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“Your trial date has been set a week from now,” my lawyer tells my mother and me as we sit at a huge table made of wood, just like they do in the movies.
All this space but nobody to fill it.
“What are her chances of getting out of this?” my mother asks, opening her purse to pull out a tissue.
She’s still bringing the drama forth.
“If I’m being honest, I don’t think we’re going to get off all that lightly. There is no evidence to support Callie’s claims that Celia stepped in front of the car. Her family is saying she wasn’t depressed and wasn’t suffering in any sort of way. Nobody else saw it. I may be able to drop the charges against driving underage, but as for the manslaughter charge? I’ll do my best, of course, to get Callie out of this.”
I stare numbly at the table.
The last month of my life has been constant talk about what’s coming next. Lawyers and media. The family of Celia on the news, saying they’ll get justice for their daughter. It has been a never-ending hell. I cried so much I couldn’t cry anymore. Now I’m just numb. Beneath the numb, though, I’m terrified. I’m so scared of what’s to come. So scared of where I’m going to end up.
Involuntary manslaughter is the charge they’re trying to get me on, instead of murder.
Murder.
As if I meant to kill her.
My friends, well, Joanne, said of course I didn’t mean to hit the girl. She told the same story I told—that we were looking for the can. Only none of them actually saw her step out. So, as far as the law is concerned, I wasn’t watching where I was going, and she was crossing the road. I hit her. They’re so incredibly wrong, but my words, no matter how many times I say them, mean little to anyone.
Because it wasn’t intentional, manslaughter is my charge. It can hold a maximum sentence of eight years. Eight. Years. My lawyer, Gregory, is trying to get me a lesser sentence because I’m underage. Either way, the chances of me going to juvie are probably a hundred percent. I’m not getting out of this. Honestly, why should I anyway? If I didn’t do what I did, Celia would still be alive today.
The first time I heard her name, Celia Yates, my whole world stopped. I stalked everything from her Facebook to her Instagram. Her family is right; it doesn’t look like she was unhappy. All her photos show her laughing with friends, or her boyfriend, Grant. She looked like she had a good life, full and enjoyable. I took that from her.
When I started reading the comments on her memorial pages, on what kind of monster I must be, my mother took my phone. She said I don’t need anything else to distract me. I need to be on my best behavior. I don’t think she realizes this isn’t third grade. Good behavior isn’t going to get me anywhere. I won’t get rewarded and let off.
No.
Nothing will change my sentence. Nothing at all.
At least, that’s how I see it.
“I’ve gone through the case a number of times,” Gregory goes on. “If there was something to indicate that Celia wanted to end her life, we’d have a stronger case to work with, but there is absolutely nothing to back up Callie’s story. However, I’m going to tell it as it is, play on the jury’s soft side. Surely they wouldn’t believe you deserve to go away.”
“So people don’t believe her?” my mother asks, scrunching up her nose.
Gregory shakes his head. “No, I’m sorry. They don’t.”
I’m done trying to tell the truth. For weeks, I pleaded and told everyone what really happened. My mother got the best lawyer she could, but honestly, I don’t even think she believes it. She’s asked me so many times why I won’t just tell the truth, and says that if I’m lying, it’ll only get worse for me. They’ve even offered me a plea deal where if I admit I wasn’t watching and say I hit Celia crossing the road, then I’ll get a lesser sentence.
I wanted to take it.
I want to take it.
My mother refuses.
She seems to think Gregory can get me off with just a slap on the wrist and community service, or even a lesser sentence, such as two years. The plea deal is three years. Even though she isn’t on my side, she thinks he’s good enough to get me off all the same. She’s wrong, but she refuses to move on it.
“The only recommendation I can make to you, is to accept the plea deal,” Gregory tells me. “It’ll be a lesser sentence.”
“I’m not comfortable with her accepting a lesser sentence when you’re supposed to get her off with even less than the plea deal,” my mother snaps.
“With all due respect, I’m doing my best. I’ve told you I’m not confident on the outcome of this case. If I were to make a choice, I’d say accept the deal.”
“I want to take it,” I say, frustrated. I want to take it. I don’t want to go away for longer if they decide that I’m deserving of it. Gregory told me it could be up to eight years. Eight. Three seems far less, in the scheme of things. I’ll only be nineteen; that’s not so bad.
“That’s not your choice to make. You’re a minor,” my mother growls. “What am I paying you for, if not to win?”
Gregory exhales. “I’m not god, ma’am. I’m doing the best I can; I’ll fight the best fight possible. I’ll do everything in my power to let the jury see that Callie is just a kid who was having fun with her friends when something bad happened. I’ll do the best I can. I cannot, however, make promises.”
My mother mutters something, and then looks to me. “We’re not taking that plea deal!”
“How come I don’t get a choice in this?” I snap, standing up. “I could get so much longer if you don’t take the deal! Wake up to yourself! This isn’t about you.”
“Callie!” my mother calls as I turn and storm out of the room.
I don’t look back. I have nothing more to say to her or to anyone else. I’ve already lost myself, my reputation, and everything I hold dear.
Now, I’m likely going to lose a good portion of my life.
All because my mother won’t listen to me.
Just like everyone else.
Nobody hears what I have to say.
Nobody.
~*~*~*~
“CALLIE ANDERSON, A decision has been made. Your sentence is as follows: for reckless driving, I find you guilty. For theft of personal property, I find you not guilty. For the involuntary manslaughter of Celia Yates, I find you guilty on all counts. You’ll be sentenced to six years in a correctional facility. You’ll serve in Juvenile detention center until you’re eighteen, you’ll then be moved to a prison. It is so ordered.”
There are moments in your life when your whole world comes to a complete stop.
Everything around you fades out.
Everything except the loud pounding of your heart in your chest. It radiates through your head until it is all you can hear.
Noises, people, the surroundings—they all become nothing.
That’s exactly what happens the moment my sentence is called out. I can’t feel. I can’t think. I can’t focus. Not on the wailing of my mother, or the way Celia’s family hug each other. Not on the slamming of the judge’s hammer on her desk. Nothing. It all fades into nothing. I can’t move. I can’t think. I can’t feel.
Not even when Joanne comes over and her hand curls over mine.
The only friend I have left in this world. The only one who forgives me.
When the guard orders me to stand, I’m snapped back into reality like a brutal slap to the face. The noise and surroundings come back into my conscious, and tears burst forth and roll down my cheeks..
“No!” I cry, as handcuffs are snapped on my wrists. “No, please. I didn’t do it. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t . . .”
My mother is sobbing. My father is trying to make his way over to me, but is being stopped by officers. Max is emotionless, staring at me with a look of horror on his face. Joanne is crying.
Celia’s family, they’re all watching as I get pulled away. I don’t focus on any of them. I couldn’t tell you how many there are. I sob as I’m removed from the room.
Six years.
I’m going away for six years.
If the judge said anything else, I didn’t hear it.
I can’t breathe as they take me out back.
Someone, please, make it stop. Wake me up from this nightmare. Please, I’m begging you.
Please.