Mr WordPress on Hello world!
November 9, 2011
Thecell walls were closing in on me. Every passing hour, I felt closed in, like a trapped, confused rat searching for a way out. Time had become a distant memory. I could not remember how long I had been confined; how many days and nights passed. My pacing the floor days were over. I was exhausted. Mazzie left hours ago and I was left with only the noise of my own thoughts.
My optimism had been shattered after speaking with my court appointed attorney. He was a squirrely man, thin, short, and wearing a yellow bow tie with blue and white stripped dress pants. He had a pointy nose, straw-like gray hair and small girly hands. When he entered the attorney/prison visiting room, a small laugh escaped my mouth. Mazzie kicked my shin, telling me to shut up.He stood over us, as we were sitting and reached his hand toward Mazzie for a friendly handshake. Mazzie stood up and entertained his gesture. They both sat down and pulled their chairs up tightly to the table. He didn’t look my way.
“My name is George Crank, I’ve been appointed to your case by the Court. Should you be able to afford an attorney of your own picking, please let me know now before I waste my time,” he said as he was rummaging through his briefcase. Mazzie and I sat there observing the contents of his leather bag being spilled over onto the floor. Finally, he swiftly landed a small digital recording device onto the table and the red light illuminated.
“Well?” he questioned.
I looked up and saw him staring at Mazzie. “What?” she asked.
“Do you have another attorney or not?” he flashed a glance over my way but his gaze immediately went back to Mazzie.
“Oh, no. You are all we have.” She said matter-of-factly and tucked her hands under her legs.
“Okay then, let’s get started,” he jumped up and rounded the table and looked at my hands then went to the door from where I entered. He pounded on the door until a guard appeared. “I need to have my client uncuffed. We can’t possibly work while she is cuffed. If she causes any problems, I am sure you will be close,” he demanded. The guard didn’t objected and did as instructed. My wrists ached and the redness circling my thin skin had long ago become permanent.
“Thank you,” I said as I massaged the pain away. He didn’t look up at me but grunted. He sat back down and told Mazzie, not me, that he was recording our meeting. It wasn’t a question, just something that was understood and assumed.
“Okay, I want to make sure that you know that anything you tell me will be confidential. No matter what you tell me, my job is to make sure that I defend you to the best of my ability. So, with that said, please tell me in your own words, no matter how disturbing, what happened on October 23rd, just take me through the day leading up to the murder. That would be a good place to start,” he said. He pulled out a pad of legal paper and a fancy pen and prepared to write anything I told him.
I glanced over at Mazzie. Her head gave a slight nod toward the miniature attorney and flickered her eyes at me. I took a deep breath. “I don’t remember anything. I don’t remember anything from the whole day,” I said. “I’m sorry,” the whisper escaped from deep inside my lungs as if excruciating to say.
“Is that what you are sticking with? Do you mean to tell me that you don’t remember stabbing, beating and strangling your father and nearly killing your aunt?” his face reddened. He gathered his papers off the floor and I thought he was going to leave. I was prepared for the end of our meeting. I panicked. I needed his help, to either help me remember or represent me as temporarily insane. I reached for his hand to stop him. He snatched his hand back quickly as if I had burnt him. “Don’t ever touch me like that again. Do you understand? I’m here to help you, but you aren’t giving me anything. How do you think I can help you if you are not honest with me?” He staggered to find his seat but sat back down.
“Please, she needs your help. Felicity claims she doesn’t remember anything but she needs your help. Maybe she will remember something soon. I read on the internet that she might have some sort of amnesia from the trauma. Could that be possible here?” Mazzie questioned.
“I really don’t believe that. I think she remembers just fine. So, with that said, so that this trip wasn’t a complete waste of my time, let me tell you the evidence that I police gave me. Maybe that will job some memories. Then maybe she will be more willing to talk and give me the facts and be completely honest with me so I can properly do my job. How about that?” He challenged both of us.
I shrugged. “Sure, what kind of evidence could they possibly have against me? All I remember is getting there after the fact and calling the police.” Mr. Crank didn’t even acknowledge that I had spoken. He pulled out folders containing documents and started pulling photos out of one and threw a couple my way.
There was a photograph of the door casing to my father’s front door to his house, the house that was once my home for so long. The door frame was busted and the wood splintered. “Looks like someone busted down in a fit of rage, doesn’t it?” He looked at me for answers, I gave him nothing.
The next photograph was of a fireplace poker covered with blood and some sort of white material. “Looks like you used this on your aunt and your dad. Test results show blood from each of you, but the handle has your finger prints? Wonder how they got there?” Again, his sarcastic gaze fell upon me. I watched him for a second and then I shrugged. I looked down at the photos again. Mazzie tapped her foot nervously and the thumping was in sync with my heart beat, which was rapid.
Mr. Crank opened another envelope and threw three more photos onto the table, they scattered over top the other two photos. The first photograph caught my eye. I saw was my dad’s twisted body lying in between the living room sofas. His face was facing to the right and he was on his stomach, his right arm above his head and his left was tucked under the sofa making it appear to have been amputated. His legs were crossed but his left foot seemed to be twisted or broken. One shoe was still on his right foot but the left shoe was on the left sofa. Blood seeped through his hair, running down his face and bleeding through his clothes. The other photos were about the same except one photo, sitting aside from the others, was a close up of his face. Underneath the ugliness of the crime was a man with a smirking, challenging expression. The corners of his mouth were turned up a little. One might say he looked peaceful but I took it as his last attempt to show that he won his last battle. I picked up the photograph and brought it close to my face. Unconsciously, I smiled and whispered, “I always hated you.”
Mr. Crank ripped the photo from my hands. “What is wrong with you? You can’t act like that. If you’re looking to get the chair, that’s the way to do it,” he spat in my face from across the table. Mazzie started crying. Her shoulders were shaking, her body was shaking. Her complexion paled more than her normal pasty looking skin, but more of a grey color. She moved to the other side of the table, during my moment of daydreaming, or whatever it was. She only across the table, but I knew that she was a lot further away in spirit.
Mr. Crank patted Mazzie’s back promoting comfort to the tragedy of my situation. My eyes tried to grab her attention. I needed to see what she was thinking. She would not look at me. I had lost her. The whole thing may have thrown her to a place she would not be able to return, emotionally.
Mr. Crank scooped up the photos and placed them nicely back into the folders. I thought he was done and was going to leave, but he took out another folder and handed the folder to me. I stood to retrieve it. It was light and clean. I held it. Mr. Crank nodded giving me the okay to open it. Once I glanced inside, I knew why he chose to give it only to me. Mazzie wouldn’t be able to handle anymore. Much like the photographs of my dad, Claire hugged the rug in front of the fireplace, encircled in blood. Her eyes were closed and besides the small drizzle of blood dripping from her brow, she looked asleep. I fell to my knees and held the photographs close to my heart. My heart ached. Tears welled in my tired eyes.
I ached to see her.
I wanted to smell her rosy scented hair and touch her soft hands.
I wanted to hear her tell me everything would be okay.
“Where is she?” I whispered.
“She’s still at Miami Valley Hospital. Police are guarding her and waiting for her to wake up so they can hear from her that you killed your dad and tried to kill her. Some black lady is taking care of her for now.” He stood up and came to me, taking the photos from me. He didn’t try to comfort me. No one was there for me.
I rocked myself back and forth, holding my knees close to my body. The room was quiet except for the sniffles heard from across the room.
“Who is taking care of her?” I questioned.
“Some black lady named Viva or Vivi?” he replied.
“I want to see her and my aunt,” I asked.
“Well, little lady, that is not going to happen. At least, not until you tell me what happened that night. This is only the tip of the evidence. There were reported threats all day and a missing knife the police have not found yet. You don’t happen to know where it is, do you?” He asked. I shook my head back and forth, still looking at the floor.
“You better think long and hard about what you’ve done here and get your story straight- and do it fast,” he packed up his stuff. He was getting ready to leave when Mazzie stood to walk out with him.
Mr. Crank said that he would be back in a couple weeks, after he gathered more information. I was supposed to get my story straight by then.
“Mazzie, please stay a minute,” I begged.
Her face hardened, her nose turned up, and her eyes slanted inward. “What have you done Felicity Mae Anderson? You had no right to hurt them!” She turned toward the door. “You killed my dad. You took him from me. It’s not all about you!”
I ran to the door after them. I door clicked shut when I reached it.
I threw my hands over my head and banged on the glass. “I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!” I screamed. I screamed the truth, I screamed with everything I had in me. “I didn’t do it!”
The guards tackled me down and replaced the handcuffs that had been familiar to my raw wrists. “I didn’t do it!” I repeated and repeated.
It was the day Joe Paterno, from Penn State, was charged for being a part of sexual abuse activity. I am sure he felt abandoned by loved one, like I had been. Our crimes were different but our feelings were parallel. We were both alone in a world that wanted to tear us apart.