Page 70 of Absolution

“Please rise,” the bailiff calls out to the courtroom. “The honorable Judge McKenzie Chaplain presiding.”

The entire room lifts to their feet as the judge walks up to her bench. She wears a hardened look on her weary face as she descends to her throne of judgment. Her black robe flows behind her like the rags on the grim reaper. She may not have a scythe in her hand, but her gavel would serve as her instrument of my impending damnation.

I have to admit that I never thought my case would get this far into the process, as I stand here in the middle of my arraignment hearing. My diminished hopes and doubts convinced me that this day would come, while the other half of me thought my husband would save me. The man who, besides the first day visit, has been all but absent.

Was he even still here in Kentucky or did he cut his losses and go back to California? If I had been in his shoes, the latter might have been the option I considered the most, but it would have been a far more difficult decision to make. Why would you wait for someone who may spend the next several years as a resident of the Kentucky State prison system? It was a dead end, and there was no guarantee that I would even be freed once convicted of the false charges that lay against me.

Much to my dismay, the public defender that I was sure that I fired showed up, when I was ushered into court with my hands and feet bound. This man standing next to me would all but assure that I was going to be calling the gray bar hotel home.

“You may be seated,” the bailiff declares. “Your honor, this is case number one-zero-one-three-one-seven the State of Kentucky versus Erica Azzo. The defendant is charged with a class D felony of possession of an illegal substance with the intent to sell and resisting arrest.”

“I did no such thing,” I blurt out, before my attorney jerks me down into my seat and orders me to be quiet.

“Control your client counselor, or I will be forced to charge her with an additional account of contempt.”

“Of course, your honor. Excuse my client’s poor manners,” he drawls, shooting a glare at me for my outburst. I nearly flip the man off, but I doubt the judge would go for that. “She’s from the big city and doesn’t know how to keep her outbursts in check.”

Yep. Leroy is about to get a slap to the back of the head, before he has me dragged off to jail. Maybe even a couple more for good measure.

The judge’s eyes turn back on me, and I shrug a sorry to her. It’s hard to keep quiet when your fate lies in the hands of man who probably couldn’t tell the difference between his own dick and a Cheeto.

“How does the defendant plea?” the judge calls out to my attorney. He looks down at me, urging me to say the words he wants. But I am not guilty, and I will not let my father win by admitting to something that I didn’t do. That’s not how this story will end for me or for Asher.

“Not guilty - I stammer out before a sheriff’s deputy busts through the closed chamber doors. His feet drag against the wooden floors of the courtroom, and the judge’s face instantly turns to anger at the intrusion. The few people scattered in the court chamber’s turn in a flurry to see what is going on. I mimic their motions, and sigh when I don’t see Ratchet sitting behind me. I guess that’s my answer about whether or not he stayed. It would have taken an act of God for him not be here prior to my keeping secrets about my father. It goes to show that even when I’m happy, that I can still fuck up my life.

“What is the meaning of this, officer? This court is in session. How dare you interrupt this case,” she reprimands him, smacking her gavel down. “Order in the court!” she cries out. “I will have order!”

He steps forward, through the swinging wooden gate that separates the onlookers from the Judge and the tables for the plaintiff and me. Bead after bead of sweat, drip down his forehead and onto the collar of his uniform. His body quivers from the spotlight being on him, and it makes me wonder if he lost a bet to have to be the one here doing this. The officer’s hands shake as he musters up the courage to speak to the judge.

“Permission to approach the bench, your honor.” The officer holds up an envelope in his hands for the judge to see. “I have evidence that Chief Moulton thought you might want to see, before you proceed any further.”

“Proceed, officer,” she advises him. The man slowly walks toward her with carefully calculated steps. He’s on edge, and the entire courtroom can see it. He hands off the envelope to her, and the judge reaches into it, retrieving a shiny, circular disc.

My heart begins to race at the sight of it. Could this be another gift from my father? What other evidence could he have on me to warrant this kind of display?

“What is this?” the judge asks the officer, holding up a CD encased in plastic for the courtroom to see. “Is this a joke?”

“Your honor, that disc was found alongside a written note of confession inside a vehicle of a burned home we found yesterday morning.”

Burned house? Why would a burned down house have anything to do with my drug case?

The answer suddenly flourishes within my mind and my stomach rolls. This can’t be happening. My father has faked his and Asher’s deaths to take off with him. That’s the only reasonable explanation for him to confess.

The judge cocks an eyebrow at him, and waves for him to expand on that thought. Either this judge is a badass or this guy is a pussy for her to have to push him into speaking. Every fiber of my being is on edge and wants to scream out for him to spit it out already.

“Have you listened to the disc, officer?”

“Yes, your honor. The recording that it contains is that of a confession,” he stutters.

“Bailiff,” she calls, considering his words carefully for a few seconds. “Please play this disc.”

“Objection, your honor. This new evidence was not provided to us,” the state district attorney argues. “The State would like a chance to review it before it is presented as evidence in this case to prove authenticity of its origin. This could be a fake piece of evidence spearheaded by the defendant’s attorney for shock value.”

“Overruled, counselor. Neither party has been given the opportunity to review this supposed confession, and it has been reviewed by the police department. I highly doubt that Chief Moulton would send this man here with fake evidence. He’s not that stupid to interrupt my court sessions with something trivial. My ruling stands. Bailiff, please proceed.”

“Yes, your honor,” he scoffs, flopping down into his seat like a child about to start throwing a tantrum. He makes a show of shuffling and fidgeting in his seat, announcing his displeasure in the ruling.

The bailiff retrieves the disc from the judge, and places it into the audio-visual equipment near the side of the room.

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