Voice of Innocence: A Coming-Of-Age Sweet Romance

by Lindsay Detwiler

  If I had changed for the worst, Corbin had changed for the horrendous. At first, he tried to stay strong and keep his optimism. We would talk about our favorite memories and plan for the future. We planned a return to the barn on the first day he was let out. Steadily, however, the harsh climate a prison inflicts began to degrade his spirit. My heart sank every time I saw a new bruise or slash. He always tried to reassure me that it was nothing, just an accident. Even naïve me knew better. As the weeks passed, I saw him sinking into a melancholy state that never dissipated. No matter how hard I tried to help him stay positive, I couldn’t succeed.

  After the initial visit with Corbin that was cut short, I quickly went to his father to hear the rest of the story. Between visiting with his dad and the phone calls I would receive from Corbin over the next few days, I was able to piece together Corbin’s side of the story. Unfortunately, the law was only choosing to see one side of the story, and it wasn’t in favor of Corbin.

  Between the blood on Corbin and the clerk’s witnessing of the incident between the two, the evidence against Corbin was pretty damning. There was a clear, contentious history between the two boys. Corbin had openly threatened Randy. Then there was the blood. There were Corbin’s fingerprints on the knife. There seemed to be a target on Corbin’s back. With every detail about that night that surfaced, the bull’s-eye seemed to grow. Even though the Clarks certainly weren’t respected in town, the Joneses were basically an unknown entity. The family everyone in town had been curious about a few years earlier suddenly became the villainous, monstrous family that had fostered and harbored a criminal.

  In addition to the growing evidence against Corbin, the fact that the truth remained such a mystery didn’t help. It gave Corbin’s lawyer little to found his defense on. There didn’t seem to be an explanation that placed the murderous knife in any hand but Corbin’s. Corbin had no idea how to explain why Randy ended up in the ditch. Corbin’s theory was that Randy had wandered off from the gas station and started walking toward an unknown destination. The distance between the gas station and where he was found was only a few blocks. He suspected that perhaps it was a drug deal gone awry. Word had it that Randy had owed some people some money. Having a theory, though, is one thing, and proving it is a completely different story. Regardless, there wasn’t any solid evidence supporting Corbin’s theory. After the incident at the gas station, no one had seen Randy again until he was found in the ditch. No one saw anyone pick him up. No security cameras from local businesses showed anything suspicious. The elapsed time from Corbin’s threat to Randy’s death was short, short enough for an enraged Corbin to lose his temper, the prosecutors suggested, and seek revenge.

  Word about the incident spread rampantly, as does anything in a small town. People would whisper in the grocery store when I would pass them. I would catch pieces of “Yes, that’s her,” or “Poor thing,” or “conspirator?” I learned that the best place to be was at home. People started speculating about why or how Corbin did it. “I always knew he had a temper. One time, I saw him…” they would say. Or, “Well, that’s probably why the family moved. Probably an incident in another state.” Speculations and theories were thrown around like discussions about the weather. No one seemed to realize that all of this was impacting the future of a life. Everyone seemed to know everything about Corbin, and no one was saying anything good.

  Despite the evidence, despite the stares, despite the theories, I kept my faith in Corbin in the beginning. I kept my faith that things would work out, that he would be proven innocent, and that all of those grocery store gossipers would be proven wrong. I also kept my faith that if I could just stay close, stay supportive, Corbin would make it through the horrors of prison life. So when classes began in August, I wasn’t on any of the class rosters. For the first time in my life, I ignored my parents’ warnings and threats and pleas. I skipped college. I told myself it would just be for a semester until everything was straightened out. My parents knew better.

  I focused my attention on Corbin. I worked on making him feel confident, on trying to piece together anything that could help his case, on gathering supporters. I was his biggest cheerleader, his staunchest support system. My parents jumped onboard, too, after their anger over my choice proved to be pointless. They helped carry Corbin’s torch. Collectively, with Corbin’s dad, we were his voices of innocence. We searched for answers about what happened that night. We rallied as much support behind Corbin as we could. We visited him, sent him books, wrote to him, and talked to him. We kept him as connected with the outside world as possible. Despite our efforts and our optimism, however, the flame would die. The voices would be silenced once the trial began.

  Chapter Twenty-Six: The Trial

  Emma

  Memories

  The summer began to fade into autumn, and the bitter wind whipped us into winter. Soon, it was time for the trial to begin. To my sheer disappointment and disbelief, the mistake had not been cleared up. There wasn’t a miraculous discovery of evidence, a confession from the true perpetrator, a last-minute dismissal of the case. Corbin would face the courtroom; Corbin would have to plead for his life. For our life.

  I had been visiting Corbin nearly every day. Every day that passed, a glimmer of confidence also passed. Corbin’s lawyer, one of the best choices Corbin’s dad could afford, had worked hard and believed Corbin had a solid defense. I had already been prepared to testify, if needed, although I had little to contribute. Corbin’s lawyer prepared us for what he knew would be a battle. He did not prepare us, however, for defeat.

  The courtroom trial was brutal. I was forced to sit behind Corbin as his life was decided by a handful of men and women who did not know him. They didn’t see the way he held a door for a frantic mother in the grocery store, or how he tenderly kissed me when I was worried about something miniscule. They didn’t see his heart, his strength, his humor like I did. All they saw was the picture painted by a few minor incidents and an unfortunate day.

  I sat listlessly as witness after witness testified. I flinched as one of our former teachers recalled the prom incident for the jury, and the principal noted Corbin’s marred record from incidents with Randy. My heart fell as the gas station clerk also recalled the harsh words Corbin had yelled less than twenty minutes before Randy would be found dead in a ditch. Testimony whirled in and out of my mind as fear began to creep into my whole being. Up until this point, I had convinced myself the truth would come out. I had convinced myself that our justice system wouldn’t let the unthinkable happen. Perhaps I was just afraid of what the unthinkable would mean for me. How could I face a life without him? How could I face week after week of visiting Corbin behind glass? Where would our dreams fall? I tried my best to silence these fears. I glanced to the jury box. All jurors were intently listening to the testimony, but their faces were unreadable. I mouthed a prayer that they would see the Corbin that I knew.

  I was never called to the stand. I had been anxious about the prospect of having Corbin’s life in my hands, or more specifically, my words. However, when I realized I would not be able to testify for him, I wished in a way that I had been given the chance. I wished I could paint the true picture of Corbin, that I could show the jurors the kind of man he was—the kind of man I was madly in love with, the man whom I would marry someday if I had the chance.

  Corbin had also decided not to take the stand. His lawyer had urged that it would be too risky. Corbin had a hard time with this decision. He felt the need to defend himself and thought he could make the jury understand the true situation. However, after careful consideration, he heeded his lawyer’s advice. The possibility of tricky cross-examination questions making him look guilty was too much of a risk. Corbin let his destiny lie in his lawyer’s ability to argue.

  I had expected the trial to drag laboriously. In actuality, it felt like a blur. Before I knew it, the jury was being led away to deliberate. Corbin was being led away to await his fate.

  Then, before lo
ng, we were reconvening in the courtroom to hear the final decree.

  Corbin gaped back at me with trepidation, hesitancy, and anguish all rolled into a single expression, before peering at the judge. My eyes never left the back of his head, even as he shifted his weight under the glowering eyes of the jury. I only looked away when I heard that single word, the word that forever would break him, the word that would torch my soul and my belief in humanity.

  My mom, who had been sitting beside me for the entire trial, grabbed hold of me as I wailed in searing pain. That single dreaded word still rings through my nightmares, day and night.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Shattered

  Corbin

  Memories

  Guilty.

  A simple word that turned my world, Emma’s world, the town’s world, on its end.

  It had been a strenuous, unbearable trial. As if a murder trial can be anything less.

  Over the months, I had repeated my story to my lawyer too many times to count. It eventually became like a narrative I had memorized for a school project. I had uttered those words so many times that I had lost all emotional attachment to the story. I felt like the players in the tale were just characters in a story. I also felt like the last page was already written.

  Unlike many in prison, I seemed to have the most authentic support system one could ask for. Between my dad, Emma, and Emma’s parents, I was never alone during visiting hours. They tried their best to keep my spirits up and to keep the assurance burning for me, even when I felt like the conflagration had been drenched in a soaking rain. They knew that the truth would surface. I, on the other hand, had my doubts the entire time. Things looked bad, and I had no way of proving that it was any different.

  As the intricacies of the trial dragged on, I felt like I was in a horrible movie that needed to stop playing. Take my seat by the table. Glance back at Emma’s sullen face. Stand for the judge. Sit back down. Listen to testimony damning me to a life within the inner circle of hell. Return to the handcuffs, to the jail cell. Face the tough realities of prison life. Stare into the darkness with a sense of emotional blankness, numb from the prospects of facing a life devoid of choice, devoid of Emma. Repeat the cycle.

  My lawyer put up a seemingly good fight. He had prepped me for the worst, helped me to keep my eyes on the best case scenario, and gathered as much evidence as he could to make sure the latter happened. Character witnesses, diagrams of what happened and why my story was plausible, rebuttals to turn down the prosecution’s side of the story—he covered our bases. The only base he couldn’t cover, of course, was the alibi part.

  From the time I fought with Randy to the time I was found with his blood on my hands, I had no witnesses. As my cursed fate would have it, my dad of course had been working late and hadn’t been home to see my mad dash for the ring. No neighbors had witnessed me going back in the house. No cars had even passed me on the road to place me anywhere but at the scene of the crime. The blood on the knife had been tested and found to be Randy’s, and the fingerprints on the handle, of course, matched mine. I had literally been caught with blood on my hands, the blood of a guy I had threatened to kill on more than one occasion.

  And so, the prosecution succeeded in painting me out to be a troubled soul that finally snapped on a troublesome opponent. They showed no mercy in describing the story of my difficult youth, from the death of Chloe to the suicide of my mother. In short, they demonstrated that I was unstable, had motive, and had been at the scene of the crime.

  And it all worked. The jury bought tickets to their show instead of mine.

  Guilty. Final verdict. It was a word I thought I had been prepared to hear, but when it finally slipped through the mouth of that juror, it struck me with such force I thought I would fall to my knees.

  Yet when that word jolted the air with its frankness, I did not instantly see my life slipping away as so many of the convicted do. I was not weeping for all of the family dinners, holidays, and vacations I would miss. I didn’t take time to think about how my art career had been shattered before it even began. I didn’t think about how the past nineteen years had led to this one, horrific moment, that everything before it seemed like such a waste. I didn’t consider the years of the lifeless cell, debilitating in its literal and figurative blackness that faced me day in and day out.

  No, when those words shambled across the room, there was only one thing on my mind— Emma.

  I woefully turned to peer into those eyes, to see the agony that would be stabbing them. It was in her eyes that I found the true intensity of the loss I was about to bereave. It was in her eyes that I saw my whole life disappear like a grain of sand tossed into a violent gale.

  As I was being led away, I wanted so badly to break free, to grab Emma in my arms, to tell her it would be okay. But I knew it wouldn’t.

  “We’ll appeal, don’t worry,” my lawyer desperately threw at me as the guard shoved me across the floor. But I didn’t hear him.

  All I could hear were the shrieks from a girl whose life had just been flattened out by a bus, mowing down any remnants of hope. With her cries, my heart split into a thousand razor-sharp fragments, never to be fully reclaimed again.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Shackled

  Corbin

  Memories

  Some say that the first night in prison is the worst. That first night I spent locked up after my arrest was certainly no picnic. I had been a frightened young man, clueless to the harsh obstacles that prison life presented. Naivety had convinced my young self that this was just a test, that the real story would come out, and I would return to normal life. The innocent didn’t face jail time, and I certainly wasn’t guilty. Being denied bail due to the nature of the crime, I had many nights after that to get accustomed to life behind a cage. I learned which men to avoid, which men to befriend. My taste buds acclimated to the stale prison food, and my mind learned to tolerate the incessant monotony. What I hadn’t prepared for, though, was how the first night after the verdict would feel. I hadn’t realized it, but before the trial I had somewhere deep inside lodged a single cell of hope that there was a light waiting for me, that I would one day set foot in the free world again. I felt that prison was just a temporary stop on the way to my real life, that it wasn’t permanent. Even on the darkest days, I felt like I would survive this and return to Emma unscathed. With one word, though, the last glimmer succumbed to its final demise, leaving me with nothing but debilitating remnants of a powerless, pointless future. I looked ahead and saw nothing but blackness. The only brightness in my future was the color orange.

  The night after the verdict was the hardest night of my life. I would be lying if I said I didn’t think about suicide. Looking into the years to come, I saw hollowness so vast, it threatened to swallow me. I saw a life of meaningless days and a desire for something more squashed by the reality of the bars. The only thing that kept me from taking my life that night was the thought of what it would do to Emma. Even that became a weak deterrent as the hours ticked by. I thought maybe it would actually make things easier for her if I could disappear. At least then she could move on without any question.

  I knew Emma would stand by me. She had stood by me this long, despite the naysayers and evil glares. She had believed in me even when the justice system had pointed its weighty finger at me, proving to the world I was guilty and useless to society. Emma, however, had not been poisoned by the lies. Her love for me and belief in the man that I was allowed her to prevail confidently beside me. She had already sacrificed so much for me. Even if the appeal failed, she was prepared to wait until the truth came out, no matter how long it took. We had talked about it countless times during visitation, with me always telling her to be realistic. No matter how hard I tried, though, I couldn’t convince her it was better for her to move on. She felt a responsibility to be my rock through this, to be the voice shouting from the rooftop that I was innocent.

  Not that I wanted to think about the prospect of her moving on
in life while I stood still. I wanted nothing more than to be the man holding her hand through life, helping her grow, having children with her, marching steadily toward life in our rocking chairs reflecting over our photo albums of memories. But it seemed that this was not to be. The only thing worse than me being in prison was the prospect of her being imprisoned by a love for the man who couldn’t live a life with her. When the trial began, there was still the potential that our dreams could work out. Now, though, we had to face the awful truth that life wasn’t fair and that justice didn’t always prevail. We had prepared for a lifetime together. What, then, should we do now that my life had been stripped from me? Did that mean Emma’s life should stop, too?

  As much as I wanted to be with Emma, I also wanted her to have a life full of excitement. I wanted her to reach her dreams, to have someone who could be physically beside her and emotionally available to her. I wanted her life to consist of more than just timed visits with a man in a hideous jumpsuit. I wanted her life to be more than security checks and buzzers. As much as I wanted Emma to myself, as easy as it would be to let her stand beside me during this hellacious time in my life, I knew it wasn’t fair. We were so young, and I couldn’t help but think of how much time Emma had already wasted beside me. As much as I didn’t want it to be true, my life was most likely ruined by a lie and a tragic attack from the universe. But Emma’s didn’t have to be. Emma had a life of choice ahead of her. She was not shackled by the chains of my verdict, if she could just look up long enough to see into the horizon.

  I had already told myself over the course of the trial that if things didn’t turn out the way I had hoped, I would do what it took to make sure she wasn’t held captive by her love for me. As hard as it was, I would force her to say goodbye, to move on, to forget about what could have been, and find herself a life in what could be.