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Is The Truth Cheap? - Part 2

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.