“You know, there are things in things in this world that we hold to be true, even if they’re never spoken or written. Like opening a door for someone who has their hands full of groceries, or helping a person up if they fall. Or most importantly, protecting those who cannot protect themselves. It is our job, our duty as Americans, to do so. We know this to be true from our history as the only nation in the world that provides a safety net for its elders, the disabled, and those whose suffering has been rendered unacceptable. Those ideals, those standards that our country has been founded upon, makes us exceptional.
“But on the night of August 3rd, we did not live up to that standard. We failed Marcus Deloney. And there are many just like him, languishing on urban corners, drifting away in quiet graves just like society expected. Somehow, we let them slip past us until they eventually become lost in a poisonous system that historically seems to lean less favorably to those who are poor or who have darker skin.
“How on earth can we allow that child live in a home with guardians that consist of a pimp and a prostitute, both addicted to heroin? Of course, some of the blame lies on the parents, including his mother. But there is a much bigger picture that we all too often fail to realize. It’s that we are all to blame. When a child ends up dead, it is all of our responsibilities because those are the principles that our nation have been founded on.
“We have wronged this child. His father, his mother, me, and yes, you too. We have wronged him. But starting today, we have a chance to gain some sort of redemption. We have a chance to right a wrong and bring his killer to justice. To Put a rapist in jail and take him off the streets forever so that he can never hurt another person again. We have a chance to redeem ourselves ladies and gentlemen. The rest is up to you. Thank you.”
Mr. Simonsky walked back to his seat, giving the defense the opportunity to provide its opening statements.
The court, in a silent thunder as everyone waited. Mr. Melotti gathered his paperwork. The face of the judge became concerned. His eyebrows raised to the point of annoyance. “Any day now counselor!”
“Of course, your honor.” Mr. Melotti rose to his feet and moved toward the jury. He faced them in the same manner Simonsky did. His face was dampened by sweat. His hands fidgeted back and forth like hung flags in autumn, leaving the impression that his performance would be unpromising. Though he was everything but.
He adjusted his silk tie and paused for moment as he stared at the courtroom floor. Then he began. “I’m a country boy. Grew up in Beaumont a little over four hours from here. There’s this thing they say about people from Beaumont. That is, the sun never shined in a place so filthy. Crazy enough, I always thought it was a beautiful place. Hell, it was home and there’s no place like it, as they say.
“There’s something golden about a place you can call home. It’s a place where ya lay your head, and fill ya belly, and if you’re lucky, you even get to go to bed, showered with kisses and hugs.”
“It wasn’t until I grew up, I found out that not everybody was so lucky. Not everybody had a place to call home. People like little Malcolm. Now I don’t care what anyone says, that wasn’t a home. That was a hell.
“He lived in a hell brought by circumstances by both my client and his mother. Now, I’m not here to tell you that my client’s a saint. I mean, who is? And I’m not here to argue against the accusations that he was a pimp, even though there is no solid evidence of that. Just hearsay from the child’s mother. I won’t argue that because he can be all the names you want him to be, but that don’t make him a killer.
“Ladies and gentleman, we know what this is. We have seen it before. Bad things happen and we immediately look for someone to blame. Truth is, there’s no one to blame but life. The police arrested my client based on the accounts of a junkie. Let’s be honest. The child’s mother is a junkie! Now, I know the prosecution wants to pretend that this child’s mother was a saint. But she’s far from it. At only seventeen, Annalisa Deloney has been arrested over twenty-five times for prostitution. Twenty-five times! She was once arrested for assaulting a police officer. And this is the person they base their case on? Ladies and gentleman, you don’t gotta be a genius to tell when something smells a little funky. And this case reeks. But one thing my colleague said is absolutely right. It’s our responsibly. Everyone’s, including—his mother. Now, the prosecution is gonna give you a story. They’re gonna attempt to paint my client as the scum of the earth. There gonna throw dirt on his name. They’re gonna do everything they can to get you to believe he loved his child any less than a father should. But I want you to do something for me. Take, all the emotions out of this case. Take all the hate that you have for this man. Forget that he may or not be a pimp because none of that is important right now. The only question that should be raised is did my client intentionally bring harm against his son? The answer is no. He did not. What happened here was a simple accident that could have happened in anyone. Ladies and gentlemen, I need you to look at the entire picture here. Because the truth is, you do have a duty to this child. But you also have a duty to him, my client. Whether you like him or not, it is your duty to make sure that an innocent man doesn’t go to jail. It is your duty to see that justice is done for both parties. Thank you.”
Mr. Melotti walked back to his seat as the jury sat, wide-eyed and focused.
“We’re going to take a 30 minute recess,” said Judge Harris. “The time is 2:35. We will reconvene at 3:05. Therein, the prosecution can present its case.”
Mr. Simonsky rose from his seat and walked toward Annalisa. “Are you okay?”
She sat there. Her hands covered her eyes as if that would shield her from all the pain.
“Annalisa?”
“Yes. I’m fine,” she said.
Mr. Simonsky reached out his hand. “Come on. We have to prepare.”
She grabbed his hands, and together, they walked out the courtroom. Simonsky led her to a briefing room across the hall as Susan and McCoy followed closely behind. The room, small and dimly lit, only held a table and two chairs.
“Have a seat,” says Mr. Simonsky.
Annalisa sat. Susan moved the other chair within an inch of Annalisa. Officer McCoy stood nearby. Arms folded. Eyes red like a summer rose. He hadn’t slept in days.
Simonsky glared worryingly at the young girl. She stared back. His face, uneasy.
“What is it?” says Annalisa.
“I need to know if there’s anything else you’re not telling me.”
“What? Why are you asking that?”
“The defense showed their strategy today. They’re going to come after you. So I need to know if there’s anything I should know, so we can be ready for it.”
“This child cannot keep going through this,” said Susan. “She already told you everything!”
“I have to ask the question.”
“No, you don’t!”
“Look. The defense is going to try to paint her as an unfit parent. They hinted at that today. And the only way—”
“Unfit? I loved that boy more than I loved myself,” said Annalisa.
“That may very well be true, ma’am. But the only way we can combat their comments, is for you to tell your side of the story, but the full story.”
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t! And I won’t.”
“This is about your son! Not you!”
“I know. I just can’t!”
“Why? What are you afraid of?”
She didn’t respond. She just sat, teary-eyed and broken.
“Annalisa, what are you not telling me?”
She spun away and dug her head into Susan’s arms.
“Counselor! That’s enough,” said Susan.
“I need to know this! Now Annalisa, look at me!”
She looked back at him.
“Is there anything you haven’t told me?”
She looked up, her eyes swamped in guilt. And spoke words
that changed everything. “It’s Sweetz,” she said.
“What about Sweetz?”
“He’s—”
“He’s what?”
“He-he’s my father.”
“What did you just say?”
“Sweetz… is my father.”
To Be Continued.
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