Micah Jennings

1.22.04 Saturday [more revealed]

Ben and Aaron are still avoiding me. They’ll exit the room when I walk in, suddenly retreating off to someplace else. Aaron’s still got a bandage on his nose, and his cheeks seem to be bruised to a darkish-blue as well. I must’ve thrown Ben harder than I thought.

It felt like I spent most of the day sitting around waiting for the afternoon. Finally it arrived, and around five-thirty I grabbed my jacket and took to the streets. It was strange to be out there without my bag, and stranger still to not be on the run, not be spurred on by the urgency of a thumping heart and tingling nerves. It was almost relaxing.

The most peculiar moment, however, was knocking on the judge’s door. I’m fairly certain it’s the first time in a year that I’ve visited a house with someone inside. I waited a few minutes, with no answer, but eventually the door swung open.

“How’s it feel to be knockin’ for once?” He asked.
“Weird,” I said.
“Then let yo’self in nex time.”
“I will.”

He grabbed the remote from the couch and flipped off the television, which had been reporting some trivial crime in the area.

“Yew watch the news much?” He asked.
“Not really,” I told him honestly.
“They’ve had this big story, for over a year now, about a thief they can’t catch.”
“I heard.”
“The ‘untouchable’ I think they said.”
“Yeah.”
“About matches yo description. 5’ 7”, thin, able to scale buildings…So how do yew do it? Whas yo secret?”
“You just expect me to confess?”
“Why not? This is yo chance to brag a lil. I know it must be eatin’ yew up, not being able to tell everbody how good yew are.”
“I’m cautious…I keep to the shadows…Never look back, never think too big, have a backup. I don’t know, I’ve never listed it consciously. It’s sort of instinctive,” I explained.
“I see. It’s sorta the same way with bein’ a jugde, I s’pose. Without the jury, anyhow. Sometimes yew jus gotta do what feel right. Go with yo gut.”
“Did your gut tell you my mom was an armed robber?” I asked. He looked at me for a few seconds before answering simply,
“Yup.”
“Well you were wrong! There’s no way she could have done it!”
“Mmhm.”

He walked over to a large black suitcase and began rummaging through its contents.

“What is all that?” I asked.
“Court proceedings, records, transcripts.”
“You keep them?”
“Some of em. Most I know I’ll never need again, so those get tossed,” he said, still digging through the bag. “Here it is.”

He handed me a manila folder stacked with papers and a few photographs. It was mom’s case file. It had her mugshot from prison, some of the trial papers, and even the verdict paper. “GUILTY” was circled in a red pen. Buried amongst the papers, I found a photograph of a young boy with messy black hair. It was me. The scattered memories tried to piece themselves together in my tired head.

I remembered mom screaming, going hysterical as the bailiffs dragged her away. Then there was uncle John, putting his arm around me and telling me it would be ok, that I would just have to go live with him for awhile. I was 11. Those were the worst years, when John drank and threw fits, complaining about having to support his sister’s son. Then I lived with grandma for awhile, but I couldn’t stand her either. She’d say things like, “I always told your mother to be careful, but did she listen? No! And now look, she’s got a son she can’t even take care of!”

Then, shortly after I turned 16, my life changed. It was that Nike commercial. Seb was jumping all around, running through Paris across rooftops and alleys. At first it was just my hobby, my release from all the pain my life forced me to experience. I found Ben and Aaron, and together we rented out a small apartment, vowing to support each other and spread the word about parkour.

But I could never just abandon mom, leaving her in her cell to rot away and be forgotten in the mass of convicts. My conscience could never bear that. It was then, only one year ago, that I finally decided to seek revenge, taking back from each lawyer and juror what was owed: justice. From their pockets I would hire the best of attorneys to get my mother’s dignity back.

“When I saw yew in the parking deck the other day, I came back here and took a look at that file.”
“Why did you keep it?”
“For yew.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Look at some of these others,” he said, offering me another file. It was very reminiscent of my own—it had a picture of a middle-aged woman and other documents clipped together, along with a photograph of a small child similar to my own.
“What’s this?”
“That’s from the Polaski case, 1983. A lot like yo own. Nickolas’ mom was locked up for vehicular homicide when he was 8. He grew up and came lookin’ for me. He was real mad…”
“You mean to tell me you keep all the files dealing with parents of small children?”
”I do. I’d say I get to meet them again forty percent of the time.”
“What happens?”
“The same that’ll happen with you, Micah.”
“What’s that?”
“They come back the next day,” he said with a smile.
“Why are you playing these games with me? Just answer my questions!” I demanded.
“Sorry, you gotta play by the rules. I’ll see yew tomorrow.”

I still have so many questions…

-M.J.

posted by Mr. Linty @ 7:03 PM