“Riley?” Mama squeezes my hand hard, and I turn my eyes on her immediately.
“Yes?” I study her face, wondering if she feels the same things I do as we sit here. My own mother is so difficult to read.
She gives me a wavering smile. “If you don’t feel like you can be here, Daddy would underst—”
“No.” I answer louder than I intend and then bite my tongue, actually drawing blood, but I force myself not to wince.
Mama’s back stiffens, but I can’t back down, not about this. During Daddy’s trial, she deliberately kept me out of the courtroom whenever Mr. Masters didn’t believe my presence was necessary to help the case. Since then, I’d missed several of the appeals when I couldn’t convince Mama that Daddy would want me there. Only when I’d gotten my driver’s license had she started to relent and let me choose whether to come to hearings. Even now, though, she still tries to shield me from specific information about Daddy’s trial as much as possible. She refuses to understand that I’m not a six-year-old for her to protect anymore, but I will not let her send me away from his final appeal hearing. Not today.
“Please. I need to be here,” I say.
She relaxes and takes a deep breath before nodding and patting my knee.
I know Mama is worried about how I’ll handle it if this appeal doesn’t go well. Daddy says that things look good this time, but he says that every time. At least with this appeal I don’t feel like I’m going into the hearing blindfolded. This time, Daddy told me about the juror who was convinced by a family member that she should vote guilty. It’s the most promising lead we’ve had in a while, but all the same, I’m afraid I’m being set up to fall. I can almost feel the ground beneath me starting to shake.
Mama sits so straight, her chin held high, but I wish I could know what is in her mind. Her last visit to Polunsky was over three months ago, and lately I wonder if she’s lost hope after all this time. Maybe she’s trying to make it less painful for herself if today doesn’t turn out the way we want it to. Maybe that’s the smart approach, the safe approach.
The bailiff orders us to rise as Judge Howard enters. I remove my sunglasses, sticking them in my purse. I want to be able to see everything that happens clearly. The judge’s black robes float about her and make her seem more like an omen of death than the symbol of justice she should be. When we sit, she almost looks bored as she shuffles through the papers in the stack before her. It infuriates me in a way that I know it shouldn’t, but she has too much power, and I have none. And I hate her for it.
Finally, she stares over her bench at my father. “Mr. Beckett, I have gone through the evidence you’ve submitted to this court several times. And while I agree that a juror’s family members shouldn’t give advice to the juror on rendering a verdict, I do not believe that in this case the advice swayed her decision. That means your evidence isn’t sufficient to warrant the retrial you’ve requested, or even another stay of your sentence.”
My breath catches in my chest as though an enormous weight has just crashed down on me. The room fills with the murmurs and rustling of the crowd watching Daddy’s show. On the other side of the aisle people are cheering. They smile and hug at the thought of my father being killed. The irony is both maddening and heartbreaking. Being accused of killing is what landed him here in the first place. What kind of system is this? What kind of justice repays the killing of innocent women by then killing an innocent man?
The eye-for-an-eye mentality seems like it will always be alive and well here in Texas.
I feel sick and wish everyone else would just leave. My heart thuds painfully inside me like it wants to escape. My head spins as I try not to let my inner turmoil show on my face. If Daddy turns to look at me, I refuse to let that be what he sees.
Judge Howard pats at her curly gray hair before picking up one of the papers in front of her and frowning. “You’ve been convicted of the murders of three young women, Mr. Beckett. And they are particularly gruesome murders. Violent beatings followed by strangulation. Is that correct?”
I hear Daddy’s voice hesitate. “I … I’ve maintained my innocence—”
The judge frowns down from her bench at him and interrupts. “Just answer the question, please.”
Daddy responds immediately, but I can hear the slight edge he’s trying to bury deep in his voice. “Yes. The state has convicted me of that crime, Your Honor.”
“Those crimes,” she corrects him, her gaze growing harder.
“Those crimes,” he repeats back.
She glances down at her papers again. “It says here that you’ve already requested your writ of certiorari?”