wavydavy123
07-08-2014, 11:37 AM
Chapter 1: Dead Eyes
Charlie Goodwin murdered Robbie Blake on the first day of summer, while birds sang in the trees and children played in the streets. By all accounts, it had been a beautiful day.
“How did that day start, Mr Goodwin?” the lawyer asked.
Charlie shifted in his seat. He could recount every detail of that Tuesday. He had thought about it again and again, considering if even the little details had led to what was to come. The truth was that it had started so normally: a morning run to keep fit for the football team, a bowl of corn flakes, watching Everyone Loves Raymond with David, then at school a single period of maths and a double period of art. He had finished his oil pastel of a sunflower. Mr Gilchrist had said it would make the art show.
“And it was during your morning break that you first came into contact with Robbie Blake?”
“We’ve already covered these details,” the Judge snapped dismissively. She was a plump middle-aged woman, and after watching her rush lawyers and stifle yawns for the last two days, Charlie had surmised that she was not particularly interested in his case.
“There’s some new details I’m after,” the lawyer replied.
“Yes it was at break,” Charlie said, trying to speed up for the Judge, “he insulted Sarah.”
“Your girlfriend.”
“We…had been going out for a few weeks.” Charlie had never been sure if he could be totally honest about Sarah during the trial. She had planted her lips on him at a post-exam party. According to everyone they were now ‘going out’. In reality, they had been to Nandos together once. She had ordered cole-slaw then taken half of his chips.
“We weren’t going to get married,” Charlie blurted, immediately regretting it.
“Robbie Blake insulted her,” the lawyer said, moving on, “and you said you wanted to fight him.”
Charlie nodded. It sounded so simple coming from the lawyer’s mouth. Robbie Blake was several years younger than Charlie and his friends, but he was the most popular guy in his year, and had called Sarah a slag. She had demanded retribution. Charlie had tried to shake it off. It wasn’t in his nature to fight, but somehow he had been convinced into it. He had recently made all these new friends, better friends, they had said. In the company of new friends, one can be compelled to do many undesirable things.
“So after school you went up to Thorn Park, where you had scheduled the fight.”
“Yes.”
“And you killed him.”
Charlie winced. They never mentioned that Robbie Blake was a youth-professional boxer. That he had nearly knocked him out with the first punch. That he had broken three of Charlie’s ribs and dislocated his jaw. All that mattered was the blind, numb rage that had possessed him thereafter. They had asked him earlier in the trial where such a rage had come from. He had told the truth: it had come from the disappointed looks of his new friends as he lay on the dry dirt following an initial beating by his younger adversary. It hadn’t come out of crazed vengeance or justified self-defence, but out of a need for popularity. Charlie hated that.
“I killed him,” Charlie agreed.
“My question is this – at what point did Sarah tell you to ‘kill him’?”
Charlie fell silent. They had not asked him about this before. “Um…it was at the park. Just before I stepped up.”
“Just before you stepped up and killed this boy, somebody actually told you to kill him? So it was pre-meditated? It wasn’t just blind rage, as you said before.”
“Well…she may have said that, but I don’t think I was listening…”
“But you do recall her saying that?”
“Well, yes.”
The lawyer nodded theatrically, pleased with himself. “Your Honour, I pose the question: how can you try someone for manslaughter when they appear to have been following an instruction to kill? That sounds a lot like murder.”
The Judge looked at Charlie. He met her gaze.
“And one more thing,” the lawyer continued, “can you recount how many times you punched Robbie Blake?”
Charlie swallowed. He hated thinking about the fight. All he could picture was Robbie’s dead eyes. The dead eyes that followed him.
“I don’t…”
“You got the better of him. Smothered him with your larger frame. Pinned him down and started punching him. How many times?”
“Yes I…smothered…” Charlie struggled for words.
“How many times?”
“I…”
“Eight times,” the lawyer said finally, “not once, not twice, not three times, but eight times. Until poor Robbie Blake’s brain hemorrhaged and he died a brutal death.”
Charlie looked down. There they were again, peering up from the earth. Dead eyes.
“I implore you to consider, Your Honour, can someone of good character really beat a helpless victim eight times? Isn’t that more reminiscent of somebody with a darkness inside them? The kind of darkness that needs to be locked up for a very long time.”
The prosecuting laywer took a seat and shuffled some papers, had words with a colleague.
“Thank you for that rather extensive closing argument, Mr Jones,” the Judge said, stifling another yawn, “I’m going to need some time to think about this. We shall reconvene in ten minutes.”
Charlie watched as she left the room. Ten minutes to decide his fate. It didn’t seem that long. He had been advised early in the process that he was going to prison for his crime, it was just a matter of how long. Seven years would be a victory, they said, people came out after seven with their humanity intact. Anything more than ten, and it was a mixed bag. Fifteen plus, and it was a dead cert, you weren’t coming back from that. As the Judge lazily thumbed through evidence in a side room, Charlie considered the last month - his last month of freedom. He had been at home, awaiting his court date, too afraid to do anything worthwhile. He had only left the house twice. The first time had been to Tesco with Mum, an effort to regain some normality, but Charlie had broken down. He couldn’t take the intrigued, judging looks from strangers. They hated him, and he knew it.
As the Judge reappeared from her side room, Charlie thought back to the second time he had left the house. Three days before the court date, in the dead of night, he had snuck out of his house, a bag of clothes in his hand, ideas in his mind. Could he run away from here, make a living somewhere completely new, away from all of this? Somewhere rural, using a different name. Could he make a family of his own, eventually, as all his friends would? He could never see his own family again, of course, but they would know that he had gone somewhere better, somewhere free. In the end, Charlie had not even tried. He had just gone running around the familiar, suburban streets of his childhood, feeling the rain on his face and the cold air in his lungs. Sneaking back into the house, he realised quite how much he would miss this. The freedom. The normality.
The Judge hoisted herself back onto her raised seat, put on her glasses and took a deep breath. Charlie swallowed. She had only taken five minutes.
“After much deliberation,” she began, “I have decided that in murdering Robbie Blake, you have carried out a callous, desperate crime firstly to impress your friends, which I deem a disgusting reason to commit a crime, and secondly out of an angry and hidden dark character that indicates a deeply disturbed individual. Therefore I am judging a sentence of fifteen years, with possibility of parole after seven. You will be transported to youth prison with immediate effect.”
Charlie closed his eyes. Felt his jaw shake, before he realised it was his entire body. Trembling. Fifteen. Fifteen years.
He opened his eyes. A shriek came from the seated area. It sounded like Mum. Before he knew what was happening, a guard lifted him to his feet and was leading him out of a door in the back of the court. Charlie turned round to see his family one more time. His mother had her head in her hands, while his father stood and gesticulated at the Judge.
“Let me speak to my son!” he shouted, “Will you let me speak to my son!”
But the lasting image Charlie held was his eighty year-old grandfather, a military veteran who had worn his finest army uniform to the court, medals pinned all over. While everyone else sobbed and shouted, the old man simply sat, staring straight forward, a single tear rolling down his frail face.
Charlie Goodwin murdered Robbie Blake on the first day of summer, while birds sang in the trees and children played in the streets. By all accounts, it had been a beautiful day.
“How did that day start, Mr Goodwin?” the lawyer asked.
Charlie shifted in his seat. He could recount every detail of that Tuesday. He had thought about it again and again, considering if even the little details had led to what was to come. The truth was that it had started so normally: a morning run to keep fit for the football team, a bowl of corn flakes, watching Everyone Loves Raymond with David, then at school a single period of maths and a double period of art. He had finished his oil pastel of a sunflower. Mr Gilchrist had said it would make the art show.
“And it was during your morning break that you first came into contact with Robbie Blake?”
“We’ve already covered these details,” the Judge snapped dismissively. She was a plump middle-aged woman, and after watching her rush lawyers and stifle yawns for the last two days, Charlie had surmised that she was not particularly interested in his case.
“There’s some new details I’m after,” the lawyer replied.
“Yes it was at break,” Charlie said, trying to speed up for the Judge, “he insulted Sarah.”
“Your girlfriend.”
“We…had been going out for a few weeks.” Charlie had never been sure if he could be totally honest about Sarah during the trial. She had planted her lips on him at a post-exam party. According to everyone they were now ‘going out’. In reality, they had been to Nandos together once. She had ordered cole-slaw then taken half of his chips.
“We weren’t going to get married,” Charlie blurted, immediately regretting it.
“Robbie Blake insulted her,” the lawyer said, moving on, “and you said you wanted to fight him.”
Charlie nodded. It sounded so simple coming from the lawyer’s mouth. Robbie Blake was several years younger than Charlie and his friends, but he was the most popular guy in his year, and had called Sarah a slag. She had demanded retribution. Charlie had tried to shake it off. It wasn’t in his nature to fight, but somehow he had been convinced into it. He had recently made all these new friends, better friends, they had said. In the company of new friends, one can be compelled to do many undesirable things.
“So after school you went up to Thorn Park, where you had scheduled the fight.”
“Yes.”
“And you killed him.”
Charlie winced. They never mentioned that Robbie Blake was a youth-professional boxer. That he had nearly knocked him out with the first punch. That he had broken three of Charlie’s ribs and dislocated his jaw. All that mattered was the blind, numb rage that had possessed him thereafter. They had asked him earlier in the trial where such a rage had come from. He had told the truth: it had come from the disappointed looks of his new friends as he lay on the dry dirt following an initial beating by his younger adversary. It hadn’t come out of crazed vengeance or justified self-defence, but out of a need for popularity. Charlie hated that.
“I killed him,” Charlie agreed.
“My question is this – at what point did Sarah tell you to ‘kill him’?”
Charlie fell silent. They had not asked him about this before. “Um…it was at the park. Just before I stepped up.”
“Just before you stepped up and killed this boy, somebody actually told you to kill him? So it was pre-meditated? It wasn’t just blind rage, as you said before.”
“Well…she may have said that, but I don’t think I was listening…”
“But you do recall her saying that?”
“Well, yes.”
The lawyer nodded theatrically, pleased with himself. “Your Honour, I pose the question: how can you try someone for manslaughter when they appear to have been following an instruction to kill? That sounds a lot like murder.”
The Judge looked at Charlie. He met her gaze.
“And one more thing,” the lawyer continued, “can you recount how many times you punched Robbie Blake?”
Charlie swallowed. He hated thinking about the fight. All he could picture was Robbie’s dead eyes. The dead eyes that followed him.
“I don’t…”
“You got the better of him. Smothered him with your larger frame. Pinned him down and started punching him. How many times?”
“Yes I…smothered…” Charlie struggled for words.
“How many times?”
“I…”
“Eight times,” the lawyer said finally, “not once, not twice, not three times, but eight times. Until poor Robbie Blake’s brain hemorrhaged and he died a brutal death.”
Charlie looked down. There they were again, peering up from the earth. Dead eyes.
“I implore you to consider, Your Honour, can someone of good character really beat a helpless victim eight times? Isn’t that more reminiscent of somebody with a darkness inside them? The kind of darkness that needs to be locked up for a very long time.”
The prosecuting laywer took a seat and shuffled some papers, had words with a colleague.
“Thank you for that rather extensive closing argument, Mr Jones,” the Judge said, stifling another yawn, “I’m going to need some time to think about this. We shall reconvene in ten minutes.”
Charlie watched as she left the room. Ten minutes to decide his fate. It didn’t seem that long. He had been advised early in the process that he was going to prison for his crime, it was just a matter of how long. Seven years would be a victory, they said, people came out after seven with their humanity intact. Anything more than ten, and it was a mixed bag. Fifteen plus, and it was a dead cert, you weren’t coming back from that. As the Judge lazily thumbed through evidence in a side room, Charlie considered the last month - his last month of freedom. He had been at home, awaiting his court date, too afraid to do anything worthwhile. He had only left the house twice. The first time had been to Tesco with Mum, an effort to regain some normality, but Charlie had broken down. He couldn’t take the intrigued, judging looks from strangers. They hated him, and he knew it.
As the Judge reappeared from her side room, Charlie thought back to the second time he had left the house. Three days before the court date, in the dead of night, he had snuck out of his house, a bag of clothes in his hand, ideas in his mind. Could he run away from here, make a living somewhere completely new, away from all of this? Somewhere rural, using a different name. Could he make a family of his own, eventually, as all his friends would? He could never see his own family again, of course, but they would know that he had gone somewhere better, somewhere free. In the end, Charlie had not even tried. He had just gone running around the familiar, suburban streets of his childhood, feeling the rain on his face and the cold air in his lungs. Sneaking back into the house, he realised quite how much he would miss this. The freedom. The normality.
The Judge hoisted herself back onto her raised seat, put on her glasses and took a deep breath. Charlie swallowed. She had only taken five minutes.
“After much deliberation,” she began, “I have decided that in murdering Robbie Blake, you have carried out a callous, desperate crime firstly to impress your friends, which I deem a disgusting reason to commit a crime, and secondly out of an angry and hidden dark character that indicates a deeply disturbed individual. Therefore I am judging a sentence of fifteen years, with possibility of parole after seven. You will be transported to youth prison with immediate effect.”
Charlie closed his eyes. Felt his jaw shake, before he realised it was his entire body. Trembling. Fifteen. Fifteen years.
He opened his eyes. A shriek came from the seated area. It sounded like Mum. Before he knew what was happening, a guard lifted him to his feet and was leading him out of a door in the back of the court. Charlie turned round to see his family one more time. His mother had her head in her hands, while his father stood and gesticulated at the Judge.
“Let me speak to my son!” he shouted, “Will you let me speak to my son!”
But the lasting image Charlie held was his eighty year-old grandfather, a military veteran who had worn his finest army uniform to the court, medals pinned all over. While everyone else sobbed and shouted, the old man simply sat, staring straight forward, a single tear rolling down his frail face.