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He’s a tall guy, too thin and pale, with dark bags under his eyes. He’s lost weight since they put his picture in the news for killing Quincy. I’d expected to feel pure fury when I saw him on the stand, but looking at him now, all I feel along with the rage is …
Emptiness.
I’ve been staring at the back of his head all day, and seeing his face doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change that Quincy is gone and never coming back. She’ll be dead forever, and it will always have begun with our conversation.
Justice can be healing, though. We have to own our actions, but we cannot own anyone else’s. This will change something. It will bring a sense of closure. There will be no more open case, no more phone calls, no more text messages. Quincy can rest and her name will be spoken by people who knew her beyond those photographs. The memories of her smiling will be the context of those conversations. And I’m ready for that. Fuck, I need that.
No more of this.
There’s a brief back-and-forth between the murderer and the judge, and then the defendant, her murderer, a man named Elijah Edwards is holding a sheet of paper in his hands, staring down at it.
“Your Honor. Jury. Ladies and gentlemen in the courtroom.” He sounds tired. “We’re all here today because of what I did, and I won’t sit in front of you and deny it. I killed Quincy Davis.”
My next breath fails to come. A cold sweat breaks out along my skin as I sit still, barely contained and listen to him speak.
“I was high, on meth, when I encountered the young woman on the street that night. I don’t say that to make an excuse, but to offer an explanation. I wasn’t thinking straight, and I killed her. I—” He covers his mouth with his hand, then drops it down again. “I am truly, truly sorry for the pain I’ve caused to her friends and family, and I know that nothing I say here will ever make up for that. All I can tell you is that I live with the horror of what I’ve done every day. That I became a person who would take a life under the influence of drugs. It’s not what I intended, and it’s not the way I hoped my life would be. Your Honor, I understand that I don’t deserve a second chance. All I ask is that you grant me mercy when you make your decision. I was in the grips of something I couldn’t control.” He puts the paper down. “That’s all,” he says. “That’s all.”
Ella
I keep expecting him to cry. I did. Tears spilled helplessly once we were back in the car. If anything were to bring him to the brink, it would be the tombstones to the left of us.
“She’s buried over there.” He motions as we sit at the red light. His knuckles rap on the window although his focus is on the street.
“We could go, if you want?” I offer Zander, who shifts in his seat. Staring out of the window at the rows of headstones.
“No,” he says and his answer is gentle, more composed than he’s been. I learned today he’s short when he’s emotional. He’s also quick to check on me once he realizes he’s been blunt.
All I can do is to keep holding his hand.
I don’t think souls stay in cemeteries. There’s nothing here but stone, dying flowers and grass that needs to be trimmed but with the chill in the air and fall turning colder in the mountains, it’ll probably stay like this until spring.
“Are you all right?” he asks me yet again. The ache in my chest is the most vulnerable I’ve felt in so long and it’s directly linked to the way he looks at me. And the question I keep wanting to ask him, but my heart refuses. Did you love her?
Instead I nod, saying that I’m all right, and question, “Did you come this way because you knew she was buried over there?”
“Yes … Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine. I haven’t gone to where James is buried. I just don’t think he’s there. Have you been … since she’s been gone?”
“To the cemetery?” he questions, slowly hitting the gas and putting it in our rearview. “I used to. In the beginning.”
I debate on whether or not to tell him something I haven’t confided in anyone yet, but I settle on the truth, on speaking what’s on my mind. I’ll feel it, whatever the memory brings, and then let it go. “I would go to the bar a lot. When James first died.”
“The bar?” he asks for clarification, and he peeks at me a moment before returning his attention to the road.
