Inherited

I had never been in a courtroom before, let alone as a defendant — in a case like this. The room was filled with stale air, tight faces and the weight of a century-old crime.

The murmurs of the crowd and the cold, unyielding stare of the judge pressed down on me like a weighted blanket.

I sat at the defendant’s table, my hands trembling as I clutched the edges. Across from me, the prosecutor, a stern woman with dark hair and sharp slanted. eyes, flipped through a stack of papers while occasionally glancing my way. I saw no pity there.

Just resolve.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This was supposed to be a formality, a symbolic gesture, maybe even a dark joke.

After all, how could they seriously consider holding me accountable for crimes committed over a hundred years ago?

Crimes committed by a man I never met, a man I had only learned about a few weeks ago. Yet, here I was, the target of a small community’s collective rage.

The prosecutor stood, her voice slicing through the heavy silence.

“Your Honor, the evidence is clear. While this young man may not have committed these heinous acts himself, the bloodline he carries is tainted. The sins of his great-great-grandfather are not erased by time. Justice demands that we hold someone accountable for the atrocities committed, and he is the last remaining blood link.”

I felt a knot form and twist in my stomach as she spoke. It didn’t matter that I had never harmed anyone, that I had lived an ordinary, unremarkable life.

In their eyes, I was the living embodiment of my ancestor’s sins — a reminder of over one hundred families’ pains.

My defense attorney — a man who looked like he’d rather be anywhere but here — rose to respond. His voice was measured, but I could sense the futility in his words.

“Your Honor, with all due respect, my client is not his ancestor. He is not responsible for the actions of a man who lived and died long before he was even born. This is a grave miscarriage of justice, punishing an innocent man for the crimes of another.”

The judge, a weathered man with deep lines etched into his face, leaned forward, considering the arguments. I could see the doubt flicker in his eyes, but also the pressure he was under.

The town had been advocating for justice ever since the story had resurfaced, and I was the unfortunate vessel for their wrath.

The prosecutor wasn’t done yet. She approached the jury, her voice growing more intense.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we must ask ourselves: What happens if we allow these crimes to go unanswered? What message does that send? That a person can escape justice simply by dying? That the pain and suffering of the victims and their families can be forgotten? Jason Todd Warthington brought pain and suffering to his victims for nearly twenty years back in 1922. We must act, not out of vengeance, but out of a need to right a wrong that has lingered in the shadows for too long. If his great great great grandson, Isaiah Warthington, is the link we need to right that wrong, then the only thing that has taken place is justice.”

My heart pounded in my chest. How could anyone argue with that logic? They weren’t after me — they were after closure, after a sense of peace that had eluded them for generations.

But, they can’t possibly buy this. Can they?

The jury’s faces were unreadable, but I could feel the tide turning against me. They didn’t see me as a person anymore. I was a symbol, a stand-in for a monster who had escaped the consequences.

The judge called for a recess, and as the courtroom emptied, I was left alone with my thoughts. The walls seemed to close in around me, and I could almost hear the whispers of the past, the voices of those who had suffered at my ancestor’s hands.

How could I convince them that I wasn’t the monster they wanted me to be? How could I prove that I was just a man, caught in a nightmare that wasn’t of my making?

As the minutes ticked by, I realized that I wasn’t just fighting for my freedom — I was fighting for my very identity.

If they found me guilty, I wouldn’t just be punished — I’d be erased, consumed by the shadow of a man I never knew.

The doors swung open, and the judge returned, his expression grim. The jury filed back in, their faces still beyond words. My lawyer gave me a weak nod, as if to say he’d done all he could.

The judge’s gavel struck the podium, and the room fell silent once more.

This was it.

The moment that would define the rest of my life. The moment that would decide if I was to be held accountable for the sins of a dead man.

The foreman of the jury stood, holding the slip of paper that would seal my fate. My breath caught in my throat as he opened his mouth to speak.

And in that moment, I realized that justice wasn’t about truth or fairness. It was about the stories we tell ourselves, the ghosts we carry, and the price we’re willing to pay to make them go away.