Red-handed

Sixteen years ago

A panel of jurors sit behind a wooden board. The heat of their judgemental eyes could make anyone crumble. Near the center of the group, an older woman with large glasses and short orange hair inspects me from the top of my braided hair down to the bottom of my thrifted ballet flats. Her stare is the worst.

My tongue runs over the space in my gums where I lost my tooth last week and focus on what I’m supposed to say. Nerves threaten to wipe my memory clean but I pull it together like I always do.

“Please state your name for the jury,” The judge addresses me. I snap out of my train of thought and straighten my posture.

“Remi.”

“Please state your full name.” He clarifies. I shrink back at my slip-up. The attorney across the room gives me an encouraging smile.

“Remi Alden.” I force myself to project my voice to the room like I was taught.

No amount of preparation could have prepared me for this feeling. This mix of being out of place but pushed to act like I knew what any of this back and forth with the court meant. Sometimes I wish they would just throw me in prison. Prison seemed like a sanctuary compared to my group home.

“And how old are you, Alden?” The judge scans through some papers.

“Six.” The judge peers down and me and leans back in his chair taking me in before rambling about the preceding of the case. It feels like hours before the judge allows the attorney to question me.

The attorney walks over to me and causally leans against the podium separating me from everyone else.

“Can you describe the incident?” The attorney starts his line of questioning like we rehearsed.

“I was home alone and three men broke in through the window. They saw me eating in the kitchen by myself and tried to take me,” I say quieter than I mean to. Remembering the first time we practiced I was on the verge of sobbing.

“They will think you’re emotional and easily influenced. You need to say it without crying.” His words replay in my mind. My hands tremble and I hide them away on my lap.

“Now Remi, police reports say you were found by yourself at the time of their arrival. Can you describe how you called the police?” The attorney continues.

“My dad always has a phone in the couch cushions for emergencies. I grabbed it after the attack and called them myself.”

“Can you elaborate on how Russo and Corbin passed during the attack?”

“They left a gun on the table when they tried to tie me up. I waited until they were distracted and took it and I hid inside the closet. When Russo opened the door he threatened to kill me so I shot him. I didn’t want to. I tried running away but Corbin broke my leg and…I was scared and shot him too.” More images of that night flood me. “The tallest one, Orson, tried to take it away from me but he tripped and I shot him too. It didn’t hit him and he ran away.”

“Were they threatening you?” I open my mouth to answer.

“Objection, leading,” The prosecutor interrupts. The attorney said he would try to make me look bad– That it was his job so I swallow down the anger burning in me. The judge nods.

“Sustained.”

“What did you do after?” The attorney glances at the prosecutor and relaxes when he’s not reprimanded.

“I dragged their bodies over me and sat on the floor still holding the gun. I didn’t know if there were more coming to attack me. That’s when I called the police,” I look over at the panel of twelve people and stare at the faces that dictate my fate—connecting eyes with the woman with glasses.

The intensity only rises once cross-examination starts. Doubts about my intelligence and my maturity ring in the air. The attorney disputes questions on my behalf multiple times. Insults pointed as questions are spat at me. The prosecutor dissects my story and tries everything to accuse me of lying and wanting to save my junky parents.

I walk out of the courtroom feeling dizzy. The weight of today has completely drained me. I fight the urge to break down crying for my mom. Not that she would spare me a glance if I dropped dead.

My social worker leads me to the entrance, and we wait for our ride. Lauren is the fourth social worker in the last month. She never seems too interested in talking to me, but I am starting to like her quiet company. Stuck in my head and not paying attention, I slam straight into the attorney who is leaving the same way as us.

“Umm…I’m sorry attorney,” I blush knowing he'll be able to tell I forgot his name. He only grins.

“You did great out there,” He encourages and my cheeks burn even hotter.

“Thank you,” I say politely and scoot closer to Lauren out of habit. She told me about her crush on the attorney and how he rejected her so I’m not sure whose side I should be on.

“You know, my higher ups were even thinking about bringing you down to the agency.”

I freeze knowing higher-ups don’t usually get along with me. “To jail?”

“No, the opposite actually. They want you to work for them one day. They think you’ll do great things,” His smile is genuine but something sinister about the determination in his words has my stomach dropping.

“Great things? Like becoming an attorney?” I try to joke but the words come out awkwardly enough that I sound serious.

“Even better than being an attorney. We need to arrange some things but I’ll be back for you. We’ll give you a tour. You can even stay for a bit and have a whole room to yourself,” he types on his phone and I allow myself that reality. My mom and dad never let me have a room for myself when I was living with them, and I have had to share a room in the group home ever since I got there.

“Can Lauren come?” I ask. Lauren snorts and makes a show of turning away from the attorney. He swats down so we’re eye-to-eye.

“No, but I will make sure you will be comfortable and make a lot of other friends. She can even come to visit.” He gives her a look and stands back up. “I have somewhere to be but I look forward to our tour.”

His fancy shoes clack on the marble food and I stare in awe, taking in everything he told me. I smile for the first time in a while. Maybe I am going to do great things.