Joyous Johnson #2

When I walked into the courtoom, she was already there, sitting quietly in the front row. She ran her manicured nails through her stringy hair, sighed, and straightened the dress clothes she still wasn’t used to wearing. Mostly, though, she watched him. He was stoically seated at the counsel table, as if, after months of worrying, he had quietly resigned himself to his fate.

When the judge asked her who she was, or how she was related to him, all she could manage was to quietly choke out “I’m his wife.”

As the trial progressed, she said nothing. As the accusations mounted, she shook her head. This wasn’t her husband. This wasn’t the man she knew. How had they come this far?

After a recess, the lawyers returned. They marched uniformly with their shiny black shoes clicking on the wooden courtroom floor. As they walked, they laughed with each other, talking about lingering memories and future triumphs. For them, this was just another day. Another jury; another boilerplate closing argument; another verdict; another pile of notes to throw out with the morning’s stale coffee.

It wasn’t for her. The last few days had been tinged with an indefinable sadness. He was home, sure. But he was home on bond. Each passing minute brought him (and, consequently, her) closer to a completely uncontrollable fate. Otherwise, it looked the same. They still woke up together. She still went to work. They ate dinner together, watched TV shows she didn’t even remember, snuggled up together, and went to sleep. This morning, though, was different. They woke up together, but she woke up crying. She got ready, as always, and cooked breakfast, but they ate in silence. They got in the car together, and he reached over to grab her hand, but it brought about tears instead of her usual smile. It may have looked the same, but it definitely wasn’t just another day for her.

With each passing witness, she continued her coping ritual, shaking her head in disbelief, wiping the tears from her eyes, running her hands through her hair, and straightening her dress shirt.

She knew what they said about him was true. At first, her heart didn’t want to believe it. She had been 14 when they met, and in her head, he was the same gangly overly-confident 16 year-old he was then. How did they come this far? The day that he got arrested, she knew something was wrong. When he left the house that morning, he was… different, somehow. He had a sort of quiet steeled resignation about him, the same sort of resignation that was sitting at the counsel table today. It was as if he knew what could happen, he knew what he was risking, but he still thought he had to. She didn’t need those manicured nails. She could have picked up another shift, or they could have cut back, or something – not this. Any number of things, but not this.

When the verdict came, she broke down. Her small frame bent in half and shook with quiet sobs. 60 days until sentencing, the judge said. 60 days of freedom, during which they weren’t free to go most places or do most things. 60 days, during which they would be expected to talk to strangers about every minute intimate detail of their personal lives in hopes that something, anything, would lend itself to mercy. 60 days.

As they walked out of the courtroom, she was still shaking, even as he quietly grabbed her hand.

The door shut, the docket changed, and things continued; it was just another day.