Page 6 of Into These Eyes

Gavin

A fter the Corrective Services officer places me in the side-dock, I glance nervously around the courtroom I’ll soon become accustomed to. For how long, I don’t know. What I do know is that it’s a far more pleasant environment than the remand cell I’m barely surviving in.

This courtroom, and the twelve people seated in the jury box, are my only hope of freedom. Contrary to what my publicly-appointed defence lawyer believes and has repeatedly explained.

He’d shown me the video footage from the camera mounted in the security patrol car. It looks bad. Due to the lack of context. It shows me gripping the knife handle, while—my lawyer pointed out—it looks like I’m strangling her with my other hand. Then I stare up at the headlights in shock. And flee.

The jury won’t see what happened moments before the camera captured me. They won’t see the man in black shouldering into me, nor me rushing to the woman’s aid.

My lawyer also told me the assault on my father will come to light and that Dad will take the stand for the prosecution.

None of it sounds promising, but I hold strong to the belief that the truth will prevail. That’s what court is for, right?

I search the public gallery for my only parent. He’s nowhere to be seen. I don’t know if that’s because he’s not here, or if he’s not allowed in the courtroom. Either way, it doesn’t matter. I haven’t seen or heard from him since that night.

He believes I killed his lover. My lawyer won’t confirm it either way, but I know. After almost a year, I don’t have to be a genius to understand my father’s abandoned me.

I’m here alone, with no one on my side. Not even my court appointed lawyer.

Staring at him, I watch as he has a quiet laugh with the two prosecutors seated at the bar table. Apparently, my life hanging in the balance isn’t enough to come between mates enjoying a joke. I’m sure he believes I’m guilty too.

My insides shrivel. No one cares what happens to me.

Swallowing over the lump in my throat, I let my gaze drift over the jurors faces.

Some glance at me, some drop their eyes as soon as mine meet theirs, and some refuse to even look my way.

At this stage, they should be neutral in their judgement.

Though, I wonder if their opinions have already been swayed by the mere fact that I’m sitting in the dock.

I scan the gallery again, trying to see if there’s a single familiar face amongst the strangers. Maybe a teacher, a friend, one of the guys on the soccer team. Surely at least one person turned up to support me.

Instead of finding anyone I know, my gaze falls on the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.

She clutches the inside of an older man’s arm.

Her smooth, clear skin is free of makeup.

Dark auburn hair hangs almost to her elbows as the overhead lights dance on the silky surface with every movement she makes.

I stare at her plump lips as she talks to the older man, watch the way they purse and relax while she forms unheard words.

Then she looks right at me.

And our eyes lock.

Her eyes. Oh, wow .

Like the emerald in a tall wave right before it breaks.

When that stunning green turns fierce, aflame with utter hatred, I know who she is.

The woman I’m on trial for murdering was a wife and mother. A mother to a two-year-old, and a sixteen-year-old. Both girls. And that teenage daughter is staring at me like I’m the devil himself.

As much as I want to shrink away, I also want to scream at her, tell her I’m innocent, that the real killer’s still out there, roaming free.

Of course, I can’t do any such thing. I’ve been thoroughly prepped on courtroom etiquette, and yelling out to the murder victim’s family won’t go well for me. So, I keep my mouth shut.

That doesn’t stop my eyes from constantly finding hers. Even though they’re filled with hatred, the intense passion within their depths captivates me.

When I’m returned to my holding cell, I beg for paper and a pencil. And I do something I dismissed when soccer became my life. There’s no soccer for an accused killer. There is, however, plenty of time to get creative.

Now, I sketch on the crumpled piece of paper. And as I draw, I disappear. Time vanishes. The cell dissolves. All the fear and hurt and turmoil evaporates. All I’m left with are the strokes of my pencil and the image taking form.

When I’m finished and I snap back to reality, her eyes stare into mine. Although the image is black and white, there’s no mistaking the utter disdain I’ve captured, the loathing that tears at my heart.

It doesn’t matter. Whether she hates me or not, I’ve found a way to escape this nightmare. She’s given me a way.

Over the course of my trial, through all the so-called evidence presented to the judge and jury, I find myself watching that beautiful girl. All. The. Time. When she glances my way, our eyes clash. And every time, I feel like a piece of my soul’s being sliced away.

But I can’t stop myself. I’ve even found a word for her. Compelling. She is the definition of that word. She’s evoked my interest, my attention, my admiration in a powerful, irresistible way.

I think I might be obsessed. How can I not be? She’s my escape, my inspiration.

Her hatred of me is a lifeforce burning within her.

While I sit here feeling dead inside.

Occasionally, I catch sight of such sorrow in her eyes, I can’t look at her.

Although my grief began a month before hers, it’s only intensified with the trial and the loss of my father’s belief in me.

I need my mother now more than ever, but she’ll never be here for me ever again.

So, I force myself to look away from Jamie Evans before her heartbreak infects me.

I don’t want to cry. I need to be strong. I need to be like her.

Throughout the trial, she hears all the damning evidence. The prosecution’s ability to make up lies spears dread into my soul while the jury eats every word up as if they’re watching a movie.

When the truth is revealed, Jamie Evans will see that we’re the same. We’re both victims of whoever killed her mother. In a way, I’m jealous. At least she has somewhere to direct her anger. And she’s certainly taken advantage of that.

As the days blur, her passionate hatred of me grows into something utterly inspiring. If she can be so zealous about despising me, then I can be just as determined about maintaining my innocence.

When I speak to my lawyer and demand I take the stand and tell my side of the story, he shoots me down, stating in no uncertain terms that I’ll be thrown to the wolves.

I guess that means I’ll be ripped apart by the prosecution.

I’ve relented, but every day after, when I look at that girl, I’m ashamed of myself for letting someone else hold my future in their hands.

But what can I do about it? Nothing. Except rely on the professional advice of my lawyer.

The shame of not being able to fight for myself doesn’t stop me from watching her. Every time her eyes meet mine, I commit another detail to memory, searing every component into my brain until I can lie in my cell and see them floating above me in the darkness.

I’ve noticed that her father’s attendance has dwindled to non-existent. Yet she’s here every single day.

Even when she’s all alone, her strength and conviction never waver.

I’m probably deluded, probably latching onto anything I can, but I believe I know who she is on the inside. Simply from observing her body language. And those eyes.

One day I’ll change that loathing into something else. Something warm and forgiving.

One day, I’ll tell her what she surely must be wondering about her mother’s last moments.

As soon as the justice system works its magic.

Because I have faith.

Faith that innocent people don’t go to prison.