IF ONLY PRODIGAL

 

(Artwork By: Saundarya D. Nair)

Teaching law is tricky. You cannot entirely focus on what the textbook says, because while the law remains fairly the same, its application changes every day. Behind the large, wood polished doors of a courtroom, justice is handed out, to the deserving and at times, the undeserving. Next week, I have to take a Criminal Law class, and I had been referred to the trial of Matthew Donner, accused of murdering the housemaid, to be more practical a tutor. Fun.

I sit, waiting, outside the courtroom. The trial is to resume after lunch, at 2:00 PM. It is 1:50. People are bustling in and out, discussing last minute changes in witness schedules and evidence presentation. I want to sit at the very back, pretending to not exist. I wait until 1:59 to enter.

The room is full. The stands are full, the space between the wall and benches is packed. I sigh, not looking forward to the idea of standing for the next God-knew-how-many-hours. I am about to whip out my notepad, when a voice from the front calls out to me. “Sir, why don’t you take a seat here? There is space for you.”

The speaker, a boy in his early twenties, is sitting right behind the Defence Council. He looks innocent and young, too young to be witnessing a murder trial. I hesitate a little, before walking over and taking a seat next to him. “Thank you.” He smiles, staring at the defendant’s seat, empty. He is twiddling his thumbs, almost as if he is nervous.

One of the backdoors of the room opens, and a man is brought in, handcuffed. Unlike the villains in movies, he isn’t smiling. He looks solemn, as if he is contemplating how he landed up there or how he should make a break for it. Perhaps he isn’t guilty. Perhaps he is.

He sits down, and looks back at the boy next to me, who turns his head away to an elderly couple next to him. The accused is grinning, now. Does he know the boy? I glance at the boy, again, and notice that there are scars on the side of his neck. Why does he have these?

“All rise!” cries the bailiff. I have to squeeze to stand, and by the time I manage, Judge Williams has already asked us to sit. Perfect.

He gestures the Defence Lawyer to proceed. Beside me, I hear murmuring. “I will not lie. I saw him do it!” I try not to crane my neck too much to eavesdrop. Just enough.

“He is your brother. You cannot sell him out. You have to say what is required. We can’t have him sentenced to jail for fourteen years. How are we supposed to survive without our child for that long? What if they hurt him there?” I assume this is the mother talking. A woman of principles, indeed, whatever the principles may be.

“I’m sure he can defend himself, given what he did. The bottom line is, he broke the law. He is a murderer! How can you just ignore that?” Love makes people blind, I want to say.

“Thomas, you will do as we say, or you will face the brunt of it. Your brother is a good man, and we cannot abandon him because he made a mistake.” I write, swiftly, on the opened page of my notepad, ‘Murder is a mistake, apparently. Is it a forgivable one?”

“Mistake? I am sure Sandrena’s mother would disagree.” There is silence from the other side. I wonder if he has been able to convince the parents, when a voice says, “If he is acquitted and you testified against him, you could meet the same fate.” I feel Thomas freeze next to me. He does not say anything.

“…would like to call my next witness, Thomas Donner, the accused’s brother, who was with the defendant at the time of the murder.” I make space for him to walk out the row and watch him with pity, as he sits down in the witness box, placing his hand on the Bible.

His expression is listless as he answers routine questions, and the lawyer builds up to what he actually wants to ask him. “Thomas, did your brother murder Sandrena Sickle on Tuesday, June 1, at 8:30 PM in the living room of your house?”

For a second, his eyes drift to his parents and sideways, to his brother. I wonder if the jury notices this.

The courtroom is so silent, I can hear him gulp. “No, he did not.” As he is asked to step down, I can see pain and resignation flicker across his face.

For the next hour, I hear lawyers argue, doctors give their statements, police officers share conclusions from their investigations. The court is adjourned for 5:30, when the jury would make the final decision.

I am back at the bench outside the courtroom, and my notepad is empty. The words of the family ring in my ears, and a feeling of wrongness overwhelms me.

***

The jury takes their seat, and I sit, next to Thomas, wishing I could comfort him, but knowing I cannot. “What is your decision?” Judge Williams asks.

I hold my breath. A mid-aged woman, perhaps a teller at the bank, gets up, “We find the defendant not guilty on all charges.” I close my eyes. I hear screams of happiness from around me, and screeches of defeat.

***

I don’t move. The case is closed. The courtroom is almost empty. The Donner family is here. I am here. The parents are hugging their elder son, as the younger one stands to the side. Matthew pulls Thomas in, “You did a good thing, Tom. You know that, right?” Thomas’ hands fall limp, and he continues to look down.

The family starts to leave, Matthew whispering to his mother, loud enough for me to hear, loud enough for Thomas to hear. “I learned a lesson, mother. I’ll wear gloves next time.” His mother laughs and punches him lightly in the stomach. Thomas, who is staring at his brother’s back, looks horrified. He opens his mouth but closes it without saying anything. In that one gesture, I see a million cries die down. His parents hardly glance at him as they exit. You’d think they were a happy family of three.

Only he and I are left now. He passes me, to leave, and I whisper, “Prodigal.” He shakes his head, and says, voice trembling, “If only.”