Michael Seidlinger: The Strangest

They are all glaring at me.

Not one looks away when I turn to gaze them. A few faces are shaking, not shivering; the jury shakes their head. That means disapproval.

An officer declares everyone to rise.

Judge walks in, robe, stern faced, holding the file folder.

The file folder, me. My eyes gravitate toward the folder. I watch as it leaves my view, the judging sitting at his chair, opening the file, skimming the document, gentle inward sigh. The judge immediately understands the nature of this trial. He looks at that document; when he looks at it, he sees who I am, who I was. He looks up at me. He glares at me. He looks just like the jury.

I have difficulty seeing the difference in others.

They don’t look any different. And, you see, I know.

I say it and I feel the loneliness of it: I don’t fit in here. It is why I am judged. I have been judged. Now, if there were justice, they would finally hear me. They will hear what I have to say.

I won’t hold back.

They have a full case stacked against me. This isn’t surprising, but I do feel the pressure. I don’t feel sick; I am not denying my place in this case. Many more than I can bear to count watch me, and they all have their own opinions. They all know of my guilt. They all know of my crime.

What they don’t know is why.

It begins with a question.

A simple question that begins or ends the entire trial.

If I say anything other than what I end up saying, it might have continued. But it ended. The judge asked, “How do you plead?”

I say what I know I would say. I say the only thing I could say. And it sounded so simple. “Guilty.” It caused the courtroom to blur, erupting in noise that numbed me to the core. I had a thought just then, and it had everything to do with wanting to dismiss myself from this endeavor.

I spoke for myself.

It wouldn’t be the first time I speak.

They present their case — every single one of them. I often debate with myself — perhaps they have forgotten to let me speak — but it’s more a bother, something with which to occupy my time.

The judge listens and keeps looking in my direction. Something about the plaintiff, and what is discussed, causes some worry.

They did not mention anything to do with me. They only mention what I did. Discussion is almost exclusively him , the one I murdered.

This alarmed me. It did.

First to be called to the stand was a man I didn’t recognize at first. Then I couldn’t think about anyone else. Jeffrey had been my boss for two years. It would have been more. They asked him questions. He didn’t mention my loyalty. My many months as employee of the month. He didn’t mention how many customers turned to me with questions.

Instead the prosecutor asked him questions.

He said that I was distant but harmless.

He said that I was always early by a few minutes, but almost never late. He talked about the one time I was late, but I couldn’t recall for what reason. The prosecutor said, “Hmm, we will certainly discuss that matter later.”

Jeffrey has a problem speaking in public. He stutters for a moment and causes a disruption when he chokes, blushes, and apologizes.

They accept his apology.

The prosecutor says, “Take your time, take your time.” Jeffrey is asked for a label, some quick description of me.

“First impression,” he pauses, “he’s probably OCD. I give him the benefit of the doubt, though. I felt sorry for the man. Being around people appeared to be an ordeal.”

Jeffrey’s testimony seems to be adequate. The prosecutor grins like he’s scowling, but he is pleased. The entire room is pleased with what has been said. Jeffrey is allowed to leave the stand.

He wouldn’t look at me, not even once, while he answered questions for the prosecutor.

They call in the super and with him he carries in notice of many of my failures. I wasn’t always at my best. I am nervous and maybe shy by most people’s standards, but I wasn’t always this way. I was worse before I got better. If I didn’t kill the man, I may have been fine. These are things I would tell them later, whenever they let me speak.

Ben is the opposite of Jeffrey. He keeps pointing at me. He’s all too pleased to say whatever he can about me.

The prosecutor doesn’t feel the need to ask; Ben tells all.

“The guy’s always been real strange; man, I sometimes forget that he lives in that apartment. I almost rented out the place. ’Course he still lived in there, if that’s what you can call it.”

And that wasn’t enough, it seemed.

“Stuff went missing.”

The prosecutor asks for more, “Stuff went missing? Care to elaborate?”

Ben nods, looks in my direction, points, “The guy stole shit!”

I have never seen the man this way. The room erupts with chatter. I feel dizzy. The judge doesn’t call for order, not yet. I feel like I am supposed to stand up for myself, but something causes me to hold back. It’s as if it’s not yet time. Not yet, not yet …

Calling for order, the judge does not sound very authoritative.

It is only when the prosecutor asks another question that people calm down. “How certain are you that he stole?”

Ben was never mean, not like this. Ben was the happy guy that always wanted the best from people. I see who he really is. I see that either he had been acting or he was acting now.

The prosecutor is acting too.

“I can’t prove it but I just know. It wasn’t till the guy moved in that bad stuff started to happen. So many tenants have come and gone because word gets around quick. This guy is ruining my life!”

Again there are flashes of light.

Ben, like most of who will testify, might never get a moment like this again. This is their chance to stand on a stage of sorts, a stage that I imagine, in these moments listening to Ben explain to everyone how I was a malicious individual, a person that wanted to harm others and didn’t get along (and therefore seemed to be too antisocial for acceptance), I pictured the stand as the stage, the judge as the director, the witness as an actor, and everyone else watching acting as the audience. They act as the audience in hopes of being able to act too. Belong here, and be a part of things.

There could be humor in this image if viewed by the right person. Not me. Ben describes me as “a humorless and really antisocial guy. You could tell him to his face, ‘have a great day,’ and he’ll ignore you, or just say ‘yes,’ or something. The guy will shit on your day if you let him.”

The prosecutor warns Ben, but not because of his statement; the prosecutor warns Ben about his language. They can’t air profanity.

Like many things, it will be censored.

Ben apologizes.

They accept his apology.

There is more to say but the prosecutor is satisfied with Ben’s testimony. He is allowed to leave the stand. Ben doesn’t want to, though. He walks slowly, stops where I am sitting and shouts, “You don’t even care that you killed a man. You don’t even care! You’re inhuman, inhuman I tell you!”

The judge should stop this. The judge doesn’t. An officer walks over but doesn’t intervene until Ben’s accusations turn physical. He grabs me at the collar and tries to strike me. That’s when it stops. But people heard enough. They heard a lot. Ben claimed that I am completely aware of my actions. I am intelligent but incapable of processing an ounce of feeling.

As I sit here, receptive to behavior that should be considered a crime too, I tell myself — they have to let you speak.