Burden of Proof

by Tina Glasneck

  7

  Oh, how the tables turn.

  With the red lipstick in my hand, I placed the tip to my pink lips, pouting, hoping for perfection. The dress felt too tight; my face too made up. A mask I'd never been initiated into wearing. Thinking of Eddie, I could almost feel the shards of my heart humming, vibrating within my chest, hoping to congeal into one whole again. The months of back and forth, the months of hating him, reaching out to only feel cool sheets, longing for him to be there and simultaneously wishing to never remember how deeply I loved him.

  Carrying the cupcakes I baked, coated in thick icing and sprinkled with colored sugar, I waved at the front desk officer and waited to be buzzed in. The time ticked by as some of the faces I knew tried to make small talk.

  The door opened, and into the back rooms I walked. My backbone straight, I knew the men would talk; they'd know how things were between me and Eddie, and as the distance to his department lessened, my anxiety rose.

  Ed sat behind his desk, and even baring gifts, I’d expected more of a reception. Like slow motion, I watched the corners of his mouth frown before he could correct it.

  He’d been trying and now it was my turn.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have shown up. Yet, in all of the years of us together, I'd never forgotten his birthday, even if I’d sometimes wanted to. I watched him shake his head and turn away, while a female officer leaned forward, standing a little too close for my liking.

  "What are you doing here, Em?" His voice was gruff, and I felt the eyes of his fellow officers on us, watching, even listening in, and waiting for me to fall to shambles. Maybe it was the thought that fattening and sweet icing could act as a balm, to heal the rift between us.

  "I wanted to wish you happy birthday." I forced a smile and shoved the cupcakes his way.

  He rubbed his bald head, a head I’d often helped shave. His dazzling hazel eyes stared back at me, but I couldn’t read what was there.

  “You made that long trip to bring these?”

  Long trip? Like disjointed puzzle pieces, I’d yanked, and pushed, and tried ... and continued chasing, trying to make this work again.

  “Yeah, I thought you were worth it.” He smiled a crooked smile that made me recall what had always drawn me to him. Before he’d shaved off his curly raven locks, that would tangle and twist around my fingers, he’d sit on the edge of our bed and strum his acoustic guitar. A lullaby. He’d sing and to my ears, it always sounded like perfection, even in his imperfect key.

  He placed them on his desk and walked back towards the way I’d come, back towards the exit doors. This wasn’t any sort of progress, no matter how much I wished only to declare that which we both knew still existed between us: love.

  The entry door swung closed behind us. “I know this isn’t easy, Em, but you said you needed time… that was months ago.”

  “I know...I know, and I ... I understand. I’ve just--” I reached out to take his hand, but he evaded my touch. My hands then fell to my side. “We’ve never missed celebrating your birthday together.”

  “Well, there is a first time for everything.”

  Maybe he knew the guys would be waiting on him, or maybe it was just his desire to get away from me as quick as possible. He took a step to retreat.

  “Do you know why I did it?” I blabbed. This was not the time to pour out my heart’s secrets.

  “I’m guessing you’d gotten bored with us. I mean, shit, we’d been together for seven years, and you had to pull that?”

  “It had nothing to do with you, but me. No one said love and relationships would be easy. We both knew this going in.” Wringing my hands, I pushed onwards. “You don’t remember what happened right before I took the train up, do you? I saw you with her, and you swore to me that nothing was going on, that she couldn’t compare to me, remember.”

  “Yes, and nothing happened.”

  “I saw you with her. I came to see you, to surprise you, and saw your hands roaming on her body; you kissing her. And even if it was in the shadows of the parking garage, I knew it happened. I turned around and left on the train that night.”

  He ran his hand over his face. “You’re telling me that you thought I was cheating? That’s what this is all about?”

  “I knew I couldn’t compete with a twenty-something who seemed to wish to do anything for you and to you.” I paused, hoping my words were sinking in, absorbing part of the mess I’d built. “I’m not saying I don’t regret my decision, but I am trying.”

  “We’re both trying. I didn’t cheat on you then nor have I ever. It was just one kiss, and that isn’t cheating.”

  I didn’t intend to raise my hand, but I did. He caught my wrist before I made contact.

  “What are you doing here? Need I remind you that you left me?”

  “You’re punishing me for the exact same thing you did. You checked out of our relationship long before I caught you creeping.” I pulled away. “I’m not sure how long I am going to keep trying, Eddie.”

  “Then stop.” Eddie dropped my hand, turned and walked away, leaving me holding the hopelessness.

  8

  Harry had pitched their services better than a Red Sox pitcher's ball, making it seem that only a nincompoop would decide to bypass their services, and dismiss their talents.

  And that meant tracking down witnesses and interviewing them, hoping that they could still recall the minutest of details.

  “Luke? Luke Peterson?” I asked.

  “Um, yeah,” he said. At the age of 18 and shaggy-haired, all he seemed to be interested in was my food order. All I wanted was his version of events.

  According to the discovery documents from the prosecution, Luke Peterson called the police after staying with his uncle in the country. He’d heard gunshots according to the report.

  A college freshman at the local university, I’d used all of my internet skills to find him working at HIS & HERS Sandwich Shop. With brown hair and black framed glasses, he manned the cash register, and waited for me to place my order. I glanced at his name tag.

  “Can I ask you a couple of questions?” I asked.

  He rolled his eyes. “Ma’am, our special today is the Bostonian Reuben with New York deli mustard.”

  “No, not about the menu.” I leaned forward. “About Tommy Melancon.”

  He paled. “I can’t talk about that here.”

  “I understand. Just one sentence will suffice. You called the police?”

  He glanced behind me. “You’re going to have to order something or step out of line.”

  “I’ll take a Reuben with chips, to go.”

  “A drink with that?”

  “Just the truth,” I said.

  He sighed and rung up my order.

  “Yeah, sort of hard to miss what sounded like tons of firecrackers going off. Boom. Boom. Boom.”

  “How did you know it was the Melancon’s house?”

  “The same way I know shit stinks. Whenever something happened on that street, it was the Melancons. Now, if you’ll go to the side, your order will be up soon. I really need to take care of these customers behind you.”

  “Last question. Can you tell me what time you heard all of this?”

  “Will that get you to leave?”

  I nodded.

  “Around 11:45, I guess. “

  With the information that the crime wasn’t a silent one, I now wondered why everyone so easily stayed in bed.

  9

  Falling on the mat was never a lot of fun, and tonight was no different.

  "You have to breathe, Em. Remember the combat breath, focus and let your fear drift away," said Ken, my trainer. He didn't remind me of Master Miyagi from Karate Kid, but instead of a Californian Ken Doll that seemed to have gotten lost on his way from the beach.

  "I'm just a little tired today," I said, panting.

  "Tired will get you killed, and you can't come back from that. Let's try it again."

  Again, he grabbed my hair from the side,
pulling it. I pulled against him, struggling, forgetting what I was supposed to do.

  With the pain pounding in my skull, I was unable to block him. In one fell swoop, he knocked me flat, knocking the air from my chest.

  "Remember to move not only your hands, but your entire body. You must move as a wave and not just as one drop."

  Again we tried, and again I failed. Falling on the mat, I could feel my disappointment rising. I hadn't been working all of this time to just fail.

  Hopping back up, I got into position. I waited for him to attack. Catching a nuance of movement, my hand struck out, missing.

  "You cannot defend against an attack if one is not there, Emili, but your balance was much better."

  I groaned. The way that Harry arranged everything, he had me taking the required self-defense training and testing before he was going to let me head out alone, I knew.

  “Here." He stretched out his hand and pulled me up. "I think the body is ready, but the mind is distracted. Stand. Fear is hindering you. What are you afraid of?"

  His question caused my already speeding heart to throttle. I couldn't answer him. His words seemed to be something that accompanied me throughout life. Fear.

  While in college and seminary, of course, they'd broken it down to an acronym: False Evil Appearing Real; And theology provided tons of fodder for the boogie man, but none of those things helped to alleviate the panic that somehow took hold whenever the pressure became too much, when I wished to simply fold.

  I couldn't blame my paradigm on anyone or any one thing. Mom often told me while growing up that I had book smarts but no common sense. I wasn't standing in line when the Almighty passed it out, I guess.

  Yet, every experience I'd had thus far had impacted me. This job made it that I could do things right, with a capital R. It made it that I could take a stand for something and make a difference. To do that, I would need to release my fear and jump over my shadow like the hurdle it was.

  "We must practice the combat breathing again."

  I followed Ken’s directions, breathing in through my nose. I could feel my stomach and my lungs begin to expand. Holding my breath to a count of four, I slowly released it, feeling my raised heartbeat lowering, and the control coming again into my limbs.

  Without warning, Ken grabbed my hair from behind. Instead of fighting, I leaned into his him, placing my hand on top of his to ease the tugging. Then, my body feeling as one, I followed up by punching him in the groin. He doubled over as nature would automate him to do. With such leverage, I continued to knee him until the practiced struggle was neutralized.

  “See, I knew you had it in you,” Ken said standing up. “Do you think you can do it again?”

  I smiled. “Yeah, I think ... no, I know I can.”

  “Okay, let’s take it from the top!”

  I’d earned my first combat smile.

  10

  “Your honor,” Harry began, “we are asking for a continuance at this time. We’ve been unable to locate important witnesses for this matter, rebuttal and eye-witnesses, who can substantiate my client’s alibi.” Standing behind the defense table, Harry reminded me of a gray cockatiel. His hair was a little awry, his gray suit and shirt, monotone, and his new glasses crooked.

  Javier sat at the defense table, next to Tommy.

  I knew that a continuance wasn’t necessarily anything to be excited about, but the idea of maybe getting the chance to talk to witnesses, even the client, sounded like more than its own bout of fun. Seated in the galley on the edge of a hard, pew styled bench, I flipped open my yellow lined pad, whipped out my pen and waited, poised to begin.

  “Mr. Rogers?” the judged asked the prosecuting attorney.

  “Yes, your honor.” He stood. “We do not object at this time, and would only ask that it is placed on the record that the defendant, by requesting this continuance, is, in fact, waiving his right to a speedy trial.”

  Through my hours of watching any law drama I could find, I knew what that meant. If speedy trial was waived, that meant that the client couldn’t then say that his rights to a speedy trial were denied. I quickly scratched down notes, feeling proud...maybe even a little haughty and capable.

  My eyes dashed around the courtroom, sparsely filled with spectators. Besides myself, another sat taking notes on a small pad. His apt attention to the details made me think of long gone college lectures. The more I saw him scribble, the more I bit my lip and scribbled down — not even sure if what I had written down made any sense, but it was better than doodles. Surely, if he was writing it, it meant I should, too.

  "I don't know why they keep continuing this case," I heard an elderly lady whisper. “They say we all have demons, but what he did was evil. His attorney must be working for the devil, if you ask me.”

  The human condition could bring a lot of different things; opportunities and destruction and sometimes both. Glancing at the young man behind the defendant's table, I watched him tersely sit in his chair, and underneath the table, his leg bounced up and down in hyper-speed.

  "Thank you, your honor," Harry said.

  Javier moved forward and began to gather Harry’s paperwork from the defendant's table.

  In my earnest attempt to take notes, I'd unwillingly not been paying attention, missing my cue to rise and assist Harry in clearing off the table, and walking back towards the bullpen to continue speaking with our client.

  The woman's words burdened me. When I was a child, a bird died in my hands. I couldn't help but think of digging the fresh grave with my hands, and sprinkling the freshly driven earth over the dead bird; a bird that had only moments before been filled with life; had chirped and enjoyed the sun's rays, but now lay still. That experience changed me and how I regarded life around me.

  Working for the devil, with the devil? I shook my head. Justice, idealistically, was black and white, but I saw it even before my working at the firm, when the guilty walked free and the innocent spent years proving just that.

  Laymen wished to think that the devil was this huge beast, running around underground or in a separate dimension, with a pitchfork and red, scaled skin, seeking to torment, cause mayhem and murder, but I knew better. The devil and God worked together. They were on the same board. One was the CEO, and the other ran Internal Affairs.

  I could be Job, extremely tested, or even like Ruth, willing to break the rules to make amends. But whatever I did, it would always be to search for truth, to help justice. I knew I could, and this was my chance, especially now.

  Interesting thought to think of him as our client. By stepping into this spot, I was surely about to become a flightless bird, an ostrich willing and ready to stick my head in the sand or, I could champion what I never was able to do with theology; I could advocate for humanity, seek truth, and maybe, just maybe even save someone from a horrible fate.

  The desperate always seek someone to save when they can’t save themselves.

  The judge pounded her gavel, signaling the session's end, but for me, it was so much more. It was my beginning. And maybe, just maybe it would be my purpose — a combination of fate and opportunity.

  11

  Instead of worrying about Eddie, I threw myself into my work. In every report, a potential clue rested.

  Guilt or innocence, it couldn’t matter, and I couldn't let it affect my job. I'd have to find something to give Tommy a shot in court, something to address the numerous holes in his story and plug them. Sleep had evaded me, and even after three cups of coffee, still, spider webs drifted on erratic breezes.

  I sat in my SUV and waited for Mr. Newton, the father of the two teenagers Tommy had told them about, to exit his office building located in the Fan district. The Fan was known for its hipsters, college students, working professionals and even citified families.

  Behind large trees that lined the historic streets, and waiting outside local bars with outdoor cafes which occupied corner lots, often lurked needless and senseless violence. On the pedestrian and
entrepreneur-friendly streets, the homes, dating back to the 1800s, made the person who wanted to touch a little bit of history feel right about the houses, while still living in the heart of the city.

  I tried not to doodle on the paper's edge and still watch the front door of the brick facade building, and waited for the heavy door with its opulent wreath to open.

  When the door opened, Mr. Newton stepped out with his pure breed Dalmatian. I eased out of my car and headed towards him. My hands began to perspire.

  "Mr. Newton,” I called, “if you have a moment," I said, flagging him down. "My name is Emili Jones, and I hope to speak with you about Tommy Melancon."

  He paused, holding the leash of his pooch. "I've told you, people, to stop bothering me. If I get one more call from reporters trying to get my opinion about a case that has little relevance to ..." he sighed. I smelled the coffee still on his breath.

  "I apologize for that. I work for the attorney representing Tommy and we wanted to talk to you about maybe your children, Chris and Susanna, talking to us. From our understanding, they were with Tommy that night.”

  “Don’t you dare try to bring my children into this mess. They are good kids, who just happened to be in the country that weekend. Like I told that other attorney, they have nothing to say.”

  “If you are unwilling to cooperate, we may have to subpoena you and your family, to ensure compliance.” It was a line I’d picked up on law TV, a way of making clients pause and reconsider. Although on the outside I might have seemed self-assured, I was really nervous, and completely bluffing.

  “If it comes down to that, I can get our family attorney involved. I will not be intimated, and my children will not be used to speak on behalf of a child who murdered his family.”