Michael Seidlinger: The Strangest

My guilt humbles me.

I killed a man.

I know that. I am seen as a monster, a sociopath.

I want to apologize.

I feel I will get my chance.

The next witness is named Stephanie Riviera. This is her legal name. She operated under a number of other names, and drugs, but she always had it in mind to act like the character she was paid or assigned. She is a performer. She is an actress. She is many things, of that I am sure. But nobody judges her; they want to speak with her. Maybe they want more from her, as many of the men in the audience look at her with clear eyes. I thought her name was Nikki, a sister. Still might be a sister — that part might be true.

Called to the stand, Stephanie is confident. She winks at me, but it’s a wink that says, “Too late, babe.”

She stumbles on her way to the stand.

“Oops, sorry,” she says.

No need for apologies. They’d apologize for her.

Instantly, they are at fault for anything she might do that is incorrect, a straight lie. I listen like they listen, as she isn’t asked a single question. She sits down and starts talking. She talks about me.

Says that I am strange. Big surprise.

Says that I tried to rape her, but she went with it, so it really wasn’t rape; it was sex. She said she let it happen mostly out of pity.

Says that the way I moved, and acted, it was like I hadn’t done it before. Like it was the first time.

Says that I am also kind, which is a surprise.

It’s an act though, because she doesn’t say anything at all. Not really. They are meaningless, every fact she relays.

And then she leaves.

Another wink, her way of making sure none of this leads back to her. She doesn’t even use the same name. Nikki Rios is a fictional character.

There is no apology.

After she leaves, and the room’s suddenly hushed and attentive awe releases, the prosecutor talks some more.

There’s lots of talk. I wish I had the chance to do just that.

Speak. I feel as though it’s still my right to speak for myself.

But when I do, I am shot down by the judge, telling me, “Overruled.”

I hear whispers from the audience.

It’s like I am forced to apologize.

I have no reason to. They are not amused, and the prosecutor uses my supposed error to bring in the next witness.

He made sure to look at me as much as was needed; he made sure to say just enough, exactly as needed. Rios remains calm and collected while being questioned. He must have thought that he was the one being questioned, suspected, but really every single person questioned wasn’t really there.

They aren’t genuine.

They said what needed to be said. They had judged me accordingly, so much that those questions were ones that I should answer. I am the one blamed, marked and made guilty.

Asked about the murder, Rios tells the room calmly that I seemed distressed. He says that I might have been under the influence. He says that I was often troubled. He said it was why he invited me to the party in the first place; he felt that I had no escape. I needed help. I needed to realize that not everything is bad.

Rios is questioned about the gun.

He says that he didn’t know where it came from. Didn’t know I owned a gun. The prosecutor says that the gun had its serial number filed off. Rios remains calm and says, “That makes more sense.”

The prosecutor agrees.

The issue of the gun holds the attention of the room.

Rios fumbles for a better response. I lean forward in my seat, understanding that the guilt wasn’t completely mine without Rios sharing some of it too. The murder involved many hands, not just my own. And that gun, it wasn’t mine. It wasn’t anyone’s gun.

Rios apologizes.

They accept his apology.

Blames it on nerves. Everyone understands.

He is allowed to leave the stand.

The evidence is stacked against me.

I don’t fit in. Never have.

The prosecutor shows the footage of the murder. I watch it like I’ve never viewed it before. It looks foreign, perhaps the wrong footage or doctored footage from some other crime. The footage looks fake. It looks like it has been edited enough to be meaningless.

But the room watches and winces.

They are shocked to see the bullets go in.

1.

2.

3.

Three.

They are shocked to hear the shots.

The shots, what sounded so much like the sound that shattered my perception of what justice can be.

The footage becomes difficult to watch, but the prosecutor uses this particular piece of evidence to raise the stakes. “As you have seen,” I hear the prosecutor shout, “this is not your usual murder, nor is it your usual suspect …”

I think about my turn.

When will I get my turn to speak?

Mustn’t I speak?

I have the right to speak.

But my next attempt results in an “objection” from the judge. I can feel the entire room lean in my direction.

I am not hiding anything.

I am guilty. I do not fit in.

I am everything they say I am, but I can be more. People have the right to live and currently they are taking that away from me. They are going to take that away from me …

The prosecutor hits stop on the footage. He walks over to the jury. He muses about everything currently on the table, every piece of testimony, every piece of evidence, and he speaks about something else.

“Case in point!” he shouts.

And I am reminded of the funeral.

The prosecutor does all the reminding. He speaks of the dead, “Andrew,” and the condition with which I was found. He reads from a document I haven’t seen before. It lists out the written testimony provided by the attendees; they are supposed to be friends of mine but I hadn’t seen them then and I don’t see them now. “Andrew” is claimed to be my best friend and I was, as everyone explained, “Pained to have been present at the funeral.”

The prosecutor reads more, lines like “stood under a tree” and “read wrong eulogy” hung in the air for all to hear.

Then he starts talking about “Andrew” who had committed suicide.

He talks about the normal human reaction to a close friend or loved one’s death, especially when they take their own life. The prosecutor exhibits the various traits of an individual in mourning. Despondent, fragile, depressed … I have trouble listening because the prosecutor lists dozens upon dozens of traits.

He points to me and says, “The defendant exhibited none of these and, what’s more, he acted much like he acts today, in this courtroom …”

The prosecutor takes a step toward the audience, “One could say that he was about as indifferent about his friend’s death as he is about his fate.”

Noise erupts in the courtroom.

The judge does not call for order.

Prosecutor sits back down, speaks with one of his assistants. I have a hard time believing these events to be real. It appears to be all rehearsed. Everything stacked against me so perfectly, it appears that no amount of acting can hide the fact that their anger, their exaggeration, their disgust is true.

I baffle them.

I appear as a contradiction among contradictions.

They have no description to fully describe me, and it would be right now, the perfect time to allow me to give them that description.

Instead, she is called to the stand.