Trial Day

Ernie grabbed his recorder and notepad and joined the stream of people entering the venerable courthouse through the large, antique doors. The doors were propped open by huge brass hooks located on either side of the recessed opening to admit the unending throng with as little stress as possible on the old hinges. The morning was bright and sunny, promising a warm but not humid day.

The chatter and excited small talk of the people was a loud, continuous hum that disallowed even barking dogs a piece of the conversation. This was a day unlike any other. It was rumored that this trial was going to be the final trial, once and forever, for all the inmates on death row.

Ernie noticed every single thing, every detail with excitement and wonder. This was his first assignment. And it was huge. All the reporters were sent to cover it, but for Ernie, it was his test of all tests. The editor had sent him in with nothing more than his youthful curiosity, innocence, recorder, and notepad and told him to see what he could do with it.

Ernie glanced around him as he moved slowly forward toward the double doors, the oscillating stream of people stopping for a few seconds every couple of feet. He grinned widely in anticipation at every face that met his eye. Most smiled back, some with nostalgia as they recognized the excitement of naivete, some with equally high hopes of the coming entertainment, and some with pity and doubt. Then there were those who almost seemed to resent his exuberance and glared at him angrily.

No matter, thought Ernie, refusing to let anything darken his attitude.

He finally advanced through the double doors and was steered toward a chute-like structure made of metal poles covered by a thick fabric. The object of this structure was to condense the herd of people into a line of single file. Two courthouse security men stood at the beginning of this structure doing their best to contain and advance the throng as quickly as possible, but it was easy to see they could use extra help.

Ernie complied as best as he could, stepping first one way and then the other until the group surrounding him somehow managed to get into a line. Coming out the other end of the chute, Ernie was greeted by another pair of security men, their badges shining in the bright overhead lights. Ernie’s eyes were by now adjusted to the interior dimness compared to the bright morning sunlight outside.

“Media, spectator, or family?” asked the older and taller of the two men. His eyes looked large and bright through the thick glasses he wore, making his graying head look smaller than it was, especially compared to his rather large belly.

Ernie smiled, as much at the man’s appearance as at the coming of the unknown program he was about to witness.

“Media,” he said proudly, showing his ID badge.

The man, obviously unimpressed, pointed toward Ernie’s left down a dark hallway. “Straight that way, all the way down to the end, turn right, and then all the way down to the last door on the right.”

Ernie thanked the man and headed off in the direction indicated. The hallway was very wide and not as well-lit as the grand foyer, but it was still architecturally beautiful. Marble floors in an intricate pattern of emblems and large crossweaves covered the floor. The same marble, though in a simpler pattern, contrived a type of wainscoting on the walls. Above this, the walls were paneled with a stained wood, now dark with age. The tin ceiling tiles were of a simple-but elegant-pattern with a large fleur-de-lis in each corner connected with vines around the perimeter of the tile.

Ernie absorbed and memorized every detail, just in case they might come in useful later. Never having experienced an assignment of this magnitude before, his timidity and uncertainty had prompted him to forego speaking these descriptions into his recorder, lest a more seasoned colleague would deem his comments ridiculous and it should get back to his editor.

Finally, coming to the end of his journey, he found the heavy, solid-looking wooden door on the right and entered it. He stepped onto a balcony just above the jury box. A roped-off section of this part of the gallery had been apparently reserved for the media. Ernie looked around and found an empty seat on the end of the first row nearest the middle of the courtroom.

“Been to many trials?” a voiced asked in Ernie’s right ear.

“No, this is my first.” Ernie suppressed the smile that naturally wanted to appear. He wanted to appear professional now, not like an eager newbie. He glanced slightly upward, into the kind face of an older, slim man with light brown hair in need of a trim. He was dressed comfortably in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt with a rival newspaper’s logo on it.

“I’m Bob.” He stretched out his hand and smiled gently at Ernie.

“Ernie. Nice to meetcha.” Ernie returned his firm handshake in the manner all men do.

“Are you from County News?”

“Yeah,” replied Ernie.

“That’s a good paper,” said Bob cordially. “Lotta good articles on important local topics.”

“I think so,” said Ernie, still in bliss over the paper taking a chance on him so early in his career. “We do our best to keep all our personal opinions out of the story and let the readers make up their own minds. Not many do that anymore.”

Bob nodded. “So true,” he said. “The world should be given the truth without bias--the facts untainted. Good old-fashioned media values.”

Ernie nodded energetically in agreement and returned to his task of yet again making sure his tape recorder was ready to go, that his pen worked, and lamenting the absence of his laptop.

Bob, sitting quietly, watched Ernie’s preparations. “No computer?” he asked quietly.

“No,” replied Ernie with a sigh. “My editor believes anything technological is more distracting than helpful at this stage. I can sort of see his point. I mean, if I had my computer and a question arose in my mind during the trial, I might be tempted to look up the answer instead of paying attention. And then he insists if the world goes to pieces, my handwritten notes will still be there and I’ll still be able to do my job.”

Bob laughed. “Smart man.”

Ernie returned his laugh. “Yeah, he is actually. Smart enough to know I’ll do a way better job writing with the use of my laptop.”

They sat quietly for a few minutes, watching the large gallery quickly fill up. Noticing Bob had nothing to record or document the coming events, Ernie considered this assiduously but could not come up with anything better than that he must be one of those remarkable people who has a photographic memory.

In a few minutes, court was called to order. Everyone was bidden to stand when the judge entered. The forceful and commanding personality of the gray-haired magistrate was made evident as he took control of the courtroom and began the proceedings.

With no preprocedural comments and Ernie barely having time to start his recorder, the first defendant was promptly brought in by the bailiff. He was wearing shackles and an orange prison uniform and made to stand directly before the bench. The judge, looking over the top of the wire-rimmed round spectacles he wore, looked the defendant directly in the eye and spoke loudly and clearly, “You, Arnold Jacob Waters, are convicted of stabbing a man to death in order that you might steal from the safe of the man’s employer a sum of $6,387.00. This man whom you killed was a 38-year-old father of two from Renfield. A man who managed a franchise copy store full time, coached his daughter’s soccer team on weekends, and generally did his best to love his family and God. He left behind a bitterly grieving widow, children, parents, and church family. You then took that said $6,387.00 and spent it on crack cocaine, a large amount of which you turned around and sold to other leeches like yourself which drain the resources of society without returning them, teenaged children you are trying to turn into leeches, and one undercover cop. What say you for yourself?”

The shackled man in the orange jumpsuit finally looked up, his long, dirty, blond hair falling back enough to reveal an acne-marred face and wild blue eyes masking fear. “I ain’t got nothin’ to say,” he said firmly.

The judge studied his face for a moment. The prisoner returned the judge’s perusal without looking away. After a time, the judge pointed with his gavel at a young man seated slightly away from the spectators at the far left of the courtroom. “Will you have this man take your sentence?”

The prisoner glanced at the man confusedly and then back at the judge without speaking.

“Well? Will you? Will you?” asked the judge ferociously.

The prisoner jumped slightly and shook his head to clear it. “I don’t know what you’re talkin' about, Judge,” he said. “I don’t know that man.”

The judge took a deep breath and sighed. “So be it,” he said resignedly. “Remove him.”

Ernie was so caught up with the wonder of what just happened that he started at Bob’s voice next to him. “Such a pity, such a pity,” he was murmuring.

“What’s a pity?” whispered Ernie.

“Arnold,” whispered Bob matter-of-factly. He was that close to full pardon and he didn’t take it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Arnold, “ said Bob a little more loudly. “Arnold Jacob Waters, 27 years old. He was born to a young man of 19 and a young woman of 17 who still lived with her parents. Arnold’s dad was addicted to marijuana and Arnold’s mom was too young to care. His mother’s parents ended up taking Arnold, but with erroneous good intentions and with a sprinkle of guilt at their own parental failings with his mother, they kept Arnold on a tight leash most of his childhood.

"When he saw his mother--his father was long gone from his life by the time he was three--she barely had time to speak three words to him. All she cared about was the next man in her life and what it would take to please him. She subsequently had one abusive relationship after another and is now selling her self-worth and morality for her next high.

"Arnold consequently learned that those who got his mother’s respect and attention were those men who took what they wanted and let nothing stand in their way, so that’s what he set out to be.”

Ernie shook his head confusedly. “How do you know all this?” he asked.

Bob just smiled in response and went on. “Arnold’s mother, Leann, is attracted to these types of men because her own father had very little to do with her while she was growing up. Her household growing up was matriarchal and her father submitted. Her mother was a control freak and Leann was not allowed to breathe if it wasn’t done in a certain way. Consequently, Leann became very embittered and angry, but at the same time feeling that nothing she ever did was right. So she looked for male attention of any kind and wasn’t surprised when it turned abusive since she was so worthless. The only time she doesn’t feel is when she’s high.”

He paused for a moment before going on. “Leann’s mom, Pam, was physically and verbally abused by her father. She got married and left home as soon as she turned 18 and vowed to herself that she never again would be in a situation where she wasn’t in control. Shall I go on?”

Before Ernie could answer, the crowd was once again hushed as another prisoner was escorted into the courtroom. This one, a middle-aged, long-haired male was manacled and clad in leg irons. The clanking of the chains echoed throughout the courtroom as he walked to the bench, magnifying the already menacing atmosphere.

The prisoner’s unkempt appearance reinforced his defiant attitude as he tossed his greasy hair impudently while unsuccessfully trying to shrug off his escort.

“Michael Allen Westoff. You are convicted of violently raping, torturing, and killing three women before capture in a three-month period. Two of the three women were not yet one and twenty and the third was 28 years old and a mother of three. These young women have left behind a total of four children, five grieving parents, one grieving husband, three grieving step-parents, and eleven grieving step-siblings. Life had only just begun for them. You assaulted them in an unspeakable manner, using devices of torture, and slowly and painfully took their lives from them. You have no remorse for your actions, only for getting caught. What say you for yourself?”

The prisoner opened his eyes wide and smiled fiendishly. “I enjoyed myself immensely. That’s what I have to say for myself.”

The judge closed his eyes and swallowed hard, as if to swallow back a vomitus bolus, before proceeding. “You, Michael, are worse than any I’ve yet encountered in my thirty-two-year career as a judge and I loathe having to ask you this. . .” Here the judge glanced at the mysterious man sitting by himself at the left of the courtroom. At the man’s nod, the judge’s attention returned to the prisoner. “But it appears I must. Even for the likes of you I must.” He swallowed again and said, “Will you have this man take your sentence?”

At this the man snarled and yelled, “Nobody’s takin’ anything that belongs to me! Keep your damned hands off my property!” At the man’s outburst, two deputies standing off to the side came forward and escorted the flailing, yelling prisoner out the side door.

The courtroom erupted as the door closed behind the prisoner. Ernie barely heard Bob as he said, “This fellow was never disciplined as a child, never told no. By the time he was fourteen, his mother knew and regretted her folly; however, it was too late. He would never be denied anything.” He sighed heavily. “He just blew his last chance at hope, reconciliation, redemption. Now he will know his own folly.”

The side door opened and a female prisoner was escorted to the middle of the courtroom. She was handcuffed and walked meekly, only looking at the ground. “Margaret Ann Comfer, you are convicted of selling your son to a heroin dealer in payment of a debt you owed. Your son was nine years old.” A tear rolled down the woman’s cheek and the judge, as if surprised, hesitated a moment before continuing. “Your son was tortured and afflicted in ways you can’t possibly imagine while you slept with strange men and injected your arms full of heroin. Your son spent countless days and months in agony and torment before his little body finally got peace.”

“STOP! STOP! STOP!” The woman was sobbing hysterically and fell to her knees. “Please, stop!” she cried. “I can’t bear it. I can’t bear my sin. My poor baby, My poor baby,” she moaned over and over.

Compassionately, the judge let her cry until her emotion was spent. When she was quiet from exhaustion, he gently asked her, “Will you let this man bear your sentence?”

The woman looked at the mysterious man indicated by the judge for a moment before replying, “I don’t understand what you’re asking me, sir.”

Seeing she was willing to listen, the judge explained, “This man is willing to accept your sentence for you. Will you let him?”

The woman studied the judge through her swollen, red eyes. “How could I possibly do that? This man is innocent of my son’s blood. Only I am guilty.” She convulsed with grief as she spoke.

“This is the end of your life right here, one way or the other. You can either have this man serve your sentence and start a new life with a clean slate, or you can keep this burden to yourself and suffocate under it. If you start again, you have a chance to rectify the wrong and influence the future for good. If you choose to carry this burden yourself, which I must point out is impossible to do successfully, you have rectified nothing and you have destroyed yourself.” The judge leaned back in his seat. “So, once again, I will ask you: Will you let this man bear your sentence or won’t you?”

The woman considered very carefully for several long moments. “Can it be?” she finally asked, lifting her head slowly and looking at the mysterious man seated alone. “Can it be that I can right the unbearable wrong I’ve done?”

The mysterious man looked at her steadily with eyes glowing. “It is so. If I bear your sentence, you will see your son again. If you bear it, you are doomed.”

At this, it seemed the woman’s body was infused with life, starting from her feet up. She lifted herself up off the ground and stood straight and tall before the judge and at once said, “If this be so then I wholeheartedly let this man bear my sentence for me.” Then she turned toward her redeemer and asked, “When can I see my son again?”

“Soon,” he replied and waved to the bailiff to bring the woman to him. With a gesture she was placed by his side.

The next prisoner was ushered in. A handcuffed, elderly man entered the courtroom and approached the bench of his own volition. “Benson Harold Hattersley, you are convicted of importing hundreds of children for the purpose of sex trafficking. I need make no further comment on the horror you have forced upon these innocent young children. Your sentence is death by 394 stabbings, one for each child you have so desecrated.” The judge rapped his gavel hard on the bench. “Look at me!” he thundered.

Benson lifted his eyes from the ground for the first time since entering the courtroom and looked at the judge.

“What say you?”

“My punishment is too great for me. How can I bear it?” The prisoner’s voice was almost a whisper.

“Will you have this man bear your sentence for you?” asked the judge harshly.

“Would that I could,” whispered Benson gloomily.

“You can.” It was the redeemer.

Benson looked at him warily. He studied him thoughtfully for several minutes. “Why?” he finally asked.

The redeemer considered the question carefully before answering. “Because you can’t do it yourself,” he finally said. He stood up and waved his arm around the room. “Everybody in here is guilty of death,” he said slowly. “Every single person born of man is guilty and unable to redeem himself of his guilt. I am the only one who can serve your sentence for you and give you a clean slate. A life for a life. My faultless life for your guilty one. In essence, the uncorrupt me, replaces the corrupt, evil you. You then become blameless. . .and free. . .and alive. Fully alive. Think carefully what that means.”

“What do I have to do then? I mean, what’s it going to cost me? What’s the catch?” asked Benson suspiciously.

“No catch, no cost. All I want is a relationship with you. But this will be for your sake, not mine. I need absolutely nothing from you. Get that and understand it. You need everything from me, but I need nothing from you. When you get to know me, you get peace, joy, contentment. Without me you get misery, torture, guilt. Your choice.”

He moved to Benson and stood before him. “I know you, Benson,” he said earnestly. “No one knows you better than I do, not even you. I know why you made the choices you made. I know what happened to you when you were 6 years old and that teenage boy took you to the abandoned cabin. I know about that time when you saw the neighborhood bully cut your beloved pet kitten open with a knife. I know your wounds, Benson.” He looked around the room and held everyone’s gaze briefly as he repeated, “I know all your wounds.”

Benson began to sob uncontrollably. He fell to his knees and thanked God repeatedly for this man who was going to bear his sentence for him.

Ernie, overcome with emotion, turned to Bob and gasped, “Who is he? Who is this man?”

“His name,” said Bob slowly and meaningfully, “is Jesus.”

Romans 3:22-24

1 Peter 2:24

John 3:16-18