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Even Steven by Gail Farrelly The prosecutor is standing in front of the jury and delivering his rebuttal. Whew! Finally! The two-month murder trial is almost over. Thank goodness the prosecutor gets the last word. This the end. I couldn't stand to sit at the defense table for one more day. I look at the victim's picture set up on an easel behind the prosecutor. Why does it have to be in color? Her trusting blue eyes look out at the courtroom. But they seem to be focused on me. Her short curly blonde hair looks so real I can almost feel its softness and silkiness. I remember the many times I ran my fingers through it. Not for the first time, I think about the fact that I'm the only one in the courtroom who knows the whole story. Hey, not only in the courtroom, but also in the entire world. I'm the only one who knows what really happened. Only the perp and the victim have that knowledge. And the victim won't be talking, that's for sure. I won't be talking either. But I will be thinking. Constantly thinking. About how much I loved her. From the day we met when we were both twenty-five years old, I loved her. And she loved me for over a year. But then he came along. She married him and left me behind. Oh so far behind, for three long years. Then one day she was back. For one glorious night, she was back. I couldn't believe it. And I couldn't believe it when she came back the next week, this time telling me that she never wanted to see me again. She had the nerve to tell me that she had decided she was really in love with her husband and wanted to make a go of their marriage. I didn't understand. I had to ask her, "Why were you sleeping with me just last week?" She cried and answered, "I had to be sure. And now I am. I don't love you, I love him." I called her a slut and she slapped my face so quickly that it totally shocked me. I didn't slap back, but I did give her a push. A push that sent her flying across the room. The next thing I knew, she had slammed her head against the coffee table. I rushed over to help her up, but it was too late. She took one last breath and was gone. Getting rid of the body was much easier than I thought. Luckily, I'm big and she was small. I curled her up in a fetal position, stuck her in a massive tote bag, and dumped her body in Boston Harbor. By the time the body was found, it was minus the head and a lot of other things as well. And decomposition was so extensive a cause of death could not be determined. This meant that everyone was free to speculate, not only about who had done it, but also about how, when, and why it had been done. I'm sorry she died. It really was an accident. At the same time, I've been quite amused to see all the so-called legal experts giving their theories about her death. But I'm the only one who has all the answers. It's an empowering feeling, like being wrapped in an invisible cocoon, a space that no one else can invade. Not the prosecutor, not the police, not the public. Sometimes I look back to the days when I was a kid and hung out with my friends at my family's pool in Brookline. I was always a show-off, and whenever I learned a new trick I couldn't wait to show it to the world. "Look at me, look at me!" I'd shout, wanting anyone within hearing distance to admire my new handstand, back dive, or whatever. Likewise, these days, I daydream about what it would be like to stand up and scream, "I did it, I murdered her, but it was an accident! And none of you jerks got it right." A week after the prosecution's rebuttal, I look at the jury foreperson as she stands and delivers the verdict: Guilty! Cheers from one side of the courtroom, sobs from the other. I look to my right. My client, the defendant, visibly pales. Husband of the victim, he's shaky and on the verge of tears but manages to say to me, "Thanks for defending me and for believing in me. I know you did your best." I shake his hand and tell him we'll win on appeal. Yeah, right. And pigs will fly. I watch the defendant being led away. I'm thinking that he took the love of my life away from me. And I took her away from him. Even Steven. Oh, except that he'll be doing the time and he didn't even do the crime. His problem is he always thought that it's a man's world. He knew he hadn't killed his wife and was constantly trying to find the man who had. Ha! He should have known better. Doesn't he realize that murder is an equal-opportunity crime? He never would have had me as his lawyer, only that his parents insisted. They were, after all, paying the legal bills. I pick up my notebook and my pocketbook. Heading for the courtroom door, I slip my hand into my skirt pocket and finger what's stuffed in there. My one-way ticket to Fiji. I've heard the island girls there are out of this world. I'm outta here. THE END Gail Farrelly © 2006 |
Gail Farrelly is the author of
articles on financial reporting issues, dividend policy, and investment risk in
journals such as Accounting Review, Business and Society, Financial Analysts
Journal, and Financial Management. She also writes mystery novels, articles
about the mystery field, and Op-Eds. Her current hobby is publishing satire
pieces on a British website,