"The defendant would like to make a statement."
I look up from my drawing for a moment as muttering sweeps through the courtroom. The gavel comes crashing down in quick succession to quell the protests.
"Order! Order! I will hear him!" The judge exclaims, a vein of annoyance throbbing in his forehead.
I flip to a new page and ready my pencil - this was a moment worth capturing, for sure. In fact, this entire court case had been one surprise after another. First, a member of the jury couldn't handle the horrific images shown as evidence and she passed out. They had to find a replacement for her in order to continue the case. Then, I suppose out of necessity, the defendant changed his plea to guilty. Now the accused wishes to issue a statement?
My pencil hovers over the page as I watch the shuffling at the Counsel Table, and the defendant stands up. He is dressed in a plain black t-shirt and lose-fitting jeans. His hair is messy and unkempt, and his dark eyes seem to be full of joy. His eyes were disturbing to me, and I find myself unable to look away as he begins to speak.
"Your honour," he says, his baritone voice reverberating throughout the crowded courtroom. He pauses for a moment as if to compose himself, leaving the tension hanging thick in the air.
"Your honour, I stand accused before you, and yet my hands are steady. I have no tears to cry. After all, a criminal mind is all I've ever known."
I cannot tear my gaze away from him, such charisma is evident in his tone. I can tell people around me were affected similarly, each leaning forward in their seats for a better view. How could this man, a murderer of seven men and women, have such an effect on us? I ask myself, but no answer comes.
"Reformation is not the answer, so please do not try. I'm made of cold stone, and I cannot bend."
The judge leans forward. "Very well, Mr. Gowan, humour me. What would you have me do? Imprison you?"
"I've spent my life behind these steel bars already, and I've paid my debt in time. I regret nothing I've done, save that I got caught." He chuckles, the sound sending a cold chill down my spine. "These prison walls secure me from the outside world, and there's nothing you can do inside them to hurt me. I'm numb to it all."
"Are you suggesting you want me to sentence you to death?" the judge frowns. I can hear small muttering throughout the courtroom at such a brazen request.
The man's lawyer stands up, attempting to stop the exchange, but a quick glare from the accused stops the younger man immediately. Sheepishly, he sits back down.
"All I'm saying," the hardened criminal continues, unfazed, "is that before you read my sentence, I'd like to say a few words in my own defense."
The courtroom remains silent, no one daring to move or speak. The defendant lowers his tone like he's speaking at a personal level. I feel like a voyeur listening in on an intimate conversation as he addresses the judge directly.
"Some people struggle daily with their conscience until the day they die. I have no guilt to haunt me, and I feel no wrong intent. I would do the same again. A criminal mind is all I've ever had."
He waves his hand dramatically at the people gathered in the crowded courtroom, his eyes never leaving the Judge sitting at the front of the room. "Ask one who's known me, 'is he really so bad?', and I guarantee they'll say..."
His eyes fall on me, leaning forward in my chair, barely breathing or blinking out of fear of missing the exchange. I whimper slightly and shift uncomfortably under the weight of his gaze, filled with commanding power and something else much more dangerous. He gives a wide, crazed grin, and his eyes take on a predatory look.
"I am."
************************************
The gavel slams down. "Dismissed! Case closed!" The judge exclaims, gathering his things. I watch the bailiff lead the accused from the court room, towards his desired death. As he leaves, his eyes scan the people moving before finally settling on me. He hesitates for a moment to give a creepy smile and a quick wink before being jostled forward by the bailiff.
I look down at the sheet of drawing paper on my lap, still stunned by the brazen request for capital punishment, and my heart skips a beat. There on the page staring back at me, are the two dark eyes I had drawn, full of the malice and conviction only a murderer could have.
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