Invisible Spot

Chapter One

"All rise for the Honorable Judge Matthews." The pudgy police security detail officer spoke in a raspy voice, addressing everyone in the humid courtroom.

Dad stood up and grabbed my mother's wrist, willing her to stand. She looked up to face him, her eyes blank and far away. Her hair was matted and the bags under her eyes were dark and heavy. Then, she stood. Her clothes were wrinkled and crooked, but she didn't care. She wasn't planning on getting out of bed today, let alone wear black like our attorney suggested, "To show you're mourning." I remembered him saying as he rolled a marble between his fingers. He was just there for pay, not caring that we lost a person. A family member. But that was all Mom thought about. Death. So, it didn't matter that she looked slightly homely. The thing was; she was up. She was moving. Which was better than what she has been doing for the past two months. Which has been the length of this trial.

The judge entered in a long, flowing black robe. It seemed just slightly too big. Judge Matthews was short and slim, his head round and glistening with sweat. The few hairs he had were placed sporadically across his greasy chin. In his chubby fingers, he slightly squeezed an envelope. That must be the verdict. Once he hauled himself into the upholstered maroon chair, he nodded at the detail officer who then spoke, "You may be seated."

The shelled walls of the courtroom echoed the sound of chairs scratching the floor and the shuffling of papers in the front of the room as we all took our seats. Once everyone was seated, save for my mother, the judge stared in our direction with disdain and pity. Dad didn't face me as he tugged on his mourning wife's wrist, and wrapped his own jacket around her shoulders once she was sitting next to him on the wooden pew. She faced forward with the same blank look in her eyes that she's had for the past two months.

"I have reached a verdict," The judge began, waiting the allotted time for suspense and the stenographer stopped typing. Time seemed to slow after we heard the verdict, "I find the defendant not guilty." Everyone on the opposite side of the room jumped up in exhilaration and whooped, the men sharing the typical three-clap back hug, the women chattering, some being picked up by their spouses, celebrating. While our attorney stood silently and began to retrieve his papers and devices. Then, everything happened so quickly that I couldn't register it before it was too late.

My dad was getting up, shoving past Mom, who hadn't moved once since she heard the verdict, but she was shedding silent tears. I watched as Dad stood in front of our flawed lawyer. He didn't look up towards my father who was irritated beyond belief, until he banged his fist on the table. Then there was the yelling, barely heard over the sounds of celebration and excitement. But, I heard it. Then I saw it. The fist that my father threw at him, hitting him square in the face.

I was about to get up and run to him, when the large detail officer pulled him off of the guy. But, that wasn't before he got two more hits in, one earned him a loud crack and the victim doubling over in pain. Then, my father was pulled out of the room and the party opposite us stopped.

My mother had to have seen that occurrence, right? She was staring right at him and she didn't even flinch. How useless! A fifteen year old girl should not have to deal with her incapacitated mother and possibly incarcerated father! But, then again, who else would? Surely not Damien. Damien is dead. And the man celebrating killed him.

And, just then, as of summoned by my thoughts, the defendant, the murderer turned to face my mother and I. I could tell he was trying to fabricate a look of pity but all he could muster was pure exuberance.

I looked back with a blank expression. I could not let him see my feelings. He doesn't deserve them. He was guilty. Peter Mendoza. The free murderer. Damien Warner. The dead boy; a brother, a son, a fiancee, a father. An innocent.

Thoughts of his mourning fiancee floated into my head. His little girl. Agnus Elizabeth Warner. Her memory not developed. Her tiny hands reaching out for a father she never met. Born only one months ago, no memory of Damien. And his fiancee, not in well enough health to raise her daughter, handed her off to us very unceremoniously, a quick phone call with my dad and then dropping her off at our front door. She never said where she was going, or how long she'd be.

My phone buzzed then, alerting me that I was receiving a call. The babysitter was calling. I hired the girl yesterday to watch Agnus. She was sixteen with a perky blond ponytail and I was desperate. She seemed like the overactive camp counselor type, but I couldn't find anyone better. Once she got to the house, forty-five minutes late, mind you, she gave me the practiced response, "Oh, she's adorable, was she his?" She was speaking with caution, as if his name was a trigger and I would resort to climbing onto the roof and jump if I heard his name. She then told me she was sorry for my loss, as if a stranger being sorry would make it better. Like it would bring him back. I gave her my contact information and told her only to call if it was an emergency.

So, now, in this moment, I fumbled over sticks of gum and lip gloss in my purse to reach my phone. I quickly answered, almost out of breath, "Hello?"

"Um . . . Janice?" She answered cautiously. She sounded exhausted.

"What is it?" I asked, she didn't sound like she was in immediate danger.

"The baby, Abby." I internally sighed at her incompetence as she continued, "She won't stop crying and she isn't eating."

"Okay. Just change her and make her formula. That should calm her down." I zipped my purse and pulled on my jacket. The worn leather was soft and plush. It was Damien's. Kind of. Mom usually did all of the shopping, but one day Dad had to go get Damien a new jacket and he accidentally got a jacket for the wrong gender, so he gave it to me. Now, back in reality, the jacket fell easily across my shoulders and I began the process of prodding my mother and convincing her to move.

"Yeah," I heard shuffling in the background before her voice came back, timid, "How do you do that?"

I was then escorting my mother out of the drafty courtroom and into the hordes of reporters that were prohibited to be inside when the verdict was decided. Though, I assume they knew the verdict based on the offensive slurs my father threw at our lawyer. They still peppered us with questions, "Janice! How does it feel seeing Mr. Mendoza go free?"

"Mrs. Warner, how will you come back from this?"

"Is your husband planning on running for senator this year?"

We pushed through the crowd to our car. Barely unlocking the door before Mom yanked open the passenger door. I closed it behind her. I then opened the driver's side door and slid in amongst the grasping hands of reported and blinding camera flashes.

"Abby, are you still there?" I spoke into the phone and honked angrily at the reporters blocking my exit route. All the while, simultaneously comforting my quietly sobbing mother.

This was my life now.