"Verdict " by Adam H

Dear Mr. Nocente,

     I’m sure you don’t know me. In fact, I’m quite positive it’s not in your best desire to. In any slight chance you do, you most likely know my face, or merely the parts you were able to make out in front of welling tears. You may despise me, you may yearn I live an eternal hell for the remainder of my life; quite frankly, I cannot blame you. 

     I received that dreaded notice, embossed “Jury Summons,” stamped with my name and a mandatory date to be met. I longed for a liable reason to skip and in looking high and low, far and wide, I found myself ultimately sitting in that twelve-seated box. In front of my eyes there you sat, weakly fitted in an, unironed, ebony, pinstripe, suit with a blood red tie sloppily around your neck with shoes almost as dull as the color in your abysmal black eyes. Your teeth were gritty and pasted white. You hair undone and knotted as if the wrong side of the bed woke up on you. Granted, it wasn't from bad hygiene, you were a complete wreck sweating from head to toe the moment you walked in. A man in his thirties with his whole life ahead of him, you were scared to hear the verdict, I’d never wish this position on my worst enemy. Your lawyer assured you he had it under control, but you already knew your fate deep down. You knew you couldn’t spend the money for a proper lawyer, kids were always first priority. He had been unorganized and late all week, but he already took your money so you had no other choice. 

     Salty tears dripped down from the laminated family photos of sleek plastic you pulled from your wallet. Two fraternal twin babes, around the age of four, happy and oblivious to the current state of their father. Your mother sat behind in the spectator seating. Short, black, french heels, and a reserved long black dress looking hopeless, tears filling her black eyes, but she didn’t let you see. She wanted to be strong for you, strong for herself. She stared askance at us and mouthed the words through blood colored lip gloss “he’s innocent,” more to assure herself than us. To be quite candid, no one was sure they knew. When the trial started I heard the witnesses and the victim speak vain of you. One after another I heard how jealous you were of him. How much you would’ve gained from his death. How you would pass at his wife and risk to lose it all just for her. Guilty of murder, your best friend of two decades, I was utterly shocked. Those fake tears I thought, how despicable. Recalling the event’s, the unfortunate widow cried, and stumbled across the hall in an emotional flurry. She could barely hold her composure, and you sat there, dazed. The jury, the judge, the audience, even your lawyer stared blankly at you, all but your

mother. Through the beam of eyes you only noticed as she followed the girl’s footsteps out of the courtroom, each heel mildly tripping over each other in a fit of poised despair. You saw her one last time on the front paper the next day. 

     Deciding our verdict, everyone was in sudden relief to hear the four decade imprisonment, the evidence against you was seemingly undeniable. You collapsed on the floor until you were forcibly taken by security. It felt like such an accomplishment to get a murderer off the street, to give a poor widow some closure. Twenty-seven years later we hear the truth spill out as the widow framed you for her own sinful adultery, for the lump-sum of life insurance. Twenty-seven years later you’re let out with mild compensation. Twenty-seven years later your orphaned kids have already called someone else their father. Twenty-seven years later and now over half of your life disappeared behind concrete walls and steel bars. 

     You must be wondering why I write this to you, why I recall such a traumatic memory back to the forefront of your mind. As one of the jurors, I cordially apologize. I could never forgive myself for voting you guilty, for being one of the twelve to send you behind an eternity of despair. 

Regards,