“In the case of The People vs. Scott George, how does the
defendant plead?”
“Not guilty, your honor.”
Every eyeball in that courtroom gazed upon Scott with
judgment and scorn. Dressed in a suit and tie passed down from his father,
Scott could feel their hatred radiating off of his soul. His defense lawyer
said not guilty, but his mind said otherwise. His face was more readable than
Mr. Simpson’s desecrated chalkboard and the message written on it over and over
again. So this was what defiance was like, Scott thought to himself. This was
what happened to anybody who dared to be more than mediocre and ordinary. He
could feel his dreams being crushed like poison pills under the weight of this
courtroom’s table knife. His face drooped with depression and self-loathing.
The judge banged his gavel and said, “We will now hear the
opening arguments from both sides. Mr. Prosecutor, you have the floor.”
A lanky gentleman who towered over the rest of the courtroom
personnel took the center stage and held his hands in front of him, eyeballing
everyone with seething persecution. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he
started. “The defense will have you believe that this is just a simple case of
a vengeful teacher lording it over his pupils. But I now ask you, who is the
vengeful one here? A man who gives out C-minuses like it’s Christmas or an even
younger man who plays mind games of his own by having sex with that man’s
daughter? That’s really all this is: mind games.
“And guess what? Judging from Miss Adrienne Simpson’s
absence from this courtroom, I’d say those mind games are working. Don’t forget
that she is the victim in all of this, not Mr. Scott George. She is the one who
will live with this mistake for the rest of her life. Fifteen years old is not
an age for losing one’s virginity. It is an age in which she should be
exploring the world around her. It’s an age in which she learns from greater
sources of wisdom than an 18-year-old boy posing as a grown man.
“Members of the jury, don’t let the defense minimize this
incident as some kind of BS technicality. This is a serious offense Mr. George
committed and he must pay for all of the damage he’s done. Thank you, your
honor.”
As the prosecutor took his seat and straightened his tie,
Scott absorbed his harsh words like a sponge soaking up toxic chemicals. His
posture grew worse, his saggy face became less defined, and it wouldn’t be long
before the floodgates underneath his eyes opened for the final time. Final
seemed like an appropriate word to him, whether that meant getting stabbed in
prison or doing the job himself. The not guilty plea sounded less and less
genuine with every second that passed.
The defense lawyer, a stocky man who would measure up to his
opponent’s chest easily, took his turn at center stage and engaged his audience
with a stern tone. “And why shouldn’t I minimize it?” he asked. “Is it because
the status quo needs to be satisfied? Is it because technicalities are more
important to us than the real issues of today’s justice system? Let’s not forget
the real reason Adrienne Simpson isn’t here today. It’s not Scott George she’s
afraid to face. It’s her own father, the one who made this 9-1-1 call to begin
with.
“This is HIS war. All is fair in love and war, right? No
tactic is too underhanded. No victory is too minor. As a history teacher who
specializes in the art of war, Mr. Simpson lives by these mantras. But let’s be
honest: if Scott George was only seventeen years old and Adrienne Simpson was
fourteen, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. What is Mr. George supposed
to do: break up with her and then start their relationship over again once
she’s of age?
I know that this argument gets thrown around a lot in
legitimate rape cases and for the most part it’s a valid statement. So let’s
keep that statement valid by giving Mr. George a fair shake. Save your judgment
and vitriol for someone who truly deserves it. Thank you, your honor.”
Scott picked his head up and wiped the sadness out of his
eyes, if only for a minute. His lawyer patted him on the shoulder and assured
him it would be okay. Would Scott believe such a thing was possible? Would
anything be okay ever again? Would the damage continue even after the not
guilty plea became an undisputed reality?
“Mr. Prosecutor, you may call your first witness to the
stand,” ordered the judge.
The skyscraper of a human being took center stage once more
and said in a commanding voice, “I’d like to call Ms. Aloysius Striker to the
stand, please.”
Scott mouthed the words, “What the fuck?” as the living presence
of his most brutal nightmares skulked to the witness box. Sure enough, there
she was: no puppet strings, no puppet body, no worms, yet she still gave Scott
violent shivers throughout his system. He could feel the maggots swarming in
his intestines like villagers running away from a fire-breathing titan.
“Ms. Striker, I’ll start off by asking how you’re related to
the defendant,” said the prosecutor.
“I’m Alan Young’s step mother,” she said in a trembling sob.
The maggots grew even more restless inside Scott’s bowels. He didn’t know
whether to shit himself or projectile vomit across the room.
“And who is this Alan Young you speak of?”
“He knew Scott George ever since they were in elementary
school together. My step-son never got the education he wanted and it was all
because of Scott’s vindictiveness. Alan never stood a chance. He was always
sent to the principal’s office over minor occurrences. Scott used the system to
his advantage and made sure my baby boy suffered for as long as humanly possible.”
She wiped a singular tear from her eye and asked, “How is my step-son supposed
to learn anything when he’s being held down?”
Scott whispered the word, “Bullshit!” and his lawyer patted
him on the back to calm him down.
The prosecutor leaned on the edge of the witness box and
said, “So what you’re trying to tell the jury here is that Scott George is a
powerful man. He has so much power that he can use it for anything he wants,
whether it’s for good grades or for making sure those he deems unworthy feel
his wrath.”
“Objection, your honor.”
“Overruled. Please, Mr. Prosecutor, continue.”
“Before I was so rudely interrupted, I was going to ask you,
Ms. Striker: based on your interactions with the defendant as well as your
step-son’s interactions, do you believe it’s possible for Mr. Scott George to
be manipulative enough to take a young girl’s virginity out of spite?”
“Objection, your honor!”
The rest of this conversation became a cluster-fuck of
gibberish to Scott as he paid more attention to what his intestinal worms were
going on about. They slithered around like spitting cobras and hurled their
venom about. Scott’s head felt like a balloon ready to pop. His mind was also
crawling with these toxic worms. And cockroaches. And faceless cheerleaders who
proudly proclaimed they wanted to, “Bring out the gimp!” Sweat drizzled down
his forehead and into his eyeballs, which were already going blacker than the
lungs of a coal miner, an appropriate analogy for someone who could barely
breathe.
And then it happened. Scott George plopped onto the floor
limp as a noodle. The cacophonic rage swirled around him some more as he
overheard his lawyer shouting, “Get some paramedics! He needs help!” Scott
believed no amount of medical attention could give him the help he needed. An
oxygen mask was only a fashion accessory. An IV needle was more of a weapon
than a bastard sword. The paramedics could flood the courtroom with all of the
equipment they wanted, but he made no mistake about it: nobody was coming to
save him.
If there really were maggots and worms in his system, they
would cannibalize him and leave him on the side of the road as a gigantic turd.
How appropriate considering he felt like the lowest form of human shit
imaginable. He didn’t know whether the judge wanted to send him to prison or a
bottomless toilet. Either way, the future was dead, just like the democracy Mr.
Simpson always rallied against.
He could hear Adrienne’s voice in the back of his head
comforting him with soft, unintelligible words. How he wished for the feel of
her silky hands against his cold skin. Fuck the legality of it all: love was
love. But the judges and juries didn’t care about love in the first place. To
them, it was just as expendable as democracy and the future themselves. Scott wanted
to awaken from his blackness and check to see if Adrienne was really there, but
what was the point?
