Dirty Laundry

Part 1: Only care about what we do.

The judge's stern voice echoed around the simmering courtroom, silencing all sounds but bated breath.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached your verdict?"

"Yes, Your Honour."

Bob stared out at the 12 men and women who sat before him, hoping that the weight of fate felt heavy on their shoulders. Then he stole a glance at you. For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw you smile, a quirk of the lip that would haunt him for the rest of the time he was granted.

"Is your verdict unanimous?"

"Yes, Your Honour."

"May the defendant please stand."

The chair creaked. Bob wondered if all courtroom chairs were designed that way, for maximum dramatic effect.

"As of count one of first-degree murder, do you the jury find the defendant guilty or not guilty?"

The jury foreperson's chest rose with a breath.

It was never supposed to come to this.

-

18 months earlier.

-

"Oof, lovebird strikes out again huh?" Hangman jeered as Rooster returned with his tail between his legs, having failed to chat up the girl sitting at the bar.

"Jailbird more like," Rooster huffed, slumping back into the booth. "She was just released from prison this morning."

Hangman almost choked on his beer. He tried to style it out with a laugh. "Now that is a rejection line I haven't heard before; creative though."

Rooster crossed his arms. "It wasn't just some line. She showed me her mugshot and prison record. She did five years at the San Diego Female Correction Centre."

"Sheesh. Guess you dodged a bullet then."

Hangman signalled to the group of guys at the pool table who had just finished their game, calling dibs on the cues. "Fancy another round Rooster? Bob?"

Bob wasn't listening. Ever since Rooster had mentioned you, the girl at the bar with a criminal record, he had been grappling with whether to walk over and make your acquaintance. Not because he wanted to chat you up, that had never been his style (and it was clear from the way you'd fended off Rooster that it wasn't what you were looking for tonight, because what girl in their right mind would reject Bradley Bradshaw if it was?), but he thought maybe you could use a friend. Someone who knew a little bit about supporting a person who had been chewed up and spat out by the American prison system. Or, at the very least, you might want to talk to someone who wouldn't judge you or call you a jailbird.

"Bob?"

"Huh?"

Hangman waved the pool cue in front of his eyes.

"Nah, I'm good," Bob said. He stood up and wiped the crumbs from his jeans. "I'm going to call it a night."

"No worries, man," Hangman gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder, then returned to the pool table, where Rooster was racking up.

"Hey Rooster, did that girl tell you what she was in for?"

Bob didn't hear the question or its answer. A lot of things might have been different if he had.

Once he got nearer, Bob noticed that if someone were to look closely at you, they might feel that something was a little out of place. Kind of like a background character in an old scooby-doo animation where you could tell which people in the crowd were going to move and which ones weren't, based on the vibrancy and the thickness of the outline. You didn't quite blend into your surroundings, although it looked like you were trying to. Your clothes were plain, personality-less, and didn't fit properly, everything was either too baggy or too tight in all the wrong places, bought for you from the cheapest retailer the prison could find.