The End
Parallel Bookends Exercise
“And how do you plead?” the judge asks.
The judge’s voice is a thunderstorm approaching over rolling plains, spectacular and ominous in its baritone wholeness.
The courtroom is packed to the brim. Every news outlet on the planet and probably a few from outer space too hopes to be the first to deliver a headline that hasn’t already been chewed through, swallowed, and regurgitated to the masses waiting with stretched-out necks and open mouths.
Up until now, the feed has been sparse. Quite out of character, neither the defendant nor any of his representatives have uttered a single word about the case. When asked, they have just upped and left the room. Twitter has imploded onto itself because it cannot light a fire without a spark, and the entire thing has been a massive, wet blanket.
All we know is that the picture is genuine. Experts on both sides have agreed that it has not been doctored. They couldn’t at the time. The girl, the knife, a much younger him, it is all for real. To think that someone kept it secret for all these years.
He has aged in the past months. His hair has gone from whispy strawberry blond to a few strands of gray. His expensive suit hangs on him, his face is pale, so the overall impression is that of a very sad clown. I guess it is hard to maintain a regular skincare routine in jail. All his big hand gestures are gone. The air has seeped out of him. He now steadies his tiny, shaking hands on the edge of the table.
None of his inner circle is here today. Neither the family members who have stood by him through everything else nor the supporters, he made do his bidding with a little carrot and a lot of stick, have shown up. It might be the first time in his life he is this alone.
“Guilty!” he says in a broken voice, and the courtroom explodes in flashes and sounds.
