to only come from you, your honor. Thank you,” she pressed her hands against the backs of her thighs, straightened her skirt, and sat down.

The judge sat up in his chair and leaned onto the large platform in front of him.

“Mr. Triston, counsel raises a valid argument in regard to law. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this is not television. This is not a movie, this is as real as it gets, and sometimes it is not pretty. There are laws in place which prevent prosecution, defense, as well as courtrooms from overstepping particular boundaries. Defense counsel raised a question regarding Mr. Triston’s presentation of his intent, in regard to the case, to you. I side with the defense. Mr. Triston, you have been warned. Instruction of law will come from this court and this court only. Proceed,” the judge said as he leaned into his chair.

Holy. Shit. This is getting good.

“Stare straight ahead, Michael. No emotion. No smirk, no smile,” Vee whispered.

I stared straight ahead through the remainder of prosecution’s short opening statement. All I heard after Vee’s outburst were muddled statements.

“Counsel,” the judge said into the microphone.

Vee stood and slowly walked to the center of the courtroom.

“Your honor,” she nodded toward the judge.

“Mr. Triston,” she turned to face the prosecutor’s table.

“Family and friends of the defendant,” she nodded at the people seated in the rear of the courtroom.

“And ladies and gentlemen of jury, I am Vivian Simon. I am hired legal counsel for the defendant, Michael A. Ripton,” she walked toward the short wooden wall that separated the elevated jury platform from the open courtroom.

“What we believe and what we know. This case is so simple, I don’t need nor will I use the five allotted minutes. I will, however, take a few moments of your time to ask you to listen to what I have to say. As this case proceeds, regardless of the information that is presented, I will ask that you continually ask yourselves how you would have reacted in the same situation. This is a case that is supported by beliefs, ladies and gentlemen,” she paused and turned to face the prosecutor.

“Prosecution,” she gestured to the prosecution’s table.

“Believes the defendant acted in a manner that is contrary to law,” she turned to face the jurors.

“I believe the defendant acted in self-defense. I will present facts that will support the following,” she raised a finger.

“One, the deceased was at home with alcohol in his bloodstream, and possessed a loaded weapon.”

She raised another finger.

“Two, the deceased was an associate of the defendant, a friend of the defendant’s family, and had no reason to believe his life was or would be in danger.”

“Three, when the deceased was approached by the defendant, he brandished the weapon.”

“And the defendant acted in self-defense.”

“It’s.”

“That.”

“Simple.”

“Now, I will leave you with this. Ask yourselves through this legal proceeding, have you ever had an occasion to drink alcoholic beverages? And if so, have you ever through the course of drinking these beverages believed you were not intoxicated at the time, but woke up with regret as a result of the drinking?” she hesitated and raised her hand again.

“Even once? Ever?” she asked.

“One. Simple. Regret?” her voice elevated as she extended one finger in the air.

“Beliefs ladies and gentlemen. What we believe and what we know. I believe that the deceased, God bless his soul, would be here today filled with regret for having pulled that weapon on someone that he knew. But we can’t ask him. He threatened a life by pointing a loaded weapon at the head of the defendant. The defendant acted in a manner that was necessary to save his own life. The deceased cannot express his regret.”

“If we, as citizens, are allowed to point a loaded weapon at anyone who comes to the door, and shoot them, this isn’t a state that I will continue to live in. Ladies and gentlemen, what we believe and what we know,” she turned from the jury and began to walk toward where I was seated.

As she almost reached the table, she turned around and began to speak in her mean voice.

“Believe, ladies and gentlemen, what you believe. I will have a seat knowing. Knowing I would have reacted in the same manner as the defendant. Ask yourselves as we proceed, and as prosecution rests their case. How would you have reacted?”

“That is all, your honor,” she said as she turned to face the judge.

I wanted to stand and clap my hands.

Holy. Fuck.

“Mr. Triston?” the judge said into the microphone.

“Nothing further your honor,” the prosecutor said as he stood.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I will leave you with this. Do not talk about this case tonight with others or amongst yourselves. No outside influence should be considered or allowed. Only what happens in this courtroom as presented by the two sides is to be considered. Please do not research on the internet regarding law. Law, as it is applicable to this case, will be provided through yours truly after the entire case is presented. I thank you for your time in this case and for your service,” the judge said clearly into his microphone.

“You are dismissed until tomorrow,” the judge said to the jurors.

After the jurors walked out of the courtroom in a single file line, the bailiff placed his hands on his hips.

“All rise,” the bailiff bellowed.

As we stood, the judge rose from his chair and walked through a door in the rear of the area where he had been seated. I turned to face Vee and smiled.

“Good? Bad?” I whispered.

She bent down, and clutched the files that were placed on the desk in front of us. As she stood up, files in hand, she turned to face me and said exactly what I expected her to say.

“I got this.”