The Justice Game
The justice game. If it weren’t for my life being on the line it would have been comical. By the time I stood trial for the murder of my husband I wasn’t sure if I was at a football game or in a court of law. Picture it, the cast of players, are very much the same. There’s the umpire, or better known as the Judge, sitting high and mighty on the bench, wearing a black rob to distinguished him from the rest, ready to call the plays as he sees fit. No one dares argue the decision for fear of being thrown from the game or being fined. There are twelve people sitting in a row, some wishing the umpire had sat them out for the game, others wondering if a book deal was in the making after my conviction. They are also known as a jury of my peers. Of course that couldn’t be further from the truth. I was a young wealthy, social climber accused of murdering my husband, and they were, by all accounts, hard working God fearing people. I felt for them, charged with the burden of deciding if I was guilty or not guilty, since my innocence is of no importance. There’s the two men sitting in suits and ties each sure that they know the truth and in reality neither knowing a darn thing for sure. There’s the spectators, fans if you may, each cheering for their side. Lets not forget the reporters from reputable news channels CNN, MSNBC, and my favorite Court T.V. each inviting their own “legal experts” to bring the viewing public up to the minute plays on my trial. All this taking place in a setting of honor, respect, in the American Justice system. Finally there’s me, the defendant, one would like to think that at the end of this most intriguing process, my life, justice for my husband would be the final touch down. Yet in reality when you look around each of the players have their own agenda.
I came into the game with enough money to hire the best legal defense money could buy. I was advised by my attorney not to testify, he was concerned that my arrogance, would alienate the jury. There was no way I would go through this process and not have my say. He finally accepted my decision and coached me for hours on what to say, how to sit, where to look, and how to dress. “You must look like a Sunday school teacher,” he said.
My attorney was baffled when he saw me walk into the courtroom. I made my way to the witness stand with all the elegance and grace I could come up with. I wore a beautiful red D&G dress with six inch heals. I walked passed him listening to the whispers coming from the bleachers, I mean courtroom. I must say even the umpire; I mean judge took a second look over his bifocals. I took center stage. The somber bailiff taking his position at the game approached me holding a bible in his hand asked, “Do you swear to tell the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help you God? What a ridiculous question I thought to myself. Had I sworn to tell the truth, the whole truth, so help me God on the day I was arrested, would I have been allowed to board the plane to Cancun Mexico as planned? I stood there resting my hand on the Bible not wanting to answerer because to do so would make me part of this game, yet I knew that if I didn’t, my next stop was the plaza were I would be hung. They say we no longer do that, but we do. Sure we don’t go to the plaza but we gather in front of the tube and watch the lynching from the comfort of our recliners. No more innocent until proven guilty, no more Justice is blind, no more justice. “I do”, I said as if it mattered. I just hope that when it’s all said and done, no one get up to do the touch down dance.
