The public erupts at her accusation, and a few members of the media rush out to make their reports.
Bosco announces that the CCTV in use on the bus at the time of the event, when seized by the Guild, was, unfortunately, deemed ineffective and cannot be considered as proof. I have no doubt this is Bosco managing to twist things in my favor and hold back the proof that could destroy me. Bosco announces that we must take into account it is merely the view of the people on the bus and not something we can witness ourselves. I suppose being able to witness my act themselves would be more damaging to me—at least they can make their own decision on whether to believe the witnesses or not. I’m thankful for his deception.
It occurs to me, as everyone speaks of the old man, that I don’t even know his name. I never asked and it has never been mentioned, like it isn’t important. The case revolves around him, and yet he is brushed aside as though he is nothing. I don’t want to ask Mr. Berry. I don’t want it to seem like I’m pitying the man, like I have sympathy for a Flawed. I need Mr. Berry to believe in me more than anyone ever has.
As the proceedings finally break for lunch, I quickly turn to my granddad before I’m taken away. “Can you get information to me about the old man?” I whisper in his ear. He nods, face intense, and I know he won’t let me down.
Everyone goes back to their lives after my entertainment, and the reporters continue their reports outside. I’m thankful we can wait in a room near the court so that I don’t have to cross the courtyard again.
I sit with my parents, Juniper, and Mr. Berry in the waiting room, picking at charcuterie and crackers, feeling sick from the hunger and unable to eat at the same time. I appreciate everybody’s company, but I don’t speak. I am happy to be away from all the noise, away from the unwanted attention, without having to worry about every part of me being analyzed: my facial expressions, my reactions, how I sit, how I walk. I can just be.
Tina enters the room and hands me an envelope, and I know it’s from Granddad. He hasn’t let me down. Unaware of whom it’s from, Mr. Berry and Mom eye it like it’s a grenade. When I read its contents, I feel it might as well be.
TWENTY-THREE
WHAT I LEARN from Granddad’s note is this: Clayton Byrne, the old man on the bus, was the CEO of Beacon Publishing. With a degree from the prestigious Humming University, he studied English literature. He met his wife in college and married her when they were twenty-six. They have four children. He became CEO of Beacon Publishing when he was forty-two years old and at the time was praised for his leadership skills, his ingenuity, and his ability to take the company forward. He took risks, all of which paid off apart from one. Because of his failure, due to risk-taking, he was forced to resign from his position and, as a signal to all future employees in the company, was brought to the Guild and found to be Flawed. For making bad judgments in business, he received a brand on his temple, and because he lied about it to his colleagues and tried to cover his tracks, his tongue was also seared. His wife passed away two years ago, and he is suffering from emphysema. He had left the house that day without his oxygen.
Finally, I take the stand. The room is bursting with people. I see Carrick standing at the back, arms folded, beside the woman with the pixie cut who nodded at me in the courtyard. Juniper is in the front row beside Granddad. Granddad looks at me, and I nod, letting him know I received his envelope. There is still no sign of Art, though thinking he could be outside, in disguise, is better than nothing.
“We know the story of what happened on the bus,” Judge Sanchez says, beginning it all. “We’ve heard it repeated time and time again in this court over the past two days, and we could spend another two days listening to the testimonies of the other thirty people on the bus who witnessed the same thing. Your representative, Mr. Berry, has kindly told us that you have waived that and accepted what it is they saw, and the court appreciates your understanding and respect of our time, so we will not ask you to tell us again what happened. We also understand that the only difference between your story and theirs is that they say you were helping the old man, and you say you were trying to get rid of him. And where the majority saw you as helping the man to his seat, you say he sat himself? Is this true?”
I take a deep breath.
Suddenly there is an outbreak of noise and protest within the courtroom. Four people, two women and two men, are standing and shouting, punching their fists in the air, pointing their fingers at me. They shout a single word.
“Liar.”
They shout it over and over again.
“Liar. Liar. Liar.”
“Order.” Bosco bangs the gavel. “Order.”