Tipping the Scales
I hear the chains dragging on the floor long before I see his face, but our eyes don’t meet. I try to blend in with the wooden panels of the hallway because I’m not here on any official legal business. I’m just an observer. The fluorescent lights of the courthouse reflect off the surface of his buzz cut. His orange suit reminds me of a sunset. A sunset marks a new beginning. It means saying goodbye to the current moment. For inmate 1707, this marks the end of life as he knows it. He has a tattoo of “Matthania” that runs the length of his arm, wrapped in flowers and vines. I wonder if Matthania is his daughter, or his girlfriend, or his ex-wife. I wonder if the tattoo now haunts him, if it carries with it the pesky voice of his former spouse whispering over his shoulder -- this is what your life has come to without me . He had one too many drinks and now a group of children have disappeared. For vehicular manslaughter, he gets 15 years without parole but his expression doesn’t change ...
