Do Not Read This.

Chapter One: The Trial

Well, look at you. What a rebel.

        Did you read the cover? I definitely remember telling you not to read this, and if I remember correctly, I said it  pretty damn politely.  Whatever, you're here now...I might as well tell you the story.

        And just so you know, rebellion is what got my family in this position in the first place.

Chapter One: The Trial

        It wasn’t like I was asking for a miracle or anything. Then again, maybe I was. Would it take a miracle for the words ‘not guilty’ to roll off of that judge’s tongue? Would it take a miracle for my family to be the way it was before all of this happened? Yes, it would take a miracle, and I had the strangest feeling that no miracles were on their way to help a murderer.

        I sat with my legs crossed on that big brown sofa my dad bought last summer. I had no idea where he got it, but I used to think it was the most uncomfortable thing I would ever feel in my entire life. I was wrong. At that moment nothing could be more uncomfortable than the cold judgmental eyes of the policemen in my living room. They were dressed as if a riot were about to break out; fully suited and padded up. I didn’t blame them.

        My younger sister Laura was crying her eyes out trying not to look at the television. I, on the other hand, had my eyes glued to it. Nothing else in the world mattered to me. The rest of my life depended on what this judge said and he and the jury seemed to be taking their time.

        It was just talk after talk after talk with no commercial breaks. No matter how much I hated them, I would kill to see one of those cliché infomercials with a stupid skin cleansing secret or hair growth magic. I’d even pay for one of those twenty minute workout commercials that make me feel bad about how lazy I am. Anything that wasn’t me watching my father on a televised trial for the world to see, I was alright with.

        They hated him, and soon they would hate us too. Even though we didn’t do anything, we would be the family that allowed a terrorist to live with us. That’s what they were calling him, a terrorist.

        The night he was taken away kicking and screaming, he kept yelling “I didn’t do it, it wasn’t me.” The cops didn’t believe him, but of course I did. There wasn’t much proof that he didn’t do it, but there wasn’t any proof that he did do it either. It was mainly a suspicion that couldn’t be proven either in his favor or against it.

        There was supposedly this huge organization of suicidal domestic terrorists led by my father. There have been a total of nine explosions; all of them in densely populated areas. Each of them killing hundreds and injuring thousands.

        The Grenade Gang

        That’s what the media called it. Frankly, if my father was running this group, he would’ve come up with a much cooler name. The ‘Grenade Gang’ got their not-so-clever label from what they did. They would walk into these big cities like Chicago or New York carrying grenades. Once they were in the center of a big crowd they would pull the pin out of their grenades and hand them to unsuspecting civilians.

        The civilians would usually freak out and toss it. Some of the smarter ones would try their best to get it away from the crowd without releasing the spoon and setting it off. In the beginning every grenade that was handed off ended up exploding. After the first one the police went crazy. After the first four, anyone going into any city was being checked thoroughly. The police could only successfully stop one attempt. I still have no idea how they got the other five grenades in.

        People were being warned that if they were handed a grenade, they were to hold down the spoon and get to one of the officers (which were everywhere on every corner in every big city). All of these precautions couldn’t stop five more grenades from being set off.

        My father's lawyer, Arnold Keaton, had this big map of Manhattan out. He had mapped out all the places that had been hit by the grenade gang. At one point in the trial, Arnold completely lost it and started screaming.

        “How could he have possibly been able to hand off a grenade on First St. and make it all the way back here in two minutes?” He yelled. “This bomb went off at 8:45, but he was seen on this bank’s camera at 8:47. Please tell me how he got halfway across town on foot in two minutes.”

        “We’re not accusing Mr. Thomas of handing off the grenade. We’re accusing him of planning it. Please tell me what he was doing in Manhattan going to a bank that happens to be right outside of the blast range when he and his family live in Ohio?” The other lawyer, Martha Ferguson, was representing the state. Arnold responded the second Martha finished speaking.

        “He was going to the bank. Did I not make myself clear? There were nearly 30 people in that bank. I’m pretty sure that every one of those people weren’t from New York. Most of them probably lived farther away than Ohio, so why did you assume it was my client?” Martha opened her mouth to respond to Arnold, but he continued before she could. “I’ll tell you why. My client was unfairly targeted not simply because he is black, but because his wife is an Indian woman who has family and friends in the Middle East. This is racial profiling. You have no other reasons for accusing my client.”

        “You’re client wasn’t targeted because of his race” Martha started. “Mr. Thomas was targeted because he was seen within the area of four other grenades. I do believe in coincidences, but I can’t believe in five of them.”

        After that comment everything happened pretty quickly. There were a few more words, and the jury left to deliberate. My dad had already been televised in court four times. I hoped that they would finally come to a decision today, but I also knew that if it ended today and he was found guilty this would be just the beginning.

        I looked back at one of the riot-ready policemen. He looked almost as nervous as I was. He knew I was looking at him, but refused to meet my gaze.

        “Laura,” I whispered as softly as I could, but the room was so quiet that my whisper seemed to echo at full volume. The policemen focused on me closely waiting for the words. I avoided their gazes and turned back to my sister.

        “Yes?” She looked up at me.

        “What do you think they’re going to say?”

        “Who? The jury?” She asked at full volume.

        I nodded.

        “Well, I think they’re probably going to say that he’s guilty.”

        “Why do you think that’s he’s guilty?” I pointlessly whispered.

        “I don’t.” She responded.

        “Then why did you-.”

        “You asked me what I thought they were going to say. That’s what I think they’re going to say.” Laura replied hiding her tears and looking back at the television.

        Deep down I knew they were probably going to say he was guilty. There was no denying it. They needed someone to blame. They found someone. Whether he was actually guilty or not, they weren’t going to let him go free. They’d made him the face of the Grenade Gang and there was nothing anyone could do now. Like Laura, I gave the television screen my full attention.

Now there were commercials.