Stepping into the brightly lit room, I held my breath, taking in all the intimidating details. It was modern-looking, not antiquated as I’d expected. The benches and public seating were all in dark wood. The walls were white, with two large TV screens on either side of the benches, and the seal of the court hanging high behind the judge’s chair. Recessed fluorescent lights and smaller flush-mounted LED lamps flooded the room with cold, intense light. The chilled air smelled faintly of cleaning supplies, laminate fiberboard, and a blend of human scents. Sweat, aftershave or cologne, and fear.
The acrid sweat of fear hung strongest. Perhaps it was my own.
As instructed by an officer, I took a seat behind the bar, in the section reserved for public seating. Another defendant, brought in in chains and cuffs, was escorted past the bar and seated at the left table. His handcuffs were removed while mine still held my wrists gripped in cold steel.
After a few moments, when the courtroom was starting to fill up, a bailiff called, “All rise. The Honorable Judge Harding presiding. Court is now in session.”
I stood, feeling my stomach twisting into a tight knot.
The judge entered and took a seat at the bench. “Be seated.” He was a thin Black man with a clean-shaven skull and rimless glasses. “We have more than our share on the docket for today, so let’s get going.” His voice had a deep, low pitch. Intimidating—threatening, even.
In a daze, I watched what happened during the arraignment of the two defendants that came before me. I absorbed every detail like a sponge, desperate to figure out a way to get bail. Neither of those men was granted a release; both were remanded until trial. Judge Harding seemed to be quite draconian.
I’d never been so afraid in my life. I’d never felt so exposed or so vulnerable. So alone.
When the clerk called my case, I stood, my knees wobbly and weak, and faltered toward the defendant’s table. Everyone’s eyes were on me, sticky and judging, finding me guilty without a shred of a doubt. An officer removed my handcuffs, and I took a seat, painfully aware of the empty chair by my side.
At the opposing table, a man with gray hair and a stern demeanor landed a brown leather briefcase on the table with a loud thud, then took a seat without so much as a look in my direction and unbuttoned his jacket.
The judge looked down at me, raising an eyebrow as he shuffled through some papers. “Ms. Taylor, I see you’re without legal representation.”
I stood quickly and cleared my throat of the fear nestled there. “Yes, Your Honor.” The prosecutor stood also, but didn’t say anything. He was probably waiting for me to hang myself.
The judge looked at me inquisitively over his glasses. “You’re being charged with murder in the first degree. Do you understand the charges brought against you?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” I clasped my shaky hands together to keep them still.
“With charges so severe, I’m reluctant to allow this arraignment to proceed in the absence of an attorney to represent you.” He looked at the papers laid out in front of him, read something while following loosely with the tip of his pen, turned the page, and frowned. Then he looked at me again, still frowning. “I see here you dismissed your legal aid representative?”
“Yes, Your Honor. He, um, wasn’t really doing much. I felt I had a better chance on my own for now, while waiting for another attorney—”
I could see he didn’t like my answer from the crinkle of his nose and the two horizontal lines that ridged his brow. “All right, then. Are you prepared to enter a plea at this time?”
“Yes.”
He stared at me as if waiting for me to continue, then asked, “On the charge of murder in the first degree, how do you plead?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor.” My voice had shattered. Those were famous last words. No one would believe me. No one cared about guilt or innocence anymore.
“People on bail?”
The gray-haired man straightened his tie and quickly fastened one button on his jacket. “Your Honor, the state requests remand without bail. Given the egregious nature of the crime and the defendant’s minimal ties to the community, we assert that she poses a significant flight risk.”
“Ms. Taylor?”
I waited a moment, but he didn’t say anything else. “Yes, Your Honor?”
His frown deepened. “Your argument on bail, if any?”
“Your Honor, first of all, I didn’t do this. I tried to explain—”
In the back of the courtroom, the door opened and then closed with a loud thud. Instinctively, I turned toward the noise. A man slipped into the last row, his movements quiet but noticeable in the tense stillness of the courtroom.
My eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than they should have. Something about him tugged at a distant memory—a familiarity I couldn’t place at first.
Then it hit me. The sharp angles of his face, hollowed by time and hardship, the piercing gaze that hadn’t changed since we were kids, and the nervous way he ran his hand through his hair.
Billy Ray.
