I sit on a poorly padded, orange and brown chevron cloth bench. It’s probably been here since smoking was still legal indoors. Traipsing the stale halls, sharply dressed lawyers weave around plaintiffs and defendants—some frightened, some belligerent—all moving with equal parts determination. One for truth, the other for blood. It smells of despair and injustice in the dust.
I never knew jury selection proceedings were open to the public.
My offense and disdain for the judicial system has brought a semi-permanent snarl to my upper lip whenever I’m within a mile of a courthouse. Where were the champions of justice when I needed them? Bought and paid for with dirty money, every last one.
I wonder how many people who have found themselves in a pool of potential jurors have any clue how corrupt the system is? Do they have even the faintest idea of how many judges are either on the take, or are so deeply in cahoots with people on both sides that they can’t even give directions to the bathroom honestly?
These incessant unanswerable questions swarm like bees in my brain as I sit in the hallway of the Commonwealth of Kentucky Court of Justice outside of Courtroom B.
As a witness for the prosecution, I’m not allowed to sit in on the jury selection proceedings. Just another arbitrary rule that limits fairness and truth. But, rules are rules, so here I sit. Reporters are permitted inside, though, and there’s no law against live social media posts as long as jurors aren’t identified. So I tolerate the dingy, stuffy hallway glued to several social media accounts, refreshing my feeds constantly.
Kendra stands in a corner across from me, counting ceiling tiles with her arms crossed.
The press has gone wild over this case. News anchors and beat reporters can’t get enough of the bold teenage victim underdog, David-versus-Goliath story. From the moment Aimee’s suit was filed under a collective of Jane Doe aliases, cameras and local television personalities from Cleveland to Nashville descended on the area like hyenas on a fresh kill. Every story is the same. Feigning sympathy, they report such shock and horror over the allegations. “How could an agency created to protect young children possibly have been involved in such atrocities?! Surely this hasn’t ever happened before!”
News this interesting will make the jury selection much more difficult, so two hundred potential jurors have been summoned to appear in Courtroom B.
The law of the land guarantees a defendant the right to a trial by a jury of his peers. But the state of Kentucky is the defendant in this lawsuit, so I’m not sure it’s technically possible to have a jury of peers. I cannot imagine that a true peer to the corrupt bureaucrats could ever side against their own.
Leaning back with my extra-large cold brew, my cell phone charger plugged in, I settle in for the play-by-play.
Aside from the desire to scope out the territory ahead of my potential testimony, I’m not exactly sure what compels me to be here. I’m just a minor witness in a major case. If I even take the stand, which is iffy at best, the attorneys have said my testimony is only to help establish more credibility for Aimee.
She is why I’m here. I have seen and heard so much of myself in her, and more than once my body has manifested its understanding of her pain and grief. Like war veterans with similar stories from different eras, we’ve shared a familiarity in the travesty of ongoing injustice.
As I was leaving the house this morning, Grace reached up to put both hands on my shoulders, “Are you trying to relive your own journey of betrayal through Aimee’s?”
Perhaps so. I’ve admitted I envy this teenager’s boldness and her courage to dig in, despite the powerful opposition against her.
At Aimee’s age I was drinking and snorting myself into willful oblivion. She is much smarter than I was.
I glance at my mobile news feed. Twenty-five jurors have already been dismissed. The first social media post by one Jeffrey Moreland stationed inside the proceedings indicates that these twenty-five had been connected in some way to the state foster care system. A wave of cynicism washes over me.
The defense cannot possibly expect someone inside the system to have a single positive thing to say. Of course those people would be dismissed.
I smile at the next post by Jeffrey Moreland. “One of those twenty-five was heard commenting as she exited, ‘About time somebody held these people accountable.’ Judge Jackson immediately warned the remaining pool to disregard the outburst, and that anyone making additional comments would be charged with contempt.”
An almost imperceptible thought floats through my mind. “Have you thought about praying over this case?”
Looking around, I expect to find someone speaking. But there’s only Kendra, and that was definitely not her voice.
Praying? About a court case? Ha! Yeah, right. As if that would do any good.
“What could it hurt?” the quiet voice challenges.
Ha! What could it hurt? False hopes, disappointment, more letdowns and a whole lot of nothing in response for starters.
The thought comes quickly. “But what if prayer actually did help?”
This has to be God speaking.
I scoff. “Ok, God, You want me to pray?” I say aloud under my breath. “Here’s a prayer. Carl Blackwell deserves the death penalty. Could You make that happen? That’s my prayer.”
Not wanting to wait for an answer, I slurp down the last drops of my coffee just as I realize how uncomfortably full my bladder is. Tucking my phone and my keys in my pocket, I hustle toward the restrooms in the center courtroom atrium. A slight panic erupts as I come upon the massive trash can blocking the restroom and a sign that reads “Closed for Maintenance.”
I start to do the cross-legged bathroom dance as I hurry toward an armed guard near the elevator. Pain contorts my face.
“Sir, I hate to ask this,” I say, breathless at my discomfort, “but I seriously need a restroom like ASAP. What’s my fastest option?”
Checking his watch, the officer proceeds toward a small side door. “This way, sir, but make it quick. This hallway is usually reserved for people with security clearance.” As he unlocks the door, I’m beyond grateful to see the clearly labeled men’s room door halfway down the hall.
I make it to the urinal just in time. Relief floods me and the pain subsides as I let out a laughably long sigh.
Next time I don’t need an extra-large!
After flushing the urinal and readjusting my pants, I move to the sink to wash my hands. Just as I start to lather up, three men walk through the door.
Carl Blackwell stands between two heavily armed police officers who proceed to unlock the wrist cuffs of their detainee. Carl and I lock eyes for a moment in the mirror, and it’s clear he has no idea who I am. With his splotchy face, bloated waistline, and well-worn prison jumpsuit, Carl is a former shell of himself.
In an instant, an uncontrollable trembling overtakes my hands, and a dizzy, disorienting swirl of confusion and fear threatens to drop me to my knees. One part of me feels like a terrified five-year-old being threatened yet again by his tyrannical big brother. A much bigger part of me knows I’m a strong, healthy adult who would have no problem ending Carl’s existence with my bare hands right now.
“Don’t be a moron, Danny,” warns the Bossman.
Brody catches my eye in the mirror as Carl, with his ankles still shackled, shuffles over to a urinal. Taking a deep breath, I shake my head slightly at Brody to send him on his way. Drying my hands quickly with a few paper towels, I nod at the officers and head out the door.
I’ve had enough of this courtroom for today. I make my way out to my car, forcing myself to breathe in the spring air deeply so I can hold it together long enough to drive home.
Hey, God? My last prayer still stands.