The Trial (Complete in 7 Parts):

Seems like every decade or so America has to go through one of these George Zimmerman kind of trials. Not sure who you were rooting for reader, but whoever your team was I hope they won. As for myself, I didn't walk away from it with much, save perhaps an overwhelming sense of relief that I don't live in Florida. I was also reminded of my own trial which took place back in May of 2008. This post (below) was not only written during the course of that trial; but was my very first attempt at writing a series--in this case, 7 parts over the course of about 2 weeks. I've edited the ending down quite a bit; but otherwise pretty much unchanged.

THE TRIAL (COMPLETE IN 7 PARTS). Originally posted at STAYS PUT, May 26 to June 14, 2008:




When you stay put and watch the world go round you try to avoid society's trappings. That means no mortgage payment; no wife; no car loans; no political affiliations. Certainly no lawyers.



But five years ago my car got whacked from behind while I was stopped at a red light. The accident completely blindsided me, resulting in two herniated discs to my lower back and pain that still exists to various degrees to this day. So you'll have to excuse me if the $10,000.00 the insurance company offered to settle seemed like a bit of a rape-over.



Well, two weeks ago--after waiting five years, I finally got my day in court. Or I was supposed to have my day in court. I don't know why, but I assumed that when I received notice of my court date that I'd show up at 9:00 a.m. and there'd be a judge seated behind the bench, gavel in his hand, ready to get this thing started. Boy was I mistaken. In fact, the whole thing played out like a Kafka novel.



"Okay," my lawyer said to me as I approached the assigned courtroom. "We have to see if we can a get a judge."



"What do you mean?" I said, "The notice says this guy's our judge."



"No," my lawyer said, "He got called out on another matter. An emergency. But Judge may be available."



"...So you think this is bad for us?" I asked.



"Not at all, happens all the time. Though I've tried a lot of cases in front of Judge so I know how he thinks."



"Well, maybe we'll still get 'em," I responded, still upbeat at finally getting my day in court.



"Maybe," my attorney answered somewhat less optimistic. "I can push for him a little bit since he was originally assigned."



"Good, good."



"Course I don't want to push too hard since it puts the judge in an awkward position and makes us look a little desperate, which we're not."



"Right, right."



"On the other hand, there are some issues with your case that I think the judge would be sympathetic toward, so its no small thing."



"I see."



"Sooo, I'd say the best thing for you to do is go take a walk and relax a bit since this may take awhile."



"I can do that."



In fact reader, I handle intermissions very well.



But I have to say that by the time I finished lunch I began to get anxious to see some movement on this thing. I'd been waiting five years for this day and had taken valuable time off from what was still a relatively new job--yet we still didn't even have a judge. The pace of the proceedings was disturbing, which I brought to my lawyers attention.



"So what's going on?" I asked. "Are we going to do this today or should I go into work?"



"No, no" my lawyer replied adjusting his glasses higher on his big, hooked nose, "We've got a judge. We just need to make a few motions in regards to what's going to be presented. Don't go into work. We might pick a jury before the end of the afternoon."



Please! We never even got close to picking a jury. We spent the whole afternoon going round and round over these moronic motions about which records were going to be permissible and who was allowed to testify. I guess motions set the ground rules of the trial so they're important; but at one juncture the other side's attorney said to the judge,



"Your Honor, I know you can argue that I should have filed that motion earlier with the court, but I think you'll agree that anyone trying to file something on a Friday after 4:00 p.m. in County New York would have about the same chance of success as being struck by a meteor while crossing the street."



To this my attorney immediately sprung to his feet and protested,



"Your Honor, I think what my adversary is referring to is a meteorite--not a meteor. A meteor is the path that a meteorite takes, but the object itself is properly referred to as a meteorite."



Everyone in the courtroom looked round in dumbfounded silence for a few moments until the rival attorney responded,



"...Meteor. Meteorite. I think your Honor knows what I was getting at. That motion would never get filed by the clerk in time."



The judge blinked her eyes a few times like the LED lights on my CD changer when its rotating the dics, until finally saying in an almost trance-like monotone,

"We're going to take a ten minute break and then I'll deliver my rulings on all the motions presented over this last hour."



So another ten minutes, which of course turned into a half-hour. But as promised, she returned to the courtroom where we all proceeded to stand up and then sit down as the judge collated her notes in front of her in preparation of cutting through all this bullshit and pronouncing her decisions on our all-important motions.



"Before addressing the issue of the motions specifically," she said, "I would like to respond to a comment made earlier by defense counsel."



We all looked at the opposing attorney who wore the face of an elementary school kid who'd smelt it, and as such, obviously dealt it.



"In particular Mr. , you stated that anyone trying to file a motion on a Friday after 4:00 p.m. would have about the same odds as being struck by a meteor. Is that correct?"



The attorney sheepishly stroked his beard as he responded with hangdog eyes.



"Yes, your Honor, that sounds correct."



"Um hmm. ...Well, I've done a little research and it appears plaintiff's counsel is correct, a person can't be struck by a meteor--its a meteorite. A meteor is a shooting star that takes place in the sky. Furthermore, the odds of someone being struck by a meteorite are well over a billion to one, and while I can't state what the odds would be for filing a motion in County New York after 4:00 p.m., I believe they would be far better than a billion to one--do you agree?"



The defense attorney grudgingly agreed while my attorney gloated with his arms folded in front of his chest Mussolini style as though we'd won a major battle. Meanwhile all I could do was sit there with my head in my hands as these idiots mentally masturbated and think to myself, "Man, you've gotta be kidding me."



PART 2:



When it finally came time to pick the jury for my trial, the potential jurors were asked ten standard questions which they answered aloud. How they responded determined if they were allowed to serve or were booted-off by my side or the other.



My attorney (in the great tradition of plaintiff's attorneys) invariably kicked off anyone who demonstrated even a hint of intelligence. His ideal juror for my case would be a Mormon who suffered from Downs Syndrome. But since we didn't have any of those in our jury pool he went for what he thought was the closest match. The questions helped him determine who those individuals would be, and provided some personal insights as well.



WHAT DO YOU DO FOR A LIVING? was one of the first questions asked. I'd say half those picked turned out to be unemployed (thanks to my attorney); but even he couldn't completely stack the jury. There were two nurses who got on, plus a guy who said he was a programmer for GOOGLE (I'm embarrassed to say that even here in 2008 I'm still not entirely sure what a programmer for GOOGLE does).



Speaking of being dated, there was one pasty-faced kid in nerd glasses and a short-sleeved, button-down shirt who said he worked as a clerk at a video tape store. When my attorney asked the guy if he meant to say DVD rentals the guy responded,



"No, we still rent the tapes. Its my mom and dads store."



My attorney almost jizzed his pants over that guy, but defense booted him off with their first challenge.

Q: WHAT NEWSPAPERS AND MAGAZINES DO YOU READ?New York Daily News, Show Magazine, and Smooth Magazine were how I answered to myself when I saw that question. But only one person said the Daily News while no one read my magazines. TIME was the most common magazine mentioned, but my attorney seemed to prefer those who read US WEEKLY. (As a quick aside, all the women who admitted to reading US WEEKLY--and it was only women who did--giggled and looked at the floor as they said it aloud).



The juror who came closest to my sensibilities was also my favorite--Tamiqua. A tall, young, Nigerian-looking chick originally from Alabama who couldn't have been more than 21 years old and liked to read BLACK HAIR MAGAZINE. I'd met a Shamiqua before, and saw pictures of a Shanika in SMOOTH magazine. I even dated a girl named Tamika one time on a disastrous night back in Detroit. But I never met a Tamiqua before that day.



When Tamiqua said she liked BLACK HAIR MAGAZINE I knew she was cool with my attorney, but I had doubts about whether the defense would keep her. "Please don't kick her off. Please don't kick her off. Please don't kick her off. Please don't kick her off." I repeated to myself with eyes closed and fingers crossed.



(For the record, Tamiqua got picked).

Q: WHAT TELEVISION PROGRAMS DO YOU WATCH?

Juror # 1: "C.S.I.; Law and Order; Lost."

Juror # 2: "C.S.I. and Lost."

Juror # 3: "Mainly wrestling."

Juror # 4 (Tamiqua): "Yes ma'am, I like anything on B.E.T. Plus I like Next Top Model; 30 Rock; and...I guess TMZ, sorry ma'am."

Juror # 5: "Law and Order; C.S.I., House."

Juror # 6: "C.S.I., Desperate Housewives."

Juror # 7: " C.S.I., Law and Order."

Juror # 8 (with an Irish accent): "Soccer mainly,..and Law and Order."



I have to say I was surprised by their answers. Enlightened, you might say. I mean, I'm not really a TV guy, but I didn't realize there was this phenomenon known as C.S.I. Turns out I'm as outside the culture as the kid I dismissed for renting videotapes. No one watched DOG WHISPERER?--are you kidding? That really blindsided me. It almost took all the joy out of Tamiqua getting picked.



Anyway, once we had a jury the judge gave us a ten minute break. I stepped outside to stretch and spoke with my attorney.



"They always say C.S.I.," my attorney said with a laugh.



"Do they?" I asked, perplexed by the previously unknown habits of my fellow bald primates.



"Sure, its the most popular show--they always say C.S.I. or LAW AND ORDER."



I leaned against the brass rail that circled the rotunda and looked skyward toward the dome.



"...What's the matter?," my attorney asked from behind his over-sized glasses, "Your concerned about the jury?"



"...Not one person said THE SIMPSONS," I answered incredulously. "No SIMPSONS or DOG WHISPERER."



"What?--THE SIMPSONS?! The kids cartoon? I wouldn't let that concern you," he said distracted by his attempts to stuff my M.R.I. films into his briefcase.



But I can assure you that it did.



PART 3:

Great public speakers and musicians can just do it; while those of us who can't can only look on in awe and wonder. It so happens I'm one of those who shits a brick at the thought of addressing a crowd or congregation. People scare the hell out of me--I've seen what crowds can do, and I tend to devolve into fight or flight mode in stressful situations.



So when my good friend Rules (an attorney herself) found out that I was going to have to testify at my trial she brought me a little present.



"Take these," she said, handing over a napkin wrapped round a bunch of pills.



"What's this?" I asked.



"Those are XANAX. I take one before I have to do a presentation. They take the edge off, which I think you need. Knowing you, you'll try to stick a pen in the attorney's forehead when he pisses you off--which he will."



Well reader, I think Rules exaggerates a bit; but I was thankful just the same. Especially after I tried one as a test and confirmed what she'd said. Those Xanax don't give you a buzz so much as they just kind-of...cool you out. I found myself shrugging my shoulders at everything. Whatever.



So with my Xanax, I should have been all set to testify; but before I go into those proceedings I have to digress (briefly, I promise) and tell you something else that relates to this story.



Which is that about a month ago I took my girlfriends Ilona and Ika out for their collective birthdays. In appreciation, Ika was willing to part with some of her PERCOCETS that she'd been prescribed when she blew her knee out last winter (I'm particularly fond of Percocets).



Unfortunately, I had no idea Ika planned to gift me the pills--they were a surprise gift; so when she gave them to me I had nothing to do but wrap them in my bar napkin before stuffing them into my suit pocket.



So you can see where this is going, right? But we'll get there. Anyway, the big day for my testimony finally came: I had my best suit on, my shoes polished, my Xanax pills from Rules; and of course the truth, which was going to be my greatest asset.



Only stupid life never goes smoothly. My high-on driver (Amit) didn't show up on time, which left me pacing back and forth in my apartment as I waited on him. Fucking Amit, C'mon! But Amit's never in a rush. He's from somewhere in India and has that Hindu's perception of time that's like, Ten minutes. Ten years. What's the difference?



Well, there is a difference. I had to get my ass into white-man's court so I could testify in my liability trial that I'd waited on for five years. I began to get impatient. Even feared that Amit was blowing me off since its not like he works for me and he'd drop me in a second if he could nab a fare to the airport. So I really started to get mad at him. Began to curse his name as well as yell all kinds of terrible things about his irresponsible dumb-ass and about East-Indian people in general that I knew were totally wrong until suddenly HONK! HONK! HONK! from downstairs.



A weight was lifted as I saw his grey TOWN CAR at the curb, which sent me racing toward the mirror like a woman to adjust my tie for the millionth time before proceeding toward the front door when I suddenly mind-flashed the word Xanax, the thought of which intuitively sent my hand into my suit pocket where I felt the security of that wadded-up napkin full of pills. So I was able to breathe a sigh of relief as I said to myself, "Alright--calm, assertive energy, and just tell the truth" as I walked out the door.



PART 4: Women tend to internalize things--figuratively and literally; while men tend to look more outside themselves. Its one of the big differences between the sexes.



I bring this up cause about a half-hour before I was due to testify at my trial--when I began to realize that I'd mistakenly taken two PERCOCETS instead of the XANAX that Rules had given me, I didn't blame myself. Oh no, that's what a woman would do. Instead I blamed everyone else: stupid Amit for being late which got me all flustered, and stupid Ika for gifting me pills without something proper to put them in. And of course Rules for suggesting that I needed something to calm me down in the first place. As Homer Simpson would say, "This was everybody's fault but mine."



But in retrospect, I know Rules was right. I did need something to calm me down. Even my attorney implied as much when he saw me, though not in so many words.



'Cause I'd arrived late to the courthouse and here in New York its not like you just walk in and go to your room. You've got to stand in line to go thru security and lay out your bags on the x-ray and take out all your junk for inspection. Its a process. So by the time I got to my courtroom my hunchbacked attorney with the thick glasses and even thicker eyebrows was standing outside the door pointing at his watch and shaking his head.



"What's going on? You're late?"



'I know," I said as I caught my breath, "My car was late."



"Umm hmm. Well, listen, calm down and lets go over a few things. Juror # 4 [who I knew was Tamiqua] is late so we've got some time to review some things."



So really for the first time, my attorney and I practiced a few questions, which I now see we should have done a long time ago (and for a lot longer than fifteen minutes). But at least we got a little quality time in as he asked me some questions.



"Have you put on any weight since the accident? You know, from not being able to workout or run?"



"No," I answered, "I never gain weight. I can eat whatever I want all the time and I still weigh the same since high school. Its..."



"Okay," he interjected somewhat irritated. "You haven't put on weight. How 'bout the pain itself--where do you feel it?"



I traced the path of pain that almost always begins at the small of my back and tends to sort-of bleed out toward my hip, down my left leg, and then down to my left big toe.



"Good, good," he said as he took notes. "And how would you describe the pain? Is it a hot pain, or a sharp pain? You know what I mean Lodo, you do this for a living. Is it like a nail in your side?," he asked widening his eyes.



Obviously by the way his eyes widened at nail in your side that was the answer he wanted. But reader, my pain isn't like a nail in my side. Its more like someone wound-up and gave me a big charley-horse right in the small of my back. Only the charley-horse never goes away; nor does it stay contained. It kind-of...ripples-out like a stone's throw on the surface of a pond.



But my attorney definitely didn't like that answer and told me so without mincing any words,



"Come on man, that's too abstract. No one's going to give you money for a charley-horse rippling on the surface of a...whatever the fuck you said. You've got to make them see the pain. Use that phrase I gave you about the nail in your side--that's going to really have an impact."



"But its not like a nail in my side," I protested, "It's like a soreness that spreads until my whole back and leg stiffens up and makes me all tense unti.."



But again he cut me off and this time grabbed my forearm as he looked at me and said,



"Listen, Lodo, you're not a writer. If you don't use the most perfectly descriptive word no one's going to hang you for that. You've got to make your words count. Do you ever listen to these politicians address a crowd? They don't go into details about rippling charley-horse's blah blah blah. They use a simple catch-phrase or a sound-bite that registers an emotion. You hear what I'm saying?"



Yeah, I heard what he was saying. In fact, my face must have registered my feelings because he went on to say,



"Now listen, when you're on the stand you can't appear combative like that. Not with me and especially not with the other attorney. You just answer yes or no and if you don't know something that's what you say. You've got to stay calm--can you do that?"



"Absolutely," I said as I patted the breast pocket of my suit and felt the security of my Xanax pills.



"Good, now why don't you use the restroom before we go inside 'cause I don't know how long you're going to be in the stand."



So I went to the bathroom and that was when I took one of what I thought were my Xanax pills. Only I couldn't help but be concerned by my attorney's admonishment out in the hall, so I told myself, "Better take two, just to be sure."



So down the hatch went the second pill before I entered the courtroom where it was stand up and sit down, and then stand up again as the jury finally filed in with Tamiqua sporting a new Beyonce hairdo looking fine as could be. And then all the greetings and salutations amongst the judge and the attorneys and the jury until about twenty minutes passed and I could feel a sort of...calmness take a hold as I smiled in satisfaction while my attorney continued to blabber on intoxicated by his own nasal voice. Until that softness I mentioned morphed into a warm, fuzzy wave that resembled the nether-world between dream and waking and I found myself thinking, "Wait a minute."



But there was no waiting since I had an empty stomach, so those pills hit me like an anvil dropped on a soft-boiled egg. And though I sensed what was going on it was only when we took the hundredth "ten minute break," before my testimony that I had the opportunity to reach into my suit pocket to inspect the pills I'd taken; after which, for some unknown reason I reached into the other breast pocket where I found that second napkin full of oblong pills labeled Xanax and that's when I said, "Stupid Amit making me late!; and stupid Ika! and stupid Rules!"

Stupid everyone but me.

PART 5:



Some things in this world (peanut butter and jelly; black dogs and tennis balls; hot chicks and money) just go together. Conversely, some things just don't mix. Like two Percocets and righteous indignation. Those two just don't jibe.

So despite the fact that I'd waited five years to finally get my day in court, I suddenly found myself absent of anger and not particularly eager to retrieve it. Not only was I feeling no pain; but I was rather proud my of myself that testifying turned out to be rather easy. Almost fun since it played out like a soft fuzzy dream, the star of which was Tamiqua (to whom I addressed all my answers despite my lawyers attempts to intersect my sight line). I wont bore you with the mundane details. Instead we'll just cut the defense attorney's cross-examination.



"So Mr Grdzak," he asked, "How fast would you say the car behind you was going when it struck you?"



"I couldn't say," I answered truthfully.



"And were its headlights on at the time it struck your vehicle?"



"..I can't remember," I responded as I concentrated on the question and tried not to slur my words.



"Umm Hmm. Well can you tell me if there were any skid marks at the scene?" he asked.



"..I don't know," I answered, "those weren't the kinds of things I thought about at the time. I was dazed."



"I see."



Not exactly the stuff of INDIANA JONES. But this asshole kept going into all these questions that had nothing to do with anything. Christ the accident was five years ago people! Were her headlights on at the time? Was she wearingher seatbelt? Hell if I I could remember.



But then the questions got a little meatier.



"So how soon after the accident did you begin to feel pain?" the attorney asked as he leaned over the rail that ensconced the witness stand. I could smell his coffee breath.



"Right away," I answered. "That's why I went to the hospital, 'cause my upper-back and hip were hurting."



"And did this pain ever go away?" he asked seemingly skeptical of my answer.



"Not really, I always have it to some degree. Though now its more in my lower back as opposed to my neck."



'I see," he said. "And you're always in pain?"



'Yes," I answered forthrightly. "I always experience pain to some degree. Some days are worse than others is all."



"Umm hmm. ..Well tell me, are you in pain now?" he asked.



"What?" I asked as I shifted position, surprised by the question I should have anticipated.



"Now," he repeated, "Are you in pain now?"



"...Right now?" I asked in a manner that couldn't have done my position any good.



'Yes Mr. Grdzak, right now," he asked addressing the jury as much as me. "Are you in pain now as we speak?"



"...Welll.."



Part 6:



As bad as I may have been on the witness stand, my doctor was even worse. He'd just participated in a back surgery that morning, so by the time he arrived at the courthouse he didn't have time to discuss the details of my case with my attorney. In fact, he was in such a hurry to change out of his surgical skivvies and into his court-appropriate clothes that he somehow got the tail of his collared shirt stuck in the fly of his suit pants. So while this esteemed doctor of orthopedic medicine stood in front of my predominantly unemployed jury, pointing to my MRI films and supposedly impressing them with valuable points regarding my condition, he had a shirt-wiener sticking out the fly of his pants.



And the poor guy was completely oblivious--that's what made it so pathetically funny. At least as far as the jury was concerned (I myself had to fight the urge to slink down under the table). I mean this was a serious man. Under oath he testified that he'd performed well over a hundred and fifty back surgeries and had consulted for professional sports teams. But like Einstein or Professor Frink on the Simpsons, this guy's mind was so occupied with cerebral concerns that fashion mores were a secondary issue. Or non-issue. Had you in fact pointed out to the guy that he was sporting a shirt-wiener he'd have probably replied, "Can we stay focused on the topic here? We're talking about disc herniations!"



But staying on point wasn't exactly the strong suit of my unemployed, slack-jawed jury. So by the time my doctor returned to his seated position on the witness stand, where he could testify and answer questions with dignity without the distraction of his shirt-wiener, it was already too late. The jury had already type-cast him as a dweeb unfit for the role of doctor on their beloved CSI or HOUSE. They simply dismissed the rest of his testimony as epilogue and had about as much interest in my injuries as the OJ jury did in DNA. One guy actually slept until the judge (laughing herself) ordered the bailiff to wake him up and told us all to take a break.

Yep, things descended into farce at an alarming pace. Completely blindsided me, though at day's end my attorney continued to insist that things had gone great and that the jury thought I was "sincere," by admitting I wasn't in pain. He even asserted they found my doctor "folksy," and "likable--like Columbo," or some other pop icon who's name's been out of fashion for three decades.



But I couldn't tell what to make of things as I bumbled 'round outside the courthouse and attempted to shake the cobwebs from my Percocet-riddled brain. Muttering to myself like a homeless man as I waited on Amit to take me home.



And to his credit, Amit did his best to lift my spirits. Burned a little herb with me for the drive; laughed heartily as I explained what a shirt-wiener was; nodded his head at the appropriate times in my story. A real calm energy--that's what I love about the guy. Peaceful. Even while driving me home in the madness of a NYC rush hour.



When we got to my building I got out the car, but before pulling away Amit leaned across the front seat toward the opened passenger-side window and said in that sing-song East-Indian style of his,"Lodo, I've known you awhile now so I hope you don't mind when I say that you sometimes see things in a harsh light. I've listened to everything that happened today and I think maybe it was not so bad as you think. In fact, I'm thinking that you've already won your case. I feel it and you need to feel it too. That's how you make things happen. Just say 'I've already won.' "



We looked at each other without comment for a few brief seconds but I was coming down hard from those Percocets and the stress of testifying finally caught up with me. Amit's circular Be here now logic was a little more than I could handle at the moment; so I just reached through the open window and gently shook his hand,



"Try to be on time tomorrow would ya?"



PART 7 (CONCLUSION):



According to historians, when Stalin learned that Hitler betrayed him and invaded Russia, he did nothing but sulk in his bedroom for two weeks. How many millions could have been saved had Stalin taken immediate action is pure speculation; but obviously he'd been blind-sided and shocked into immobility.

I know the feeling.

When my jury announced their verdict in favor of the insurance company--100% in their favor, I turned my back on them. Literally. I turned round and refused to look at them as they proceeded out the courtroom until the judge chastised me.

"Mr. Grdzak," she said, "these people spent the last four days performing their duty and I will not have you disrespect them."

After that, the next three days are a blur. I walked home, getting drunk along the way; then wrapped myself in blankets with the shades closed. I called in sick to work. Refused to answer my phone. Didn't even watch TV except for THE SIMPSONS and basketball games.



Over and over I replayed the events in my mind: the foreman's announcement of the verdict with a sardonic grin on her prude, Protestant face; the drooling juror who slept through my doctor's presentation; Tamiqua's face when she smiled toward me in consolation. That was perhaps the only thing that saved me from complete despair.

Cause in response to my back-turning, the judge had polled the jury, which means that each juror has to announce publically--for all to hear, that they agree with the verdict.

"Juror # 1, do you agree?"

"Yes your honor."

"Juror # 2 [GOOGLE Programmer], do you agree?"



"Yes your honor.

"Juror # 3 do you agree?"



"Yes your honor."



"Juror # 4 [Tamiqua], do you agree?"



"No ma'am," she answered like the lone guy in HIGH NOON who stood up for Gary Cooper, "I don't agree with none of them."



Sweet Tamiqua! If only I'd engaged the other juror's during my testimony. Or perhaps if my doctor looked like newscaster Brian Williams way the defense's doctor did. If only my lawyer hadn't picked the dumbest fucking jury on the planet who just followed whatever GOOGLE Programmer told them. If, if, if.

Suddenly every regret I've ever had got snagged on that long line of hooks: the dog I left behind in Colorado; the girlfriends I'd treated badly; my failure to visit my grandfather before he died. No wonder they didn't like you.



What else could I think? There was no way they reached that verdict based on the evidence. This was a referendum on Lodo Grdzak.



But eventually I came to terms with it. When we humans judge each other, we're hard jurors. Probably too hard--on each other and ourselves. Tamiqua had sided with me, so I took solace in that. She was the only one I'd cared about. Plus I'd screwed up with those pills. And probably chose the wrong attorney. I suppose I could pick apart the evidence and events indefinitely; but hey, trial's over. And I'm done prosecuting myself. At the end of the day I'm white, American, with most of my health and still a few years ahead of me. So yeah, in the game of life, I've already won.



* NOTE: Only pics of myself are owned by or belong to me. All rights reserved on those. All other pics stolen off GOOGLE IMAGES. Copyrights probably exist.
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