Dear Jessica,
As we agreed, I will try to share with you both my story and my court hearing experiences as accurately as I can.
I'm a couple of hours away from my first hearing for Dave's (my therapist) case. I haven't been thinking of what my jail sentence could be —that isn't the part that keeps me awake at night. You know?! They knew me! His family. They were kind to me! His wife once invited me to dinner; she wanted to help me impress my wife. Both of his daughters thanked me in a letter for those Christmas presents that I bought as a gesture of appreciation for what Dave had done for me. I can't help it! My legs can't even hold my weight standing knowing that they'll be there; heartbroken and with all the right to be indifferent.
I don't even know how a court trial works —will I have a space to express myself? Time to recount the events?
This morning, I tried to write down a speech; a couple of words to let them know that the attack wasn't intended for him. It will sound crazy, but I didn't even see him that day at the mall. My last session was a week and a half ago —he was assuring me that there was still a chance for me to see things differently.
He said, "As a professional, I am convinced that your case isn't as bad as you may think; I believe that you're just blocked and stressed," after I had told him that I was tired of discussing the same monologue on each sitting.
Now, I think that I was only embarrassed because I didn't want to accept that I was imagining things and making up stories without having any solid evidence.
Believe me, there's a lot more to tell...
For now, I'm here alone... No one inhabits the nearby cells. I'm just stuck here with myself, my thoughts, a journal, and a pencil stub. Even if I wanted to escape these walls, I couldn't; I can't even kill myself —these walls are cushioned, and I have no bed sheets, no objects that I could use to end it all, which I'm not planning to do anyway.
The prison itself is not the shithole that convicts talk about. Don't get me wrong, it's not like it's fun to be deprived of your freedom, I understand! But how would I see prison as a punishment when the real torment will be going out there, facing what I have done, and making it look like I'm defending it? Sitting next to a lawyer who will give me the right advice at the right moment? I don't want to use the advantages of the system to gain any benefit. I will be in front of people who tried to split their blessings with me, an unfortunate. And there I will be, wishing to undo all protocol to express, before everyone present, the absolute truth of how I ended up there.
Why would I want to get a reduced sentence? Why would I even start thinking about a date to be set free? To enjoy what I have stolen from him?
If you ask me, I would like to go back in time and...
. . .
Dear Jessica,
I thought I was accurately expressing my expectations of the trial in my last letter, but it wasn't quite there. I wasn't expecting strangers to be the fundamental part of the determination —that last decision that will shape how I'm going to live the rest of my life. They're called "The Jury." I didn't even bother looking. Not because I was embarrassed that some of them may know me, but because they were in the same direction as Dave's wife and her lawyers.
The atmosphere was heavy; loaded as a "fast draw" duel. As if that wasn't enough, the judge started by asking the prosecutor for their opening statements —their positions and the evidence that would ensure my compliance with justice. Dave's wife's lawyer; a young professional, defiantly stepped forward and began her argument by making it clear that there's no way that such an act (me grabbing Dave's neck and falling over him), is an accidental event.
"Falling over the victim could be an accident, but what were the intentions behind the neck grabbing?" She asked, looking at the jury as she continued daringly, "which we all know is a technique he's very familiar with."
After her statement, which I considered my first knockdown, she sat down. My lawyer got closer and whispered in my ear, "Focus on what we talked about before entering the room."
Without letting anyone breathe, the prosecution called for their first witness —the policeman who let Dave enter at his own risk to assist and mediate with me.
I started to think about what the first question would be. How would he start this terrible and embarrassing story? Would anybody there realize that some of the events will be unknown to me too? I settled in, ready to withstand the truth as the prosecution's lawyer asked the witness to recount the events of that Tuesday afternoon. This, obviously after he swore to say the truth, and nothing but the truth. My hands started to sweat just thinking about what I would answer when my turn to swear in came. I thought: will saying "I will speak my truth" be enough?
The witness's chair was not yet warm, and I had already learned that I never went to any store. According to him, who by the way introduced himself as Officer MRose, a mall security guard called the police station notifying that an intruder had entered the mall. In the call, it was indicated that the stranger walked no more than 50 steps and then stood still without moving anything but his head, which moved strangely in all directions, with a weird pattern. MRose then said that I was in the same position when they arrived 5 to 8 minutes later and that it wasn't until they tried to contact me through auto-speaker that I began to move my body and hands violently.
For me, personally, it was curious that those actions were enough for them (the police) to call the incident a possible civil terrorist attack. Fortunately for me, although sadly for him, my therapist was passing by the mall when the police were giving me the final warning; threatening me with retaliation. He had offered himself to assist at his own risk, saying that he knew me, that he was my therapist, and that I was no threat to society.
Since this was a case with substantial evidence, due to the judge's demands the witness was asked to narrate the mall's security footage. This, minutes after the judge asked Dave's daughters to move out from the courtroom due to the sensitive nature of the images. I didn't think I was capable of doing such a horrible thing. How did I snap so quickly from just standing there to waking up that killer instinct? What provoked me, apart from what I know, to attack him even though he was only waving at me? Dave's wife started crying while watching the footage. I couldn't hold back my tears anymore.
Needless to say, just a few minutes into this, the case had to be adjourned because of Dave's wife's inconsolable sorrow. Seconds after the adjourn notice, I was taken down by two of the sheriffs as I had stood up trying to make eye contact with her. They must have thought I stood to attack her as she passed by to leave the courtroom. For me, it was a detrimental event because after they picked me up from the ground, the members of the jury had what I could see in their looks as the realization of what Dave's lawyer had said earlier "A technique he's very familiar with."
It's not like I want to be free, but you should know how important a first impression is and how difficult it will be for me from this point on to convince everyone that I didn't try to kill that innocent man, an innocent and caring friend. The remorse was killing me; can you feel how selfish I felt when I thought I needed to let off steam, knowing that at that crucial moment, she didn't have her soulmate to do so?
On the way to my cell, the jail guards were pushing me around, telling me how disrespectful my actions were and how impatient were they for me to be with the rest of the jail population. One of them even said as they were walking away, "I will advocate that they deprive you of everything. Soon you will not have paper or pencil to write and communicate with the outside world. Soon you will also sleep the coldest night of your life. What a woman abuser really deserves, don't think us in here don't know your full story."
I didn't even complain; in my mind, I deserve this and much more. I just deeply desire that this letter and the rest of the story reach your hands. I need someone to know the truth; someone who has the tools or the facts to speak for us who experience and see life through a different prism.
P.S.
I tried to close my eyes and have a short nap — 3 to 4 hours which is my norm in here— and I couldn't sleep since I started to hear footsteps. You can think that this would be normal in a place full of people, but these footsteps sound different —intermittent. Sometimes the sound stops for 30 or 40 seconds before starting again with greater impetus. Feels like someone is lost or hasn't found what they're looking for. The structure of the hallway didn't help, it amplified the sounds; I couldn't even tell if the footsteps were getting closer or not.
In a raised tone I asked: "Who is there?" The footsteps intensified and at that moment I realized that they were approaching at a rapid pace. Suddenly, a door was heard opening, causing whatever it was to stop. Then the steps began to fade —I could tell it started to sound like it was running away.
Evidently, someone was approaching me... it must have been one of those jailers who wanted to take justice into their own hands. I am strong, especially if I have to accept or endure what I deserve. If something mysterious happens to me, don't let them link it as a case of suicide.
If I die, and he survives tell him that he was right... but it was too late for me to understand.
. . . . .
I'm doing my best to sort the letters and the content for them to align better with the court hearings. —Jessica