He was in a court room, cold wood every side, jury in the foreground, I hate Mondays, twenty thousand words behind him, of evidence and argument, of black on white.
Last night he was in a bar, she was there and he was there. It was painful.
He had lived in this case for weeks now, knew every word and number. He ushered the jury by the facts. It was pre-meditated. The e-mails left unread. The blocked calls. Early signs. It wasn’t a difficult case but it was a well prepared argument. He was eager to prove he was right.
He was eager to disprove he was drunk. Because he had moved on. Emails. Calls. He had moved on, and he was probably with someone else. He definitely, definitely didn’t look drunk. He looked like he had moved on and she had missed her chance and he didn’t even think about her. He knew exactly how that looked.
The CCTV footage, placing the defendant at the scene. An involuntary glance to the side followed by another. Defendant. Wishing. He was anywhere but. The knife near the body. Cuts here, here, and here. Couldn’t be self-defence.
Couldn’t be. He glanced at her. Twice. Three times was hard to explain. He wished he hadn’t seen her, wished she hadn’t seen him. Wished he was anywhere but now. Felt every lapse in judgement. Felt his conviction slip away.
To hold her. The jury gone, feel the rush of the wait. Arms back, feel her weight. Innocent or guilty. Innocent or guilty.