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"Do you swear
to tell the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth, so help you
God?"
Swear to God? Sure.
Why not? All that was left was to
hope that if there was a god, that there was some reason he put us into this
mess, and that someday he will lead us out. So, with my hand raised, I said the
same thing that the rest of the witnesses had said, "I do."
Mr. Joseph Tate,
Vice Principal in charge of discipline, approached me solemnly. He was not as tall as my father, and he was balding,
and had a Nixonesque slouch and scowl. I
had figured out over time that he was not my father's biggest ally in the administration. He probably harbored resentments from the
time that my father was picked over him to be the Principal of the school.
But none of that
mattered now. We had the same interest,
or so it would appear. We both wanted to
see Robert Pelley convicted of his crime, the brutal murder of Lisa
Carlton. Thinking of Lisa, her beauty
and intelligence, her reaching out to me, our support of each other, the feel
of her lips and skin, I steeled myself as to what was to come.
My father, the
presiding Judge, said, with the emotion masked from his eyes, "Please
state you name and age for the record."
"My name is
Lance Martin. I am 16." No, wait.
I'd had a birthday since being in the Trap. "Sorry.
I'm 17."
There was a slight
titter from the audience, which today included Ginny and Artie. It was comforting to see them there. They were holding hands, looking at me with
supporting concern.
"For the
record, Lance Martin is my son," said my father. "During his examination, any rulings will
be decided by Miss Schram." Miss Nancy Schram was one of the three judges
that would be hearing the trial, and decide the verdict. She was our journalism teacher. What with paper being in limited supply, our
newspaper had been reduced to just twice a month. And much of that were shared copies. Most of the writing the journalism students
did was directed towards supporting the television station and its daily
newscast. I had done some news writing,
but I was now mostly concentrating on the silly little soap opera, The Sands of
Loren. "Proceed, Mr. Tate"
"What was
your relationship with the deceased, Mr. Martin?"
"She...was my
girlfriend." That was the first time I had said that out loud. My girlfriend. It seemed antiquated, quaint, high schoolish,
like a description suitable for a different time and place. But what else could I say?
"In the weeks
prior to her murder, had your relationship cooled off?"
"She was
deeply affected by the death of her close friend, Sue Boschman. She needed some time to cope with that."
"Then at the Winner's
Circle dance, you and Lisa rekindled your feelings for each other."
"Yes, that's
right. We talked and agreed to meet each
other the next day."
"At the
auditorium?"
"Well, just
outside the auditorium, yes."
"At the
dance, Robert Pelley made a big scene, did he not?"
Mr. Woodrow
Branch, Robert Pelley's designated defense attorney, leaped up. "I object! Mr. Tate is leading the witness and poisoning
the judges by his characterization of what Robert did as a 'big scene'."
Miss Schram
thought for a second, and then confidently answered, "Overruled. You may proceed, Mr. Tate."
"Thank you,
your honor. You were witness to a Robert
Pelley's big scene, were you not?"
"Yes, I
was." And then between his
questions and my answers, we painted the ugly picture of Robert Pelley and his
behavior toward Lisa at the dance. His
blow up at her refusal to dance with him was something many had witnessed, so
the audience was not too surprised at what I had to say.
"And what was
the last thing Robert said before he left?"
"He said,
'You'll be sorry'"
"And who did
he say it to?"
I looked right at
Robert Pelley, sitting next to Mr. Branch, his seat pushed back, looking like a
bored juvenile delinquent impatiently serving out the last ten minutes of
detention. "He said it to
Lisa."
Robert snapped to
attention, and glared at me, hate dripping from him.
I didn't
care. I returned his hateful stare with
my own.
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