Page 59 of Motion to Dismiss

The cameramen in the room adjust their lenses, and the reporters lean in closer after the judge sits on the bench.

She flips open a file and looks straight at Jameson’s father, her eyes locked on his.

There’s an entire protocol that’s supposed to happen—statements, the case number reading, and a welcome to everyone here today. But with every second that passes, it’s becoming obvious that she won’t be following the script.

For several moments, she holds the room hostage with her silence—simply staring at Jameson’s father.

“Mr. Tate,” she says finally, “there is no ruling this court can issue today that will return the twenty-eight years that were wrongfully taken from you.”

“However, after reviewing newly discovered evidence, serious failures by your original counsel, and the circumstances surrounding your conviction, this court finds that your conviction cannot stand.”

Jameson reaches beneath the table and grips his father’s hand.

“On behalf of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, I offer you an apology that is decades overdue,” the judge says. “Your conviction is hereby vacated, Mr. Tate. You are free to go.”

For a few seconds, no one moves.

Then Jameson’s father lowers his head into his hands, and Jameson immediately wraps an arm around him as the courtroom erupts behind them.

Reporters rush toward the doors, cameras start flashing, and several people call Jameson’s name, but neither of them seems to notice.

Jameson pulls his father into his arms, and for the first time since I’ve known him, I see tears in his eyes.

I stay in my seat and let them have their moment, knowing that Jameson has spent almost his entire life waiting for this day.

Twenty-eight years, seven failed appeals, and one final verdict he refused to accept.

“Mr. Tate, over here!” A reporter calls out. “Come speak with us!”

Jameson and his father remain embraced, and they don’t let go for what feels like forever.

It’s not until security begins escorting people out of the courtroom that I realize those two won’t be following their original script either.

The rain has softened to a drizzle by the time I finally make it outside, and Jameson’s father is surrounded by reporters at the bottom of the courthouse steps.

Jameson and I are sharing an umbrella, watching him answer questions about what he plans to do with his first day of freedom.

“I told you that you didn’t have to come to this,” Jameson says. “I vividly remember saying I could handle this moment alone.”

“I didn’t think you actually meant that.”

“I did.”

“Well, you should know by now that I wouldn’t believe you.”

“Fair enough.” He lets out a low laugh and pulls me closer, but something about his laughter catches me off guard.

I’ve heard him laugh plenty of times before, but there’s something different about it today, something lighter than usual.

“I’m going to take some time off,” he says. “This was my last case.”

“What?” I stare at him. “Are you serious?”

“Very much so.”

“How much time?”

“Six months, maybe a year. Maybe even two.”