aaron_the fall of america_chapter_33

Chapter 33

I had handcuffs on. The truck I was in came to a stop and the back door opened. A man stood waiting. Many people with cameras from news stations stood waiting.

Nothing made sense. For many days I had lied in a hospital bed until I was strong enough to move. Though I was still quite week, they told me it was time.

When I stepped out of the back of the truck, the man took my arm and led me up the steps. The people with the cameras shouted questions at me that I failed to interpret. They were still firing questions at me when I was guided into the building along the hall and into a large room. Everything was wooden. It was a magnificent arena.

I was seated at the front behind a table. Beside me sat a quard and a man in a suit. The man in the suit looked at me but failed to construct an expression.

We sat and waited. I looked at my hands and thought about the handcuffs. The picture I was forming was that I had been caught in some kind of proceedings.

"All rise."

We all stood.

After an old fat angry looking man paraded himself, with his long black robe, up onto his stage and sat his magnificent self down, we sat as well.

Someone read, "The charges are as follows: first degree murder, five counts, kidnapping, two counts, grand theft auto, illegal entry into the country, damage of public property, impersonating an officer, reckless driving, break and entering, illegal use of fire arms. How does the defendant pled?"

The suited man at my side spoke, "The defendant wishes to plead guilty and humbly requests to be permitted to repent and receive rehabilitation from the state, rather than be incarcerated at the expense of the tax payer."

There was a silence. An extended silence, where only my confusion sounded in my head. It was me that was the subject on which all contemplated. Though it occurred to me that I was part of a farce, I had to wait to see what they had planned for me.

"Would the defendant take the stand."

"No," I said inaudibly.

A guard led me to the stand.

Another man came with a book which he placed before me.

"Raise your right hand."

The guard undid my handcuffs and held up my right hand after placing my left hand, with handcuff still attached, onto the book.

"Do you, Aaron Levy..."

It was the first time I could remember hearing my name and it didn't seem right.

"...and make the state responsible for your rehabilitation."

"Uh?" was my week response.

That was the end of the proceedings there. I was ushered out the door where my guard put my handcuffs on again and paraded me through the field of news cameras that bellowed questions, likely directed towards me.

When the roar of their questions ceased, I was again in the back of a truck. The truck took me away.



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by Joanne B. Washington

© 2001 | the jose wombat project