VEE. “Your honor, the state calls Josh Jackson,” the prosecutor stated.

The court deputy opened the door, and allowed Mr. Jackson to enter the courtroom. As he walked in, dressed in khaki pants and a pressed shirt, he held his head high and walked directly to the witness stand with the deputy.

“Raise your right hand,” the judge said over his left shoulder.

“Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” the judge asked.

“Yes sir, I do,” he responded.

“You may be seated,” the judge said.

“Mr. Jackson, we haven’t met. I am the prosecutor for the state of Texas, Matthew Triston. I am going to have a few questions for you, alright?” the prosecutor said

“Yes sir,” the witness responded.

“Are you familiar with the defendant seated on your left, Michael Ripton?” the prosecutor asked as me motioned toward Michael.

“Yes sir, I am,” he responded.

“Now Mr. Jackson, how did you come to know Mr. Ripton?” the prosecutor asked.

The witness leaned toward the microphone and cleared his throat.

“He is friends with my ex-wife’s, well no…my ex-girlfriend’s fiancé. I know him in that regard,” he said into the microphone.

“Very well. Has the defendant, on any occasion, taken an opportunity to pay you a visit at your home?” the prosecutor asked.

“Yes sir, he has,” he responded.

I took a shallow breath, pursed my lips and looked at the witness.

“Please explain the nature of that visit to the best of your ability,” the prosecutor stated as he turned slightly toward the jurors.

“Well. I was in a relationship with Kace Meadows for ten years. I was very abusive to her - mentally, physically, and emotionally. One day, in a drunken rage, I beat her,” the witness paused and looked down.

I glanced up at the jurors. Several covered their mouths with their hands. I glanced toward the witness stand as Josh took another slow breath.

“In fact, I beat her unconscious. When she. When she uhhm. When she woke up, she left. She uhhm left me. Mr. Ripton, on that evening, came to my home to speak to me,” he looked up at the prosecutor and stopped speaking.

“Please, explain to the court the nature of that visit,” the prosecutor said as he gripped the edges of the lectern.

I glanced at Michael, who stared, without emotion, straight ahead.

“Well. He uhhm. He came to my house and introduced himself. He said he was friends of the man that she uhhm, the man that she eventually became engaged to.  He said he wanted to make me aware that mistreating women was wrong, that abusing women was wrong, and that being violent to a woman wasn’t acceptable,” he paused and poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the stand.

“Now, when you say he, you’re referring to Mr. Ripton, correct?” the prosecutor asked.

“Yes sir,” the witness responded as he placed the glass on the stand.

This sounds so rehearsed. These bastards.

“Now, what else transpired during this visit? Please be specific,” the prosecutor sighed.

“Well, we talked for about thirty minutes. He spent the entire time explaining to me the need to be respectful to women at all times. He said if I continued to be violent toward my girlfriend, he would turn me in to the authorities,” the witness stated.

“Go on,” the prosecutor said as he tapped his hands against the lectern.

“Uhhm, that’s pretty much it. He excused himself and left,” the witness said as he picked up the water glass and raised it to his mouth.

Thank God. A moment of clarity. A spiritual awakening.

The prosecutor stepped a few feet from the lectern and rubbed his hands together, studying the witness as he walked. As he stepped back to the lectern, he placed his hands on the edges, and gripped the wooden platform.

“And that was the extent of the visit? He came, spoke to you, and left? Without incident?” the prosecutor asked, clearly frustrated as the tone of his voice changed.

“Yes sir. In fact, it was…well…it uhhm. It was kind of a turning point for me. It caused me to realize I was wrong. I’m trying to turn my life around now, thanks to him,” he picked up the glass again and raised it to his mouth.

I sighed and smiled as I covering my mouth with my hand. I glanced at Michael, who miraculously continued to stare straight ahead, without emotion, his glasses resting high on his nose.

The prosecutor shook his head slightly and released the edge of the lectern.

“No further questions your honor,” he said as he turned and walked away.

“Your witness. Care to cross?” the judge asked.

I slowly stood and studied the witness as I thought of what I could potentially gain from cross examining him. Sometimes it is best to leave things just the way they are. This was one of those times.

“No, your honor. I have no questions for this witness,” I pressed my skirt to my thighs and sat down.

“Mr. Triston?” the judge asked, his glasses dangling from his fingers as he spoke.

“You honor,” the prosecutor hesitated.

“The state rests its case,” he said flatly.

Thank God.

“Mrs. Simon?” the judge asked.

“Your honor, defense has nothing further,” I responded as I raised my hand to my face.

“You’re dismissed son,” the judge said to the witness.

I think I should ask. You never know.

I stood from my chair.

“Your honor, with all due respect. I respectfully request that the court strongly consider dismissal of the charges. Citing The State of Texas versus Blackshere, based on the evidence presented, and the lack of supporting evidence to indicate guilt on the part of the defendant for the charges against him, I request dismissal based on insufficient evidence,” I smiled and stood, waiting for the judge to respond.

“Mrs. Simon, you may file the motion,” he hesitated.

“Which will be denied. I believe there is sufficient evidence to proceed, allowing the jury to decide innocence or guilt, not this court. Have you anything further?” he asked as he pushed his glasses up his nose and looked down at his desk.

“No, your honor.”

Fuck.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you have been presented all of the evidence in this case that you will be presented. In a moment, you’ll hear closing statements. After that, you will decide innocence or guilt on the part of the defendant based on the evidence presented. Amongst yourselves, you will assign a foreman, which will act as the head spokesperson for you as a group. Correspondence will go through him or her to the court. Counsel, are you prepared for closing statements?” the judge asked the prosecutor.

“Yes your honor,” he responded.

The prosecutor stood and walked in front of the jury. I expected, considering the botched witness at the end of the trial that he’d keep his statement simple.

“Ladies and gentlemen. This case is simple. In the beginning, I told you that we would prove the defendant murdered someone who had attempted to defend his home. We did just that. Defense presented no evidence to dispute her client killed the man in question. The circumstances surrounding the murder are things that we will never know for certain. Why? Because that man,” the prosecutor pointed at Michael.

“Made sure he wouldn’t be here to testify. I request you ask yourselves this: if he knocks on your door tonight, what will you do? Find in favor of the prosecution, find guilt,” he turned and walked back to his seat.

“Counsel,” the judge said over his glasses.

“Thank you your honor,” I said as I stood.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. You’ve been robbed at gunpoint in a botched carjacking. You attempt to feel less vulnerable and take hand to hand combat classes. Self-defense becomes second nature. A few weeks later, you go see a family friend. A drunken man answers the door with a loaded gun. He points it at your torso. You ask him to put it away, and he points it at your head,” I pointed my index finger at my head.

“You react. In an effort to save yourself, you react,” I moved my extended finger from my head and pointed it, like a child makes his hand form a gun, at the jury as I walked the length of the jurors.

“Unfortunately, the man with the gun dies from a broken neck. You’re filled with emotion and sorrow. But it was either him or you. I asked you before this trial started, to think. If it was you, how would you have reacted? Is it acceptable to pull a gun on anyone that comes to your door? I’ll ask you one more thing. Gun owners need to be responsible, and not handle firearms when they’re drunk. If the defendant had not reacted in the manner that he did, what do you think would have happened?” I paused, my finger now pointed at the center juror.

He stared, confused. He began to visibly shake in his seat.

“What would you have…” I hesitated and raised my eyebrows in an exaggerated fashion.

“Boom! Too late. You made the wrong decision. You should have reacted differently,” I shook my head.

“That’s all I have,” as I turned and walked to my seat I held my index finger to my mouth and blew at the tip loud enough for the jury could hear.

“Counsel?” the judge asked the prosecutor.

“Nothing else your honor,” Triston responded.

“Jurors, you will now be released and receive your instructions in what you must find to determine innocence or guilt as a matter of law in regard to this specific case. If there are any questions that arise during the deliberation procedure, the foreman may ask the court in writing,” the judge pushed himself away from the desk and nodded at the bailiff.

“You are dismissed to the confines of the deliberation room,” the judge stated.

As the deputy guided the jurors out of the courtroom, I sighed. I felt as if I had done my best to defend all of the evidence presented against Michael. Now comes the tough part, the waiting. I turned slightly and looked at Michael. As he had through the course of the trial, he stared straight ahead.

“All rise,” the bailiff howled.

As we stood the judge exited to his chambers.

“What now?” Michael whispered.

“Well, now we wait. It could take hours or days. We wait here until the jury is dismissed for the day. As early as it is, I suspect they’ll deliberate all day. I know it’s exhausting and difficult, but it’s part of the process,” I whispered over my shoulder.

“How long until he gives the instructions to them?” he asked.

“He’ll do it right away. He’s already got them typed. Probably did it last night. He’ll give them the instructions within a few minutes, they’ll read them, and then they’ll begin deliberating. Deliberation consists of whatever they want. It could be reenacting the crime, reading testimony, recollection of facts, or discussing the case. Like I said, it could take days.

“I feel sick,” he sighed.

“That’s normal. Do you want to go to the bathroom or get a drink?” I asked.

“Yes ma’am,” he responded as he stood.

Seeing Michael like this was difficult for me. A man that is certain of who he is and what he stands for questioned by the government for standing up against the very thing that he believes in. In the last month he had become an emotional mess. Through the course of preparing for the case we had both become far less interested in being affectionate toward one another.

The lack of affection had led to a non-existent sex life. I didn’t want the lack of sex to cause Michael to wonder where my devotion lay. My devotion was now and would always be with him, regardless of the outcome.

“Michael,” I said as I stood from the chair.  

He turned to face me and raised one eyebrow slightly as he pressed his glasses against the bridge of his nose. As he stood, he tugged at his tie and straightened his jacket. He looked remarkable the way he was dressed.  I looked at him slightly disappointed as I realized the events that required him to dress in this manner.

“I pizz you,” I whispered.

“I pizz you back,” he responded, smiling.

“Now Vee, I’ve got to piss,” he smiled and whispered.

“Alright, let’s walk. Remember, just like before. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t make eye contact with or talk to the jurors if you see one, understood?” I reminded him.

“Yes ma’am,” he responded.

I looked around the courtroom and realized that we were the only ones left in the room. Everyone else had left after the jury was released. I glanced to where the jury had been seated and attempted to understand that twelve of Michael’s peers would decide what his fate would be. The man that I love was facing a decade in prison or more for a murder that wasn’t necessarily a murder.  

“You alright, babe?” he asked over his left shoulder.

“Yes. I’ll be fine,” I shook my head and turned toward the exit, “come on.”

As we started walking to the door, I stepped in front of him and grabbed the door handle to pull the door open. Immediately, the door opened and the deputy walked in, clearly short of breath.

“Is there a problem,” I asked.

“No ma’am. The jury has reached a verdict,” he stated.

“In this case?” I stammered.

Please no, this is not enough time. Please no.

“Yes ma’am. They asked me to find you. The jury is coming back in,” he exhaled.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

“Vee?” Michael said softly.

“Vee?” he repeated.

“Yes,” I looked up and into his eyes.

“What’s this mean? Fifteen minutes is all?” he asked, visibly nervous of the fact that this would soon be decided.

I couldn’t tell him what I thought. I couldn’t tell him the beliefs of attorneys regarding quick verdicts. Typically there were always people on a jury that believed a person is guilty if he is charged with a crime. Instead of the defendant being innocent until proven guilty, in these people’s eyes, they are guilty until proven innocent. As each jury typically has at least two people who believe in this manner, swaying them to believe innocence takes time. A quick verdict is almost always a guilty verdict.

“It’s hard to say,” I said as I looked around the courtroom.

People began to come into the courtroom and sit down. Slowly, we walked back to our desk and stood behind the chairs.

“Well, say. Tell me what your gut tells you,” he whispered as he looked around the room.

“Michael, I hate to say what…” I began to speak.

“Tell me,” he said sternly through his clenched teeth.

“It’s just hard to say, Michael…”

“Tell me, Vee,” he grunted.

“I love you Michael,” I said, attempting to maintain a professional posture.

“Vee…” his voice trailed off.

“Guilt. Typically it means guilt,” I admitted, nodding my head slowly.

“Well, I ain’t your typical guy,” he pulled his chair from the table.

“Sit down and attempt to show no emotion,” he reached over and pulled my chair away from the table, “you look like you’re going to cry.”

He sat down, interlocked his fingers, and placed his elbows on the table. As I sat in my seat, he looked to his left and attempted his best to force a smile.

“Here in a few minutes all of this will be over, Vee. One way or another. If I’m guilty, will they take me to jail right now?” he asked.

I nodded my head.

“Okay. Well, either way. I love you. And, if they find me guilty, I want to appeal the decision. But, I want you to wait for me. I know this, and I don’t know how it happened, and I’d never believe it if it didn’t happen to me, but it did. There’s one woman on this earth for me, Vivian. Just one. That woman’s you. I want you to wait for me, okay?” he said calmly.

I felt as if my heart was going to beat out of my chest. A guilty verdict for a client in the past meant a loss and an appeal of the decision. Now, a guilty verdict meant a life changing experience. The man I loved would be taken from me, and placed in prison. I swallowed and nodded my head.

“I will wait as long as it takes,” I responded.

As long as it takes.