She straightens her head again and I nod, though she probably can’t see it. For a moment there, I really believed she was some incarnation of the mother I used to have, some piece of Mama revitalized.
There’s a large clock on the wall directly above where the judge is seated and, just as it strikes nine, the whole room quiets. Feels like I’ve entered a Judge Judy scene, the judge slamming the gavel down with three bangs. I half expect her to call out Order in the court but she doesn’t and next thing I know she’s talking in legal speech and a man is standing, responding. The whole exchange is alien to me and I don’t know what’s going on until Sandra leans toward me and whispers.
“One of the witnesses failed to appear.”
“Who?”
“An officer.”
“Good,” I scoff.
Sandra shakes her head. “I don’t think so. It sounds like he was the only one corroborating your story.”
“Why would any of them do that?”
“Decency, I guess.” Sandra starts to crack a smile that never makes it to her mouth, leaves only the slightest dimple in her left cheek.
I don’t think that’s it, though. Not that none of them are decent, just that decency has never provided enough to unbury their egos. I think it’s just how time works. A man’s crescent will always catch up with him. The way I seen Marcus’s moon chest recede so far I thought it was dark in there. The way I’m seeing it come out now, slowly, but I know it’ll be full again. That’s the only reason any of the cops would have tried to save me: they got their moon back.
A bald man seated at one of the tables in front of the judge stands up and turns, walking straight to our row. Sandra stands and they begin whispering. After a few moments, Sandra turns, smiles at me, and exits the courtroom, leaving the bald man to return to his desk. The silent courtroom is soon filled with murmurs, small chatter escalating. The back of my knees itch, sweat accumulating in the crease, and I wish Trevor was sitting next to me, holding my hand the way only a little boy can.
With not more than a swift motion of the judge’s neck raising, the whole room hushes. The judge speaks. “Due to unforeseen alterations to the schedule, we will now begin. Jurors have been chosen and sworn in and we will begin with Ms. Kiara Johnson. All those who are not the DA, the court reporter, Ms. Johnson, or members of the jury will exit the room, myself included.”
Everyone shuffles out of the room, the judge following behind, leaving the bald man, the jurors, the court reporter, and me.
I stare at my feet, first glancing at my breasts squeezed into the black dress, then my belly’s soft bulge, then my knees all gray, finally to my feet stepping one foot in front of the other up toward the stand. Halfway there, I hear the man cough behind me. I remember what Marsha would say, raise my head up, shove my shoulders back so my spine aligns, and lift my eyes to meet the bald man—the DA—standing beside the desk with his hands clasped in front of him. I give him a curt smile, but he does not even make eye contact with me, instead looking down at the papers in front of him. Everyone trying not to look at me.
I step up to the stand, taking a seat in the round oak chair. It’s so different from when I testified at Mama’s trial, when I felt like the victim and not the defendant, even though I know I’m not really, not legally at least. The stand is set up like a podium, except I don’t have anything to read from and I would never voluntarily put myself on a stage, not in front of these people. I’m not Marcus. I look out at the jury, but my vision won’t focus long enough to let me see any of their faces. Just his. The DA stands with a poise that makes me think he’s done this so many times, I’m just another face to him. Just another out-of-place girl stuck in someone else’s dress, speaking someone else’s words.
Now it feels like I’m the only thing he can focus on, eyebrows strung together with a downward dip in the center like he’s evaluating me, assessing what’s about to happen like it ain’t entirely his choice. I chew on the inside of my mouth just to keep my face soft enough that it won’t look like I’m staring him down. Marsha said I need to stay calm, sophisticated, but childlike. I push my lips out enough that it might mimic a smile and wait while he recites a list of proceedings Marsha’s already explained more than enough times.
And, just like that, the DA begins, doesn’t miss a beat. “Ms. Johnson, is it true that you go by an alias?”
“It’s not an alias, it’s a nickname. Some people I grew up with call me Kia.”