When The World Explodes

Words, Sickness, and Helen's Big Day

It was grey and rainy out when she got into the car - not that she minded, rain was cool and calming - but that was an hour ago, and the storm had fully blown in- gotta love DC weather. Helen pulled her red jacket closer to her. Cold as it had been on the streets in the storm, it was colder and grayer in the courthouse with its austere marble walls and constant silence. The overly masculine - compensating? - security guard looked at her id, raised and eyebrow, then let her through to the marble mausoleum where a man would soon sit facing the possibility of life in prison. A woman, elevated above the room, somehow selected to decide the fate of another human being, glanced at her. For a moment she pitied the judge - it must be hard to be the one who chooses - but the moment was fleeting.

"All may be seated, the proceedings of this court will now commence."

The bailiff was stern faced with large round spectacles, giving the impression of constantly scrutinizing everyone around him. His accent rolled, slightly southern. Immediately Helen knew he couldn't have grown up in New York. She pulled out her notebook and jotted down the details. Although she couldn't have given a reason, she felt she had to write down everything she observed. Maybe she just knew on some level that it might be important someday. Esto es toda la historia.

"Will the defendant please rise?" said the judge. Her face was kinder than the bailiff's, but it was clear she meant business. Hers was the expression of many a woman in a government position: a mask of calm and toughness. She probably worked twice as hard as any man to get where she is, Helen thought stoically.

"The defendant, Henry Turner, stands accused of rape by Ms. Julie Wong. How do you plead?"

The judge stared at the man behind the witness stand over the rim of her spectacles. He cleared his throat and looked around nervously. Cliche. "Not guilty," he muttered. Another cliche. "Not guilty." his voice louder, more convicted, this time.

"Mr. Turner, given your past conviction of sexual assault I think you should be informed that a conviction after a not-guilty plea would result in a very harsh sentence."

"I said I plead not guilty." the man had the audacity to glare at her.

The judge sighed. "Very well. Mr Jones, do you have any opening remarks?" Jones, Turner's lawyer, was a thin, balding man who looked like a weasel to Helen. She smirked and wrote that description down in her notebook.

The lawyers argued for hours. The hours stretched into what felt like days (metaphorical days? why not), and Helena sat and listened. Usually she lost interest somewhere around the fifth hour of a trial, but this time she couldn't look away. It was the victim that did it, really. She wasn't looking desolately at the floor like most girls involved in the sexual assault cases Helena had witnessed, she seemed collected. It was almost as though it didn't matter to her who won the trial, like it was no more than a circus show. Step right up and watch the clowns pie each other. Don't go, stick around for the main event: the battle of our two prized bulls.

"No more questions, your honor. The defense rests." Jones said, leaning on his counsel's desk with one hand and spinning a pen with the other. He had a detached, almost amused expression on his face, and Helen hated him for it.

The prosecution lawyer, Mr. Alfred, conducted himself firmly but not unkindly. He looked calm, but not at ease. Odd. Helen tapped her pencil on her notebook, frowning slightly. She didn't like how difficult he was to describe.

Speaking smoothly, he rose from his chair and walked across the courtroom. The man had a unique air of dignity about him, like he was above all provocation. To Helen or maybe in one of her historical compositions he would have been an army man, maybe of the sort that flew planes- no, a foot soldier. he's really not scared of anything - but she wasn't writing fiction. The (slightly) less romanticized version of the story is that he seemed to glide, didn't smile, and was obviously not unnerved by the prosecution's (strong? how is that even possible?) case. "Ms. Wong, you said earlier that you'd consumed some alcohol on the night of November fifteenth, 2015, correct?"