Willie Medlin stood at the table beside his lawyer, his unfocused eyes staring straight ahead. His face showed nothing, but his body was tight with fear.
The judge and most the court had their eyes on the jury foreman. The judge asked, “On the charge of murder in the first degree, how do you find?”
“We find the defendant—not guilty.”
Willie almost moaned with relief. His shoulders sagged as he let out the breath he’d been holding. He turned to his lawyer and could see he was almost as relieved as Willie. It had been close.
Willie looked over at the spectator gallery where the family of the victim sat. The mother was crying silently. Her husband had his hand on her shoulder, trying awkwardly to give comfort, but his eyes were on Willie, the hurt and hatred contorting his face. Beside them sat the grandfather, a small, smartly dressed man, also looking at Willie. He didn’t look angry, or disappointed, or anything. He just watched, calmly, almost with understanding, as if there was a silent agreement between them. Willie couldn’t resist. He grinned and winked at them.
After Willie’s release...
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Illustration Copyright © Teri Santitoro (7ARS) |
