The Factor
Determining factors. That’s what the psychologist keeps talking about on the stand. In polite, big-worded terms, she’s trying to tell them why I did what I did. I appreciate her trying, but as she’s said in our sessions, the mental illness argument is weak on my part. I could have lied and pretended to be traumatized by some oppressed memory, but why bother? I am seventeen and on trial for murder.
I wish my lawyer and the other lawyer and the judge would stop calling me Mr. Jacobson. They don’t need to kid themselves. The whole reason this thing is such a mess is because I am a kid. I am a kid who murdered a kid. And since I’m a kid, they don’t know what to do with me now. They only talk about factors that would provide an explanation for my actions. I feel like I’m in a boring class. They’re never going to reach a conclusion. I keep taking a drink from my water glass because I’m pretty sure this is going to be the last time I have pure water. I want to look at my mother. I want to turn around. She bought me this tie. She has a right to see it on me.
The defense still has nothing. And why should they? I am not angry. I did not have an abusive home life. I am not unpopular or picked on. I have both parents at home and they love each other. They love me. I am not neglected. I do not have a reason to seek revenge. I am not from a poor environment. I do not have a history of torturing animals. I am not caught in an unrequited love triangle. I’m not gay or depressed or hiding some emotional secret. I am not insane. I know the difference between right and wrong.
In the musical Wicked, Glinda asks, “Are people born wicked? Or do they have wickedness thrust upon them?”
The fact that I am a teenage boy who watches musicals should have ruled out any chance for me to be a murderer. But it didn’t, because we are still sitting here. I am listening to everyone talk about me and for me. I am not going to testify because my lawyer thought “it would not be the best choice.” He’s probably right. Even I can’t give a reason. If I’m not angry or mentally ill or in love or abused or any of that—then why? Why did I kill my friend, my classmate? Why did I slit his throat with a knife and then hold him down under water until he went limp? Why am I sitting here waiting to see what happens next?
Only one person during this long process gave us a reason, and that was Father Morrison. He’s a priest who oh-so-fortunately forgave me for my sin. And he told my parents—my lost, desperate, mourning, conservative, suburban parents that there is only one true reason why there is evil, and that is Satan.
Unfortunately, the Satan defense doesn’t stand up too well in a court of law. In a system that makes one swear on a Bible before testifying, bringing up an evil realm is simply not acceptable. So help me God.
But after looking over how perfect and normal I really am, everyone would be quick to blame something unseen. And even if that factor was acceptable, even if the devil did make me do it, that doesn’t change anything. Because I did do it. And I’m still waiting for them to just get it over with so I can go to the bathroom. Of course I’m going to jail but can they just make a stop on the way? I’ve had almost six glasses of water in here.
I wish they’d stop wondering why I did it. I wish I could go on the stand and tell them all, “I don’t know. I just did it.” And I would look at John’s family and tell them I’m sorry. I’d apologize to my parents, my lawyer, the jury, and the world for burdening them. And I’d go to juvy honorably. But I’m not allowed to say anything. My testimony can hurt the case, a lost cause as it is.
Finally, the jury has reached a verdict. I have to stand up. All of a sudden, time has flown. I no longer need to pee. I just want them to keep talking, to delay this all. I see Father Morrison out of the corner of my eye. But he’s on the other side—the prosecuting side. My heart beats faster. I forget about the jury for a while. I begin to wonder why Father Morrison is over there. Did he accidentally sit on that side? Surely it’s not hard to tell which is which. Was there no room on my side? Ha! Yeah right. No one came to support me. Maybe it’s like a wedding. When you are friends with both the bride and the groom, so you just pick a side and it doesn’t really matter. You pick the person you’ve known the longest. Father Morrison is probably just trying to stay on God’s good side, even though he has friends in low places. He’ll sit with God today, and then take Satan out for a beer tonight.
I’ve missed the long charge that they’ve repeated. All I hear is “guilty.” My mom starts crying as the judge orders something new. I can turn around now. But I can’t look at my mom. So I look at Father Morrison. He’s smiling. He’s hugging the relieved parents’ of John and he’s smiling.
As the cops take me out of the courtroom, I lock eyes with Father Morrison. The man who had a determining factor for my actions. The man who told me I’m forgiven. And he’s smiling.
