I’m walking across a quiet courtroom in Downtown Los Angeles, all eyes on me as I cross to the stand. My stomach is turning with nauseous nerves, my knees are actually shaking. I almost feel like I’m going to collapse, but I steady myself. Just keep walking, I remind myself, keep moving forward. But I have reason to be nervous. “Twenty to thirty years,” I remember Quinton saying, his voice ringing in the back of my brain. I’ll be over forty or maybe fifty years old when I get out, I think to myself. This can’t be happening! The room is chilly and smells of disinfectant and wood polish. The faces looking up at me make me want to burst out in tears; my father and brothers, Randolph MacLeish, reporters and spectators and even Emily Barrish, my old roommate. They all have different reasons for being here, and my feelings for them are each a good match for their intentions. After all this, one thing I’ve learned is who my real friends are. Another thing I know for sure; this is happening.
