Confession of a Guiltless Heart

The fine wood finishing of the pillars of the courthouse was the first sight to grace my eyes. They gleamed off the opened glass door, a portal to a new world. The pitter of my heels tapped on the cement tile in time with the two police officers on either side of me, making my approach official. Their navy blue uniforms complemented the swish of my black and rose gold dress skirt. I looked ahead with purpose and serenity, fighting the urge to clutch my handbag that had been emptied by security, other than my drug, my chapstick, from sweaty fear. The walk down the hall seemed to stretch on forever, a road not wanted to be traveled, but one too many have crossed. History was caving in on me through government seals and emblems.

In front of me, as if appearing from magic, was a set of double doors made of heavy oak. My two law enforcement escorts opened them elegantly. For a moment, I could have pretended I was a princess; that was until I was blinded by flashes. The room was drowned in yellow-white light, flickering, murmuring, dazing me in a world of brightness and endless, echoing questions I could not answer. I was literally stunned for a few seconds, the urge to whimper and release my tears capturing my judgment, but my watchdogs gently took my arms and led me forward in the sea of blurred people. Cameras buzzed, their lens massive monsters swarming me like a pride of lions - and I was their prey.

After a few moments of pushing onward, my foggy, spotting vision became clearer. Before me stood the judge, a king overlooking his kingdom. My representation and the party meant to oppose me shared a common factor: the trail of sweat and doe-eyes that came with fried nerves.

Behind my table was my family and the two men that went through this ordeal with me, looking sharp in their black suits, damaged cosmetically, and scarred mentally, their eyes darting with jitters and lips white with edginess from the way they absentmindedly nibbled them. Mr. Jacobson, his left leg permanently locked in place and never able to bend again, stood tall, his eyes determined to show how full of integrity he was. Mr. Rocksilk rumpled his jacket, yanking on it as he stared and ducked his head, swooping his neck around the room like a hiding bird cringing at the thought of a huge buzzard flying around. His young, charming face was scarred, jagged so badly with deep marks in his facial tissue on his right side that he reminded me of a science experiment gone wrong, all because of someone else's transgressions. My knee began to throb as I gave them each one a more reassuring look, a wave of sickness attacking my stomach to the core, dripping with an acid of nervousness and fright of failure. No matter what, as I locked gazes with these men I would now forever be connected with, our pledge sang between us. A promise was birthed in their eyes; we would get through this.

The gavel hit, thundering through the courtroom. It was a trained call informing everyone it was time to sit...except for me, the woman who about jumped out of her skin at the sound. Somehow, I had to remain dignified, approachable, and, well, innocent. The judge called the court to order, his tenor voice ringing out to the crowd like a preacher on Sunday morning. The bailiff stepped forward, barely nodding his head in a bow of recognition towards me to acknowledge my presence. I smiled, giving him a curtsy with my head to match his, his blue eyes dancing in response like a child splashing in puddles. I swore in, no one even asking who I was or who the first witness would be; the whole world knew it was me. The whole nation was watching, including the President of this great land I call home; he told me himself he would be secretly rooting for my success.

But he would have to wait until his country had spoken.

I stood up in front of the judge like I was told by the bailiff, staring up at him in all his height and dressed majesty. I gave him a warm smile, his young grandfatherly appearance soothing to me. He tried not to respond, but I saw the bob of his head. I pressed my hands together in front of me, looking as lady-like and calm as I could, grateful for taking drama classes. My story was true, but being a panicky person did not help my cause with the jurors, who were preparing themselves to devour my words like I was the greatest film of the year and they had front row seats with free popcorn.