31
Emily
Iwake up dreading this day. I have to testify against Kevin in court. Do I think he deserves to pay for what he did? Yes. Do I think he needs medical care for his mental state instead of jail time? Also yes.
I button my black jacket over a white silk undershirt and smooth the fabric of a black skirt over my hips. I slip on my flip-flops and carry my heels. I take a deep breath as I pull my hair into a low side-ponytail. It’s gotten so long that even when pulled up, the ends graze my chest.
I drive to the courthouse, reliving the nightmare of almost dying. I walk into the courtroom and take a seat on the prosecution’s side. I avoid the gaze of most people in the room.
The judge is an older man with meek features and glasses that are too small for his face. His booming voice fills the courtroom.
Kevin wears a tan shirt and pants. He’s too ashamed to look at me.
The jury is faceless.
The prosecutor calls me to the witness stand. The world moves in slow motion as I walk forward. I sit down after taking my oath. I look across the room at Kevin.
His once strong and proud shoulders slump forward. His eyes refuse to rise from the table in front of him. Somehow, he looks small. The guilt and shame are apparent in his posture; he almost seems childlike.
The prosecutor stands in front of me with his hand wrapped around the banister. His knuckles turn white. He’s a man in his forties, and his hair is gray. There’s something quite dashing about him.
“What is your name?”
I lean into the mic and speak too loudly, creating feedback. “Emily Maylor, sir.”
“Okay, Emily. What was your relationship with the defendant?”
“We were dating, and we lived together.”
“What happened on the night of February sixteenth of this year?”
“Kevin had one of his night terrors, but it was different from any of the others. He punched me in my face and my stomach. He also choked me—”
“How did the defendant choke you?” he asks, offering a sympathetic glance toward the jury.
I lift my hands to my neck and try to mimic the feeling of Kevin’s fingers around my throat.
“Were you able to fight him off at all?”
“No. Not at all,” I say as my gaze falls to the floor.
“How long did the defendant hold you by your neck?
“I don’t know. Time was the last thing on my mind. It was long enough to nearly lose consciousness, though. I do know that.”
“And what happened once the defendant stopped his assault?”
“He grabbed his coat and left.”
The prosecutor turns toward the jurors, assessing their reactions. There’s silence except for someone coughing. He looks back at me as if he expects tears, hoping to prey on the sympathy of the jurors. I can’t cry. I’ve shed enough tears over this already. I’ve allowed myself to feel, to accept, and to move forward.
“No further questions,” he says, adjusting the button of his jacket while walking back to his seat. He sits down and shuffles his papers in front of him.
The judge lifts his glasses up toward the bridge of his nose and calls to the defense. “Defense? Your witness.”
The defense lawyer is a short, stout, balding man. His nose is bulbous and red.
“I’ll admit those injuries were pretty severe, Ms. Maylor. But I find it strange that you didn’t go to the hospital. If I had been choked nearly to death, I would certainly go to a hospital and get examined.”
The prosecutor stands. "Permission to approach the bench, Your Honor," he says.
The judge nods, and the prosecutor moves forward. The defense attorney shuffles on his heels. The three of them talk in whispers for a moment. Even though I'm sitting mere feet away, I can't make out what they're discussing. I fidget in my seat and adjust my skirt. When I look back at them, they've ended their chat.
"The jury will disregard the last question. You may continue, Mr. Szewski," the judge says.
"Why didn't you go to the hospital, Ms. Maylor?" the defense attorney asks, this time leaving out the dramatics. He turns his attention back to me, takes a deep breath, and awaits my response.
“You’re right. I didn’t go to the hospital. I felt okay enough by the time I was finished at the police station. It was four in the morning, and I was exhausted. I just wanted to go to my old apartment and be done with it.”
The defense attorney turns on his heels and speaks equally to the jury, the prosecutor, and the judge. He projects his voice in a way that excludes me.
“How do you expect to charge my client with felonious aggravated assault with strangulation, when the victim herself did not feel her injuries were severe enough to warrant a hospital visit?”
The case closes with a misdemeanor assault and battery charge. I’m informed Kevin will likely serve less than a year in jail but will be mandated to complete mental health counseling. For some reason, I’m okay with that outcome.
* * *