A Life Dismissed

A LIFE DISMISSED



         Silence cloaked the stifling, stuffy courtroom as the jury filed in. After so many weeks, each was familiar to me. Yet I had never spoken to any of them. And these twelve people -seven men, five women - would decide the fate of my daughter’s killer. Had decided it. Sweat trickled down my back. This was not the way I had planned to spend my summer, not the way anyone would plan to spend a summer.



         I glanced towards the defendant who was sitting with his lawyer, spikes of hatred shattering my coherent thought. He was unfamiliar in the well-fitting blue suit, navy tie with an understated pattern of red shot through it. His hair was neatly trimmed and he was clean-shaven. Jeremy was never clean-shaven, not even at his wedding. I knew this man, had taken him into my home, even called him son.



         I had to look away, to the judge, the jury and the posse of lawyers who filled the courtroom. I missed my wife, wanted her beside me as the verdict was read, yet was grateful that she hadn’t had to live through this. She died before the case reached trial, five months ago now. Cancer. Blessedly quick though. By the time she was diagnosed, it had eaten through so much of her there was nothing the doctors could do. So, armed with morphine, I brought her home. Three weeks later she died and I buried her next to Lucy, hoping they will give each other comfort.



         Next to me, my son elbowed my ribs, making sure I was paying attention. I looked up, eyes gravitating back to Jeremy. He was such a good-looking man; tall with a lithe, athletic build and strawberry blonde hair so faintly ginger it was almost apricot in colour. Talented too. He’d met Lucy at a gallery, one of those small, exclusive ones that specialise in artists whose work looks nothing like art. Over cheap chardonnay and stale crackers, Jeremy and Lucy dissected the artist’s seven canvasses, laughing at her earnest belief in herself. Jeremy invited her to see his own work and Lucy accepted.



         Theirs was a whirlwind romance. Lucy, usually so steady and sensible -a lawyer first, woman second - tumbled headlong into the affair. She brought him to dinner a few months after they met. Within minutes he had charmed my wife; Molly had a soft spot for gentlemen callers bearing flowers. I should know. Having won Molly with the bouquet, he set to work on me. At dinner he brought out a fine bottle of cabernet, clearly having been tutored by my daughter as to what I liked most. Or perhaps not. Over dinner- mezzaluna pasta, just undercooked enough to be slightly more chewy than the intended al-dente- Jeremy proved to be knowledgeable on any number of subjects, wine being just one of them.



         Yes, Jeremy impressed me. And several months later, when he came to me and asked for Lucy’s hand in marriage, I was impressed again. He had everything a man looks for in a husband for his daughter: looks, talent, manners and an obvious devotion to her. I never questioned his ability to earn a living. His paintings were selling for upwards of a hundred thousand each. Huge canvasses, each the size of an entire wall of our apartment, apparently splashed randomly with paint. Step back a little and the splotches of vibrant colour came together to create detailed portraits of modern city life.



         The jury foreman stood, a burly man, almost as wide as he was tall, with a huge moustache and no hair on his head. He handed the verdict to the judge. Next to me my son tensed, not moving, not breathing. I was grateful for his presence, knowing how hard it had been for him. Mark and Lucy were never close, yet it was Mark she sought out when things became strained with Jeremy, not me. By then I had become too close to him, had trusted him. He had become family. Mark never trusted him as I did, certain there was some fatal flaw beneath the perfect exterior.



And Mark was right.



         On a cold, wet Sunday night in November last year, Jeremy murdered his wife. They’d been fighting. Had been for months, over every little thing. He was certain she was having an affair, she adamant she was not. She wanted a baby, he didn’t. He liked eating dinner in the kitchen while she preferred the formality of the dining room. Anything could set them off. Who knows what it was this time. All I know is the police called me at three am to tell me my daughter was dead. Murdered. Throat sliced open with the knife he used to trim his canvasses.



         The defence lawyer, a trim man with slicked back hair and shrewd, blue eyes had done his best to paint Lucy as the villain here. Hearing him call her an adulteress and a nag had provoked such outrage in me that I’d been barely able to remain in the courtroom. Such lies! I had gritted my teeth, staring down at the torn stitching on the toe of my left shoe while he’d tried to insinuate that she had a lover; this mythical figure responsible for her gruesome demise. But I knew my daughter, knew her fierce loyalty and sense of honour. She would never have cheated on Jeremy, no matter how bad her marriage became. I glared at the jury, praying they had disregarded this slander when making their decision.



The jury found him not guilty.



         He was not guilty of killing my little girl despite me knowing it with every fibre of my being. There was not enough evidence to prove it. Not enough to disprove it either. There was a hair. A single hair stuck to the blood on the knife. Not Jeremy’s hair. Not Lucy’s.



And this was enough to cast doubt.



         Justice! I wanted to scream. Where’s the justice? But I said nothing, just sat on the hard wooden bench and listened. My eyes sought Jeremy, found him straightened from the slumped posture he’d settled into. He must have felt the heat in my glare, the poison. He turned and gave me a tight smile. One I did not- could not - return. A chill ran down my spine, making me shiver despite the summer’s heat. The gavel came down and we were dismissed.



Just like that. A young woman’s life was dismissed. My daughter’s life. Dismissed.



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