The Terrible Trial of Kennedy Abrams (Treadmill II)

VII

VII

            Kennedy took a deep breath. Today was the day. Everything was about to change.

            She looked at herself in the mirror, feeling like she was looking at a version of herself she had never truly been able to recognize. The version that was terrified, remorseful, and itching to get out of the pantsuit her mother had shipped to her. At least she had been supportive in that regard.

            Kennedy's hair was pinned back with a clip in the same shade of gray as her pantsuit. Her shoes were borrowed from Lyla, a pair of modest black heels with a pointed toe, from when Lyla had almost managed to keep that job as a lawyer's intern. Before the lawyer realized that she was only hoping for the job so she could hit on the cute receptionist guy who ran the firm's front desk. She was promptly fired.

            Her makeup was subdued, almost unnoticeable. She had spent hours reading about the best way to impress a jury at first glance. The majority of the sites had the same answer: don't look too feminine but look feminine enough. Looking too feminine would cause the jury to see her as airy and ditzy, while not looking feminine enough would most likely cause the jury to see her as unapproachable and bitchy. So, her makeup consisted of a lightweight BB cream and slight contour, with nude eyeshadow and mascara that emphasized her lashes without weighing them down. Nothing graced her lips but chapstick.

            She remembered asking Hotchky if they would want her to look ditzy and airy. Perhaps they would think that a ditzy person wouldn't have the stomach to kill someone and cover it up. But Hotchky had said that there was a more likely chance the jury would be turned off to her rather than think she wouldn't be able to kill someone.

            Kennedy checked her watch and took a slow, deep breath. 10:21 AM. Thirty-nine minutes until the trial began.

            She allowed herself one moment of self-reflection and forced a whole lifetime's worth of regret into that moment. She wished her parents hadn't gotten that divorce. She wished she had chosen to go to school closer to home, further away from Florida. She wished she had never gone to that bar after Hank's speech at Clemson. She wished she hadn't thought nothing bad would come of sleeping with a married man. She wished she had told her friends about it, so they could have maybe talked some sense into her. She wished she hadn't felt so helpless as the relationship went on. She wished she had been more firm with the police about granting her a restraining order. She wished she hadn't felt like killing Hank Wilcox was the only way for her to get any semblance of her life back.

            And then the moment passed, and Kennedy shook her head to clear out all of the regret. She had made her choices. Now she was dealing with the consequences.

She took one last look at herself in the mirror before turning and walking out of her room and down the stairs, her eyes focused on the ground beneath her. She didn't want to trip and fall right before she was set to be in front of God knew how many people.

            "Hey, Ken." Lyla and Rian were waiting at the foot of the stairs, both of them dressed in button-down shirts and black slacks, "Are you ready?"

            Kennedy shook her head slowly, silently, in response to Rian's question. She wasn't ready. But she knew she was supposed to be.

            She was silent on the ride to the courthouse, her eyes staring straight ahead at the back of Rian's head as she drove. Lyla controlled the music from the passenger's side, choosing cheery songs that made Kennedy want to barf. She didn't want to be cheered up, although she knew her friends meant well. She wanted to wallow in the fact that she was about to be in front of a room of people, half of which were hellbent on getting her thrown in jail.