Trial and error

Barbara bought a ticket and boarded a plane for central Florida before she could have doubts or undo it. She heard about the case because she was watching a lot of television; here was this woman, who had allegedly killed her own daughter, looking impassively into the camera as if nothing had happened. It made Barbara's blood boil. She herself had no daughter, only an eleven-year-old son and a husband who may or may not be able to handle things with her gone, but they were understanding; they hardly objected when she left. Be sure to bring in the mail, she told her husband; I'm expecting a small check. Don't forget to feed the cats.

Central Florida was steamy and she made her way to the center of town where the courthouse was, and checked into the nearest motel she could find that had a vacancy. She had to try two or three, but one was acceptable, not full, not too pricey, and as soon as she'd freshened up a bit she made her way back to the courthouse where a line had formed to gain entrance into the trial the following morning. She had a spot in line that was between an older gentleman and a young foul-mouthed tattoo-covered young lady; the line wasn't moving at all, but there was plenty to watch as it seemed fights might break out over the earlier places in line. A policeman watched warily and tried not to intervene. The sultry sun put everyone on edge. To live here, Barbara decided, one must have air conditioning, a television and lots to drink.

In this time, which was actually about three hours, she made friends with a woman named Joan, who apparently was from this very city, but a little out of town, and invited her over to lunch. You may have to buy some of the supplies, she said, but you'd be welcome to come over to our house and sit with us for a while you're here in town. Seems pretty lonely to be in a city like this all by yourself, she said. Barbara hadn't thought of it.

Her sense of outrage against the mother who had killed her young child was still with her that night when she turned on the local news. The local news had the story on in much more detail, and was fully aware that the nation was watching this particular trial because of its sordidness, and a grim fascination with someone who would apparently kill her own daughter so she could go out and party a little more.

Barbara took ice from the machine outside her room, and turned on her own room airconditioning unit on full blast as she watched the news. She thought about her husband and son briefly but was soon brought into the news story again, and fixated on the young woman. The motel was full and there was a lot of noise, both in the hallway and in the courtyard outside the room, but the airconditioner and the television drowned it out and she focused. Finally she fell asleep. She had gotten sunburned standing in line, and it hurt when she rolled over.

In the morning she was let into the trial with her little entrance ticket stub, and picked a seat near the back. The trial was actually somewhat boring from back there, but she soon developed a fascination for the prosecutor, who was her main ally in delivering justice to this woman. It was as if she, Barbara, had come all the way to central Florida to ensure that justice be done to this woman, who seemed, as she sat in her seat, the epitome of evil. The prosecutor hammered away, trying to prove she did it. The defense attorney was equally aggressive; he of course was the enemy. And where did all the spectators come from? She could only guess. The trial had drawn her, all the way from south Texas; she had dropped everything; she had flown here, rented a motel, and stood in line just to be here. What were their stories? She could only guess.

She found it interesting to compare the evening news, back at the hotel, with what she had seen. What she considered important was not exactly the same for them; however, most of what they said was true. Their camera also had a different angle; however, it was all the same people.

So it went for several days; it settled into a routine. She stood in line to get tickets, sometimes for several hours; she attended as much of the trial as she could; she left only for lunch or to call home. She never missed the evening news or the recap of the trial. She didn't venture out much to see the city, or go out at night in search of anything, even a movie. When she called home everyone was ok; they were living on pizza and stale cookies, and her husband had wrecked his truck, but aside from that, it was life as usual. They missed her. They'd fed the cat at least once. They wondered when she'd come back.

Back in the courthouse her fascination for the prosecutor grew; she studied his ring trying to convince herself that he wasn't married. He was everything her husband wasn't; he was educated, well-dressed, methodical, articulate, polite; of course, part of this was his job. Sometimes she'd realize that she was deluding himself; what would he do, fall for her? She doubted it. Nevertheless the details of the trial itself were less and less interesting to her; she was already convinced that the woman was guilty. Only the prosecutor held her attention, and even he was beginning to not look as good.

Standing in line was, in some ways, more interesting than the trial itself. The police's attempts to keep order were sometimes futile. Joan came back, however, and had a long talk with her. Apparently Joan was not interested in this particular trial, but was at the courthouse because her husband had been thrown in jail about a month ago; she was having trouble supporting her daughter and elderly mother; in desperation she came to the courthouse hoping to resolve the husband's case, but unsuccessfully. Again she invited Barbara over for lunch. Maybe Saturday? Barbara agreed to the possibility; she was taking it one day at a time.

By Friday, though, she was pretty sure she would stay through the weekend, and agreed that Joan would pick her up Saturday morning for the long bus ride out to Joan's house. In order to stay through to the next week, she had to make some calls back in Texas; one was to her workplace, where they readily agreed to give her a few more days, and another was to her husband, to make sure it was ok with him also. He was beginning to get a little edgy, but so far no big disasters.

On Saturday Joan arrived at her motel, though not until ten thirty, and they got on a bus and rode all the way through the city to a god-forsaken part of it where Joan lived. Somewhere in the middle of the bus ride, looking out at the empty corners of the city, Barbara did some soul-searching. As the trial had increased its national exposure, she had become less interested in that and more just curious why she herself had been drawn all the way here, so far from where she belonged. Whereas at first it seemed necessary that she be here as witness, to make sure justice was done, now that seemed like a totally futile objective. Joan listened patiently to her story of her frustrations with her husband but Joan was clearly jealous that she even had a husband, free and clear of the prison system and all the baggage that hers seemed to have.

When they got off there was a small convenience store and they went shopping for lunch supplies; Barbara paid, and they walked the last seven or eight blocks to Joan's house. Joan's house was a tiny two-room bungalow on a crowded street. The single living room was dominated by a large television; on the show it was tuned to, talking heads, involved parties, were discussing the trial, of course, and the people in it. A shy, hungry-looking little girl appeared in the doorway of a bedroom; she appeared to be about six, and was introduced as Joan's daughter. Joan's mother, unable to move easily, watched the television impassively. They spread out the groceries on the table; it was Barbara's contribution. It might keep this hungry young girl from starving one more day, she figured, as she watched the girl eyeing the food carefully.

There was a pot of macaroni and cheese from boxes, bread and lunchmeat, milk, chips, soda, and some fruit; it seemed like a feast to the young girl, who wolfed it down. They kept the television on as they ate. Outside it was steamy and uncomfortable; they didn't even try to take anything outside, even the sodas. In the cool airconditioned living room they watched them discuss the trial, over and over, back and forth.

And somewhere in there, Barbara had her fill; she decided that she didn't want to hear another word of the trial, and didn't even care how it turned out. As she watched the young girl eat, she realized, maybe this is why I'm here, so this poor girl gets one good meal; it doesn't seem she's had another for quite some time. After they'd finished and cleaned up, she said goodbye to Joan, took the long bus back to town and checked out of the motel; she took the next flight back to Texas, and, when asked what she'd been doing in Florida, she said she was just visiting friends.