There’s a brief recess where Ella insists I eat a granola bar, and then we’re back in the courtroom for the defense to respond.
And that’s when I see this is going to be different.
Murder cases like this often have trials that stretch out for days. Weeks, even. There’s a shift in the energy in the room when we come back, the defense attorneys consulting in low voices at the front of the room. One of them approaches the bench, and the judge listens. Nods.
“What’s happening?” asks Ella. “Can you hear?”
“No. But we’ll know soon enough.”
We do know soon enough. What happens is that the defense puts the murderer on the stands.
He’s a tall guy, too thin and pale, with dark bags under his eyes. He’s lost weight since they put his picture in the news for killing Quincy. I’d expected to feel pure fury when I saw him on the stand, but looking at him now, all I feel along with the rage is …
Emptiness.
I’ve been staring at the back of his head all day, and seeing his face doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change that Quincy is gone and never coming back. She’ll be dead forever, and it will always have begun with our conversation.
Justice can be healing, though. We have to own our actions, but we cannot own anyone else’s. This will change something. It will bring a sense of closure. There will be no more open case, no more phone calls, no more text messages. Quincy can rest and her name will be spoken by people who knew her beyond those photographs. The memories of her smiling will be the context of those conversations. And I’m ready for that. Fuck, I need that.
No more of this.
There’s a brief back-and-forth between the murderer and the judge, and then the defendant, her murderer, a man named Elijah Edwards is holding a sheet of paper in his hands, staring down at it.
“Your Honor. Jury. Ladies and gentlemen in the courtroom.” He sounds tired. “We’re all here today because of what I did, and I won’t sit in front of you and deny it. I killed Quincy Davis.”
My next breath fails to come. A cold sweat breaks out along my skin as I sit still, barely contained and listen to him speak.
“I was high, on meth, when I encountered the young woman on the street that night. I don’t say that to make an excuse, but to offer an explanation. I wasn’t thinking straight, and I killed her. I—” He covers his mouth with his hand, then drops it down again. “I am truly, truly sorry for the pain I’ve caused to her friends and family, and I know that nothing I say here will ever make up for that. All I can tell you is that I live with the horror of what I’ve done every day. That I became a person who would take a life under the influence of drugs. It’s not what I intended, and it’s not the way I hoped my life would be. Your Honor, I understand that I don’t deserve a second chance. All I ask is that you grant me mercy when you make your decision. I was in the grips of something I couldn’t control.” He puts the paper down. “That’s all,” he says. “That’s all.”