One Last Thing ✅

fifty-eight parts

Even though M&M told me what to expect from the arraignment, my nerves are going crazy. I've never been to the courthouse before, and the shiny marble floors and expensive wooden doors and benches intimidate me.

All around, there are professional-looking people dressed in crisp suits and skirts. They carry leather briefcases. I can't help but compare them with M&M and his tweed jacket with what looks like a tiny mustard stain on one of the lapels.

A severe-looking woman in a black suit, hair pulled into a tight bun, walks into the judge's chambers. She doesn't say anything to us, doesn't even make eye contact with me.

"The prosecutor," M&M whispers in my ear. "Ms. Olson. Don't let her scare you."

We follow her into the room.

The door closes behind me with a solid click.

I take it in all at once: the tall shelves packed full of books; the huge window overlooking a spacious green lawn, complete with fountain; the desk taking up what seems like half the room; the tiny woman sitting behind the desk.

She rises to greet us.

Judge Farrell reminds me of a kindergarten teacher. Her hair is brown and shoulder-length, and she has a kind look in her eyes. She speaks in a soft, gentle tone, pausing every once in a while to refer to her notes.

The prosecutor never looks at me, always refers to me as "the defendant." It makes me feel oddly inhuman, like I'm a plant standing in the corner.

My head spins.

I'm unable to follow the conversation, although I do catch the words "involuntary manslaughter" and "request for dismissal" coming out of Mr. Mason's mouth. The prosecutor doesn't seem so excited about the idea. She shakes her head and explains that she believes the prosecution has enough evidence to move forward with the manslaughter charge.

I watch Judge Farrell's face as the two attorneys present their cases. It's impossible to detect any emotion; her features are carefully set in a neutral expression. When Mr. Mason and the prosecutor have finished speaking, she leans back in her chair, takes off her glasses, and taps them against her chin thoughtfully.

Mr. Mason seems tense beside me. I look at his hand, which is curled around the arm of his own cushy leather chair. His knuckles are white.

Finally, Judge Farrell laces her fingers together, turns the corners of her mouth down, and speaks. "Thank you, counselors. I'll take this all into consideration. You should expect my decision by the end of the week."

The prosecutor nods curtly, packs up her things, and stalks out the door. I wonder what her problem is Mr. Mason thanks Judge Farrell and gently steers me toward the door.

"What was that all about?" I ask when we are safely out of earshot.

Mr. Mason sighs. "Look, I don't want to get your hopes up, but that was Judge Farrell's look."

"Her look?" I ask, confused.

"The look she gives when she's already made up her mind. She frowns and folds her hands like this..." He demonstrates. "And that usually means she's got an idea of what she's going to do. Again, I don't want to awaken any false hope in you, but I'd be surprised if you get more than a fine and some community service hours."

I turn his words over in my mind.

Don't hope. Don't.

But I can feel it growing within me like a weed, unasked for, unwanted, but there never the same, not needing sunlight or a lot of water to survive. It's there, and I can't do a lot about it. It's prickling at me, making me think of the future. Visions of things I never thought I wanted to do, like going to college or maybe singing or eventually having a family. Abbott's face springs to mind, and I shove it to the back, bury it deeper than I hid the letters in my closet, blushing slightly.

"Like I said, don't get your hopes up, okay?"

I nod helplessly.