The judge begins to read out my court number, her voice as monotone as the machines that serve us at checkout. Then, just as slowly, she outlines my case, sometimes using the exact words from the statement I'd made shortly after my arrest.
Some of it's true, too, like how I'd woken up in the middle of the night to my mother struggling with a burglar. Or how the burglar had been trying to flee when he was shot once in the thigh, a shot, it turned out, that severed an artery. And yet there is one piece of information in the statement I'd given that she has completely and irrevocably wrong.
It wasn't me who shot him.
Afterward, my mother is called forward to the podium to give her character reference. She shifts from her seat in the spectators section and walks down the aisle. My breath hitches in my throat as she passes; I have to stop myself from reaching out to touch her. She doesn't look at me as she steps up to the podium, the microphone self-adjusting to her lithe, five-foot frame. She delves into her pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper, opening it up before holding it out in front of her.
"If you could please identify yourself for the record," the judge says.
Finally, my mother's eyes meet mine. "My name is Ana Gomez," she says, her voice wavering slightly. "I am the mother of Zoe Gomez."
I don't look at her when she speaks. I have to look at my hands because I can feel I'm on the brink of losing it, of screaming out or bursting into tears or curling into a fetal position until this nightmare's over.
"And I am here to beg you to spare my daughter's life," she says. An eerie silence befalls the courtroom. My mother takes a moment to scan the spectators. "She may have been found guilty, but she is not the murderer you're making her out to be, and the man she shot was not an innocent man. He broke into our home and tried to steal my wedding ring, the only piece of my husband I have left."
I flinch at that. She's making it sound as though my father died or something, not that he packed up his bags and snuck out in the middle of the night, never to return again.
"This man tried to strangle me," my mother says, indicating to her still bruised neck, and I swallow hard, forcing myself to look away. "I couldn't breathe, and when Lucas Reed tried to leave the house with my wedding ring, I screamed for somebody to stop him. My daughter then shot him in the leg to immobilize him."
I risk glancing at the judge to see she is focused on my mother, her eyes shining with what I'm certain is sympathy. Have I been lucky? Have I been given a judge that sympathizes with my case? If so, does this mean there's a chance my crime might not end in execution, after all?
In the state of Texas, any and all types of murder shall be met with the Harvest, America's latest method of execution. If sentenced to the Harvest, I'll be forced to lie down on a cold, metal operating table in nothing but a blue gown and have my organs removed, to be given to someone more deserving. The only exception to this rule is those who've murdered in self-defense–already ruled out in my case–and women who are pregnant, in which case they'll be sentenced after they've given birth. But maybe if my judge is sympathetic enough, she'll see reason. She'll spare my life.
"I know you think my daughter used unnecessary force, but you're wrong," my mother says, her voice harder now, more resilient. "She didn't mean to murder that intruder, and she didn't anticipate a leg shot would result in his death. My Zoe was brave that day and because of her bravery, I might be left without a daughter."
Once the judge has thanked her, my mother heads back to her seat. The next person to ascend the podium is Caroline Lewis, my employer from the diner I waitress at on the weekends. Only small diners like Caroline's still take on human servers, which means it is harder than ever for someone my age to get a job. I suspect the only reason I'd gotten it in the first place is because my mother has been Caroline's employee of the month for the last three years. I hadn't even spotted her amongst the spectators until now. It surprises me that she's bothered to make the journey at all, especially considering she's never seemed to like me all that much.
"How do you know the defendant in question, Miss Lewis?" the judge asks.
Slowly, Caroline straightens up, her bright eyes scanning the spectators as though she's about to speak at a beauty pageant. She has clearly made an effort to look her best today, knowing this hearing might well be shown on TV. She's got her pale pink suit on, her bleach blonde hair in some elaborate chignon, and her makeup isn't quite as garish as usual–a subtle peach lipstick in place of the usual vibrant pink. Caroline Lewis has gone all out.
"Zoe Gomez has worked for me in my diner for the past two years," she says, her blue eyes quickly finding mine. "As an employee, she's never missed a shift, she has a strong work ethic, and she knows how to make my customers smile. As a person, Zoe and I haven't always seen eye to eye. Mostly because I find her very opinionated–"
I clench my jaw, wishing Caroline would shut her peach colored lips before she does some irreversible damage. A character reference is supposed to present me as the model citizen, my friends and family's way of proving I'm too much of an asset to society to be sentenced to the Harvest. Clearly, Caroline didn't get the memo.
"But also because she has too big of a heart," Caroline continues, and just like that, just when I thought I couldn't feel any worse, Caroline goes and makes it possible. "I'll be the first to admit running a business in this day and age is hard, and sometimes I have to choose between what's best for the business and what's best for the customers," she says. "Zoe, God bless her soul, has never been afraid to tell me what she thinks of my decisions. She's always stood up for what she feels is right, and I truly believe that's all she was doing that awful night."
Even though I'm pretty sure she's making half of this up, I can't stop a lump from forming in my throat, a lump that threatens to choke me. Not just because her kind words have touched me, but because I'm starting to see how pointless this all is.
What good is talking about me like I'm the second coming going to do? Is it going to change the fact these people think I took a life unnecessarily? Is it going to rewrite the laws that have made the justice system this way? They think I took a life and to them, that renders my own expendable.
In other states with the death penalty, they have what's called imperfect self-defense, whereby a defendant may mitigate punishment or sentencing for a crime involving the use of deadly force, by claiming the honest but unreasonable belief that the actions were necessary to counter an attack. If a case is deemed imperfect self-defense in a court of law, you're not eligible for the death sentence.
My lawyer told me that. My mother paid him every last penny for him to tell me that if I lived in another state, my life wouldn't be about to end. Still, while Texas doesn't recognize imperfect self-defense, there have been cases like mine that haven't resulted in the death sentence. That means I still have a chance to walk out of here alive; it is a chance I cling to.
Once Caroline sits back down, that's it for the references. I sink further into my chair, thankful Eliza hasn't gotten up to speak. What would she have said, anyway? I was the first friend Zoe Gomez made before she kicked me to the curb to become popular? I'm sure that will play in my favor, really get the judge to feel for me.
Next, the judge calls forward Mr. Owen Reed. Slowly, I turn my head to where the victim's father sits hunched in the first row. I've been trying to avoid looking at him because I knew once I did, there would be no forgetting the look in those withered blue eyes, and I was right.
This is a man who is hanging on by a thread; I can see it in the way he keeps swallowing hard, trying to force down the lump I know is brewing in his throat, because the same lump is brewing in mine. He steps up to the podium before pulling out his victim impact statement, the irony of this hearing suddenly dawning on me. My family, here to beg the court to save my life and Owen, here to beg them to end it.
"My son was no angel," Mr. Reed begins quietly, and I realize this–seeing somebody else this broken, is even worse than if it were you yourself who were broken. "But he was my son. The only family I had."
His statement begins to shake between his fingers, but he fights to keep it steady. "I couldn't protect him," he chokes, and just like that, the thread snaps. His entire body folds in on itself as he crumbles before my eyes. "You're not supposed to bury your kids."
He jerks his head up to meet my gaze, his tear-stained cheeks all but glittering under the sunlight's glare. Then, when he becomes too emotional to speak, he makes his way back to his seat and I'm forced to dig my nails into my arm to stop myself crumbling alongside him.
When the judge finally turns to Mr. Roberts, I find myself holding my breath. "Mr. Roberts, is there anything you wish to offer by way of testimony or statement before sentencing in this matter?"
Mr. Roberts stands up, kicking over his briefcase in the process and sending it flying into the aisle. "Um, no, your honor, but my client would like to say something."
The judge gives him a pointed look. "Very well. Miss Gomez, I would like to advise you at this time of your right to allocution. That is your right to make any statement you might wish the court to consider before we pass a sentence in this matter. You may speak at this time."
Shakily, I get to my feet. I take a deep breath, glancing down at Mr. Roberts, who gives me a reassuring nod in return. He wants me to cry. He said as much the last time we met, that if I cry, the judge is more likely to sympathize with me. But even now when my life could possibly depend on it, my father's words still play on repeat: crying is for the weak.
"I'm sorry," I start, realizing how meaningless the word sounds out loud. Sorry is not going to end this father's misery, nor will it bring back his son. "I made a mistake that has cost us two families. Mine–" I turn to Owen now, who looks straight ahead, his jaw clenched tight as though he's struggling to breathe. "And yours. And I'm so, so sorry." I mean it, too, because even though I'm not the one who killed his son, he doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve any of this.
"I never wanted any of this to happen," I say. "I never wanted you to lose your son. I was scared, and I wish I could take back what I did."
When he doesn't look at me, I force myself to turn to the judge, trying hard to regain my composure. "I know all murder must end in death, but I'm asking you to take into consideration that I'm only seventeen-years-old. I believe there is a lot of good I can do with my life, if only you allow me to keep it." I sit back down, knowing the only thing left to do now is pray this judge is a merciful one.
For a moment, I think I see a flash of understanding in the judge. For a moment, I think she is listening to me, that maybe she will bend the laws that say I must pay for taking a life with my own, because this case isn't so clear cut, because this man had previously tried to hurt my mother, had stolen from us. But then her eyes scan the courtroom, her face hardening once more, and something in my stomach drops.
"Let it be known in the state of Texas, that if you take the life of one of our citizens, you will face the ultimate justice," she says, and I wonder if I'd only imagined the pity in her gaze.
"Despite displaying obvious remorse," she continues, "your sorrow will not bring back the life you took. While your mother's life was indeed under threat at one point by Mr. Lucas Reed, at the time of the shooting, Mr. Reed was in the process of fleeing the property and the perceived threat was over. That is not self-defense." She takes her eyes off mine to look to the spectators, and suddenly, my skin grows cold. "It is clear to me that the defendant does not seem to understand how precious human life is, but per Mr. Reed's wishes, I am not going to sentence you to the Harvest today."
The effect of her words is instant. Relief floods through every bone in my body, and I turn to see my family are just as shocked as I am. I've been spared, I've been given another chance at life, and the thought is enough to make me want to jump and rejoice.
"Instead, for your conviction in the offence of murder in the first degree, upon your plea of guilty, I am offering you the chance to enter the Arena of Justice, where, if you survive, you might finally understand the value of life."
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, leaving me gasping for breath. What did she say? Surely not what I thought she said. Surely Mr. Reed doesn't hate me so much that he's paid for me to enter the Arena of Justice?
"If you choose not to enter the arena, the court will sentence you to death in a manner prescribed by the law," the judge continues, her words slow and deliberate to make sure I understand in my state of shock. "The choice is yours, Miss Gomez. Do you understand and accept this punishment?"
The arena. She wants to put me into the Arena of Justice–the yearly, gladiator-style match that pits murderer against murderer in a bloody fight to the death. I hadn't considered the Arena of Justice even a remote possibility in my case. Justice week starts next week, which means the inmates entering will have been chosen long before now–unless something has happened to one of them and a spot has opened up.
A spot the judge is now offering me. I look back at the judge, my eyes as wide as a deer caught in headlights. She gives me what I can only describe as an encouraging look in return. Does she think by entering me into the arena she is somehow doing me a favor? Giving me one last chance to live? Or is it that she wants to see me suffer before I die?
I look back to my family to see they've lost all restraint. The tears run freely down my mother's cheeks, her desperate cries erupting through the courtroom. My brother sits beside her, his body trembling with every silent sob.
I realize my family are mourning me. In their eyes, I am already dead. Out of the twenty-four criminals who will compete in the arena, only one will make it out alive. It is highly unlikely that one will be me, but looking at my family, who have always needed me as much as I need them, I know I need to put up a fight. With one last look to my broken family, I turn to the judge, whispering two words I'll probably live just long enough to regret.
"I accept."