Poole paced in the courtroom, unable to digest his anxiety and emotional distraught upon hearing the jury’s decision. His anxiety was feeding off of my own, which had tangled itself in my brain’s slimy tunnels and crevices. Everybody claimed he was the best lawyer in town, yet I portrayed him as a child, so innocently scared of the dark or the ‘monster’ in the closet. He was a middle-ground guy, golden-blond hair, and blue eyes, though greying in his older age. He struck me as a creepy-school janitor more than a lawyer. I felt sick to my stomach, but I choked it back along with my pride. I was no monster, nor did I deserve that view.

Dammit! We find the defendant guilty, your honour, of murder in the second degree, and of grand larceny.’ Guilty rang in my ears. I felt guilty. This couldn’t be happening, not to me. My palms were sweating, and my heart began beating so hard, I feared the room heard it. I couldn’t wrap my head around their verdict. The word rang in my head like a gong, and the pressure was becoming unbearable in my temples. I became breathless and knew the foreman of the jury was still speaking, but I was so deep in thought I didn’t care to hear his last words. I knew my life was over.

We ask for Rowe to be sentenced to death by hanging. We deemed this punishment appropriate – one life for another. I vomited in my mouth. That word hit me like a ton of bricks. Hanging. My throat started to close up and I began wondering if I’d die right there, instead of at the gallows.

The judge cocked his head at me expecting an outburst. Instead of acknowledging him, I sat in my handcuffs and old grey suit. What could I possibly say at this point to change anybody’s mind about my plea? In a world of power, religion, and wealth, I was the scum under their shoes, a speck of dust on their wealthy imports. I looked down to my knees in fear and sat silently on my throne of guilt.

“Does anybody have any objections to the jury’s wishes?” Judge Cartwright belted to the courtroom. The tone of his voice cut diamonds, and Poole jumped in like a skittish cat, forgetting he stood in a lion’s den.

“I do Your Honour,” Poole said. “Again, I must reiterate the state my client was in during the time of the shooting. Not only was he highly vexed and mentally unstable, but he also slipped on grease, triggering the gun by accident. This is not a violent man. I’m sure we can all agree this man does not deserve to be hanged, but should be sentenced to life in prison. We understand, as human beings, mistakes and accidents happen beyond our control.

Judge Cartwright spoke out. “The law says a man is innocent until proven guilty. Today, it is my sworn duty as a servant of this court and of the law, to agree with our Jury’s verdict that here stands a man who was guilty before this trial, and during this trial and now is sentenced according to his guilt. When he fired that gun, there was no mistake, Mr. Poole. No man just ‘slips on grease’ and manages to take a life in the process. It just does not happen, not in this world.”

“And you speak from experience, Judge Cartwright?”

“I suggest you keep your comments to yourself, or this court will hold you in contempt. Sit down, Mr. Poole, or officers will escort you out.”

Visibly ghost-like, Poole turned to me – his eyes bloodshot, and angry. I felt I was prey, helplessly chained and vulnerable. He sighed, signalling an apology to me, then turned towards the bench. “Judge Cartwright, the cost of your wristwatch does not and never will undermine the excellence of my work. I did not graduate with a summa cum laude distinction to be a mere mouse under your cloak of power, but I will never be mistaken for a fool in this courthouse or any courthouse. I will take my briefcase and escort myself out, but George Walter Rowe will not walk out a dead man. He deserves his life spared, not kidnapped by a glory-seeking, pompous imposter.”

The entire courtroom was silent. I was moved, but horrified, knowing my sentence was now set on my gravestone. Poole took his briefcase and trotted out of the court room, his adrenaline rushing straight to his head. I sat up, and managed to make eye contact with Judge Cartwright, who only saw blood on my hands and a long walk to the gallows.

“We’ve finished sentencing. Do you, Mr. Rowe, have any further words for the court that will be heard now in this final judgement?”

Thoughts formed and faded. Was I really such a monster? Did I scare my friend’s wife too much? Was I ever going to reconcile with my wife? Did she even love me anymore? An aura washed over me like the ocean dissolving sand dunes. I felt a calm, then nausea, then guilt. What was I guilty of? Behind that closed door, I wasn’t able to calculate the worth of someone’s life against the weight of the metal I held in my hand. I started to tear up, rushing to find an answer to give the impatient and almighty Judge. I scanned the room quickly until I caught sight of the letter I wrote to my wife – my ex-wife. I nudged the security guard to hand me the letter resting on the defence table.

“Please, Your Honour. I ask your permission, as a final wish, to read aloud a letter from my first trial that I wrote? I understand it bears no significance now.” A tear rolled down from my tired eyes.

“Hand Mr. Rowe the letter.”

I dried my tears with my wrinkled sleeve, and started reading my soul’s cries for help:

I want to begin by professing my sorrows to Miss Galbraith’s family. On November 20^th, 1950, I, George Rowe, committed an act so incredibly vile to humanity. I condemn myself to the darkest voids and for such a merciless act. To Mrs. Brown of Windsor, I apologize for the valuables I wrongfully stole from your home. You never deserved the traumatic disruption, and my dazed intentions were never to harm. I understand my words are excuses to all, and I have accepted those terms under my own guilt. My acts were unforgivable, and no apology could ever uphold the damage that caused. I can only hope my time in prison brings you comfort in this array of unfortunate events. To my dearest, wife, Margaret, and our two daughters, I cannot begin to forgive myself for my endless selfishness. I understand no apology is strong enough to outweigh this boulder of pain I have caused to avalanche on your family home. I’m deeply sorry that your lives are torn apart by my careless, foolish actions.

I paused. I was so overwhelmed with tears that I could barely see the words in my hands. I took a deep breath, knowing my final moments were almost over, and continued:

I beg this Supreme Court to spare my life for the mistakes that took place on November 20^th, 1950. I unforgivably took another person’s life, but, as horrible as it was, this unintended first crime I ever committed, does no deserve permanent darkness. I am begging for mercy Please unlock the chains of this innocent man pleading before you.

I closed my eyes and listened to Judge Cartwright’s last words that came unexpectedly quiet. “This Court’s sentence holds. Mr. Walter George Rowe, you will remain in prison until the date of your execution by hanging in June of 1951.”

Then he addressed the guards. “Please escort the prisoner to his new cell. This Court is adjourned.”