Jayus

He sits there, tense, hands trembling on his lap, watching the crowd of blank — and hostile — faces. Some part of him listens to his lawyer talk; another part wonders how it came to this, after all of the evidence and all of the meetings, all of the hearings and pleadings.

“May it please the court…”

But he has little time to reminisce as the questions start coming. This part, he’s been trained for, coached well by someone who was very intent on getting him to say the right things at the right times. He performs as well as anyone could expect, an obedient puppet dancing to the motions, a clockwork toy wound tightly and clapping to the music.

It was the night of September thirteenth, a Tuesday, and I was coming home from my engineering class. It was raining, and I offered her my jacket, and we struck up a conversation.

Afterwards, he even remembers some of it, in bits and pieces — describing how and when they met, how their relationship grew and changed, the various dates they went on as the months went by. It feels more than a little odd to him to describe such warm, personal details in such a cold, clinical context, but he soldiers on. His lawyer keeps him on topic, the pre-set glances and gestures reminding him when to talk, when to stop. Even so, he can’t help but add some detail, here and there, despite the answers he was trained to give.

Her dress was red, with black polka dots, and I remember saying something stupid — that she looked like a ladybug, I think. She took it well, thankfully, and laughed.

The jury almost laughs at that, and his lawyer doesn’t skip a beat, waiting a second for them to compose themselves, to remember it, and he almost marvels at the way that he’s being conducted, at the way the performance is going. He focuses on trying to say the right things, trying to get the jury to see his side, to appear casual and personable and funny, and it helps carry him through the description of the night itself. He’s prepared — or been prepared — for this part more than any other, but even so, there are moments of terror, of pain, of emotion that take him by surprise.

It was a walk in the park, something we did often. It wasn’t that late — I think around eight or so? And we were just walking along. I bent down to tie my shoe — I think I sat down at one of the benches. She said that she wanted to keep going, that I should catch up, and I let her go. It was supposed to be safe, and...and when I finished, she had disappeared around the corner — there were these bushes, right, following the path — am I followed, I went after her, and then I saw...

He recites it quietly — the facts, the observations, the details, the colors that he remembers of that night. His voice trembles, but it does not break; near the end, he closes his eyes, not wanting to look at anything as he finishes. More than anything, he feels their gazes upon him, as they weigh whether he is truthful, whether he is to be trusted, whether he is a reliable narrator…

— I called 911 right away, and I had some training in CPR but I just didn’t know what to do. Every time I did compressions, every time I pushed on her chest she just… she just…bled, more. I couldn’t — I couldn’t stop it.

...whether he is guilty of her death. Then he is done, and he opens his eyes, swallows, and looks at nothing in particular, hearing the ringing of his words slowly fade into the cracks and corners of the courtroom, into the jury’s brains.

Then, of course, it is time for the cross-examination. It feels just as scripted — except that this time, he hasn’t had a chance to see the script the opposing attorney is reading from.

Well, we didn’t fight that much, no— well, yes, of course every relationship has its ups and— there certainly was that one time that—

The answers are shorter, more abrupt, ended without ever having a chance to build into anything that resembles a story. He tries to fight it, but the questions are fast and furious, always starting with, ‘Well, isn’t it true that’ and ending with the inevitable conclusion, the continuous refrain that yes, yes, yes it was true.

No, she would never— yes, well, there was that time, too, but it —

Yes, they sometimes fought, yes, it wasn’t all roses and rainbows, yes, but what does this have to do with anything, he wants to shout. Perhaps the jury thinks so too, as some of their brows furrow a bit, as some of their mouths turn a bit downwards — but maybe, he realizes with a dawning horror, they’re turning against him. He looks at his own attorney with pleading eyes, but the lightest shrug and flick of the eyes tells him what he already knows: there’s no help there. And the questions, the arrows, the interrogation keeps coming.

No, I didn’t ever hit her— no, that wasn’t actually a fight— no, the bruise came from...

Then the attorney suddenly changes — in argumentation, in questioning, in demeanor — and stops for a pause, three seconds, five, until the jury turns to look at him, wondering why he stopped. And then he tilts his head, and asks, almost kindly, ‘Well, what did you last fight about?”

We…fought about something silly. It was a… prank, something a long time coming. It wasn’t a big deal. It was something a bit unexpected, I guess, but it wasn’t mean.

And he pauses, expecting another question, another jab at something or other, but he doesn’t get it — instead a very neutral ‘Go on?’. So he does.

Well, we had been dating for some time, and we shared, well, an interesting sense of humor, and had joked about, er, some of the stuff in the bedroom, and there was this — well, there’s a site that defines words less officially and has some pretty, ah, bawdy stuff. We had joked about some of the things and erm, I think, mentioned a, um...Houdini….once upon a time, and, I guess maybe she had forgotten about it, and...

Still nothing to cut him off, but he sees, out of the corner of his eye, his lawyer frantically scribbling something down — but before he can figure out why, another question.

“Could you tell the court what a Houdini is, sir?”

He blinks.

It’s, well, it’s, um. I mean, it’s when—

His own attorney is squinting at him, and though he doesn’t understand why, he understands the meaning: shut up. But the cross-examiner sees the reticence and immediately moves to intercept.

“I remind you that you’re in a court of law, that you’ve sworn to tell the truth, under penalty of perjury.”

His counsel objects, citing irrelevance, but the objection is overruled. And under order from the judge, he continues.

A Houdini...is when you… are behind your partner. And then you...swap places with someone else, without your partner knowing, and then you…show up in front of them. Like a...magic trick.

He almost can’t resist grinning at the memory, at the planning that went into it. It was just a prank, a fun joke that was going to be something to remember and laugh at. But he reminds himself that he’s in court, keeps his face composed, and waits for the next question. It comes, slow and deliberate, one that, in retrospect, reminds him of a cat playing with a cornered mouse.

“And how is this ‘Houdini’ relevant to you and the deceased?”

His attorney is frozen, and something tells him that he should be too. But the memory — sure, there was a fight afterwards, but they made up, and it was all in good fun, and it was still something they laugh at. So he tells the story, casually, still trying to figure out what the cross-examiner was getting at.

I sort of had it planned for a few months, really — we had been dating for a bit and talked about the various jokes and this was one of them, but we never mentioned it afterwards. And, well, I, er, didn’t quite have a friend of mine come in — that would’ve been terrible, of course — but I, ah, bought something that could’ve doubled for, um, you know—

“A penis?”

Er, yeah. So I was sort of… we were having sex, and I was behind her, and I sort of… it was warm, right, so she wouldn’t realize, and so I sort of put it, um, in her, and then sort of crawled around the bed and, uh, peeked up in front of her.

Dead silence in the courtroom...

...except for one person.

Him.

In describing it, he starts picturing the expression on her face — the shock, the anger, the outrage — and the way she almost levitated from the bed, the way she slapped him, storming out of the room buck naked. And then he thinks of when she got him back for it, hiding under the covers, getting him all eager and then having him thrust into a Fleshlight — the rubber vagina — for five minutes, all the while listening to him tell her how good it was.

So he bursts out laughing.

It was just so funny, you see...

And then he realizes, with a start, how this must look to everyone else. He stops himself, sharply, choking on his laugh as it dies in his throat, as he sees the smug grin of the cross-examiner, the despair on his own attorney’s face. He hears his laugh echo and echo, and hears — or imagines — the sharp sound of the jury’s minds snapping shut, ready to render judgment. He wants to protest, wants to say, ‘but she got me back, and it’s funny because—’ but he’s cut off, one more time.

“No further questions, your honor.”