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“Yeah. Silly thought,” I claimed, looking at the big clock and counting down the time we had to discuss one other important topic. “Anyway, change of subject. I officially filed the writ of habeas corpus.”
The familiar wave of unease washed over my dad’s face. The one that appeared anytime I talked about the work I was doing on his case.
When I was a kid, Dad’s public defender did the best he could, filing the necessary motions after his guilty verdict. It included a notice of intent to pursue post-conviction relief and several other appeals. But none of them helped.
The state of Illinois was convinced they’d gotten it right.
But the reason my father was found with the body was because he had been walking home from work that night and happened to stumble upon the boy bleeding in an alley. My dad had blood on him because he had given him CPR and mouth-to-mouth while screaming for someone to call for help. And they seemed to overlook what my father said in his first statement to the police and in every statement since: that he had seen someone else in that alley. A man who’d gotten into a dark vehicle and driven off.
The police didn’t believe my dad’s version of events because it was too dark to see what this unknown male looked like; thus, he couldn’t provide them with a description or an adequate description of the vehicle or plate number. They didn’t believe him because there were no other witnesses who could back up his story. They didn’t believe him because he was found at the crime scene with the victim’s DNA on his shirt.
But mostly, they didn’t believe my father because he had a motive. The day before, the kid had come into the convenience store where my dad worked and had stolen twenty-three dollars’ worth of stuff. As a result, my dad’s job was jeopardized when he got reamed out by his boss.
The theft was caught on camera, so when the kid wound up dead the next day, it was speculated my father had sought revenge.
The lack of any other suspect absolutely had to have weighed in the jury’s mind during my father’s trial. I mean, when only one suspect appeared before them, and a prominent prosecutor pointed the finger at my father, what else were they to think?
When the medical examiner described the brutal beating that would cause his injuries, my dad was the one at the receiving end of the jury’s disgusted and horrified glares.
A revenge kill, the prosecutor claimed, dodging and weaving the facts of the case to string together a plausible story. It didn’t matter that my dad had no injuries on his fists that you would expect to find if he’d just been in a violent altercation. My dad had no scratches or marks of any kind.
The kid was an athlete, but he hadn’t fought back? Never landed one single punch?
And why didn’t the kid have defensive wounds? If he was being beaten, he didn’t instinctively throw his arms up to defend himself?
Didn’t matter.
Dodge and weave, the prosecutor went, speculating a weapon had likely been used, such as a bat or a pipe. And when they couldn’t find that weapon, he dodged and weaved again, saying my dad had somehow miraculously hidden the weapon where no one had ever found it.
You can’t have it both ways, I remember thinking. Weaving a narrative that fit with certain evidence and dismissing other evidence that didn’t fit with that same narrative. But that was exactly what the prosecutor did.
But my father was innocent, so I was certain the jury would declare him not guilty.Because back then, I was naive in thinking you couldn’t be convicted of a crime you didn’t commit.
My mom was convinced of that, too, which was why she’d allowed her eight-year-old daughter to hear the verdict.
I remember seeing those jury members filing in, fidgeting with the bow on my dress as I sat in that hard wooden bench.
“We find the defendant,” a man in the courtroom started.
My heartbeat was like a butterfly, so excited to finally, finally have the last day of the trial here. I couldn’t wait to show Dad the backyard. I’d cleaned all his tools with a scrub brush, so they were nice and shiny, and the wood was waiting there, too. After we went out to dinner to celebrate, we could go home, and finally, he could read me a bedtime story.
Life would go back to normal, only this time, I’d never take him for granted. Ever. I’d hug him every single chance I got, and I’d bake him cookies if Mom let me, and I’d kiss his cheek a hundred times every morning.
I’d made a list of all the fun things we’d do together, too. Like going to the zoo, and he could finally teach me how to ride my bike with no training wheels.
“Guilty.”
My heart crashed to the ground. The guy had read it wrong, and he needed to correct it, but instead, he handed the paper off to someone else, who also didn’t correct it.
“Mom, what’s happening?” My voice was high-pitched.
I searched for reassurance, but instead was met with tears dripping down her cheeks.
I dragged my gaze to my father, and when he looked at me over his shoulder, his eyes were also blurry with tears, and his lip was quivering.
“Mom…” I choked. “What’s happening?”
“I’m so sorry, Luna.”
