Not Guilty
The Hunyak's Story
Disclaimer: I did not create Chicago or any of the characters in it. I am simply borrowing them.
Author's Note: This is my first fanfic ever. Reviews would be much appreciated, constructive criticism welcome. (Also, I know some details about the appeal may be incorrect, but I don't know much about them, so I made it up).
My hands are white ... but they cannot see ...
I clutch the crucifix around my neck so tightly my knuckles are almost popping out of my skin. I whisper a prayer under my breath, praying with all my might that the Americans will understand. I feel the band of gold around my finger, my last memory of ... him. I struggle to keep a straight face as anger and sadness surge inside me and tears well in my eyes. In a few moments one word, or two, will decide whether my life is over. This is my last chance. So many times before have I heard the word ... guilty ... guilty ... guilty ... But I'm not guilty. I swallow hard, stare at my feet and wait some more. Mama looks at me and holds my hand, wet with sweat. Finally, the twelve jury members file back in, somberly. One stands up.
"We, the jury, find Katalin Halenscki ..."
I close my eyes. The fraction of a second before the man says the word seems to last a lifetime and no time at all ... but long enough for the whole, horrible story to flash by me again ...
Walking through the chill Chicago air, I smiled. My husband was waiting at home. My shopping baskets, laden with that night's supper, bumped against me as I hurried back to our modest home. My life was simple, uncomplicated and relatively stress-free. I was happily married to a wonderful man. The matter of speaking extremely limited English wasn't bothering me that much; my husband was much more competent and would translate for me. My world was perfect.
As I unlocked the door, looking back, I had no premonition of the horrible scene that would sear my memory once I stepped inside ... the same scene that would haunt my dreams in the weeks to come and still torment me in my waking hours. I dropped my baskets and their contents spilled all over the floor, forgotten, as I saw my husband, face down in a pool of his own blood, his head severed from his body, a knife dripping with blood next to him. Hysterically screaming and cursing I knelt down next to him, hugging his lifeless body and trying desperately to divert my eyes from the sticky blood.
I didn't hear the police come until they burst in and found me sobbing. They took one look at the scene and grabbed me, forcing me into their van. "You have blood on your hands", they said. I tried to explain, but my they did not understand my panicky Hungarian mixed with broken English. I looked wildly out the back of the van, still not understanding. Underneath the blood, my hands were white.
I lived at the Cook County Jail in a miserable cell on Murderess's Row. I danced the Cell Block Tango night after night, proclaiming my innocence. Lawyers came, I told them too. "Not guilty!" But I was a joke. And I was scared. Crying myself to sleep every night, and waking up screaming thinking of him. And from the first trial, the jury told me the same thing. Guilty ... guilty ... guilty ... But I'm not guilty.
And now, here I am again. My last appeal. I look into the man's face when he says it.
"Guilty."
"NO! No, no, no! Not guilty!"
I scream and collapse, an emotional wreck. I can hear the babble of voices outside. All the other ones. The guilty ones. They won't be hanged. They can afford lawyers who can twist their stories and give them publicity. They'll get off scot-free ... with blood-stained hands. But my hands are white, I am not guilty, but it will be my body that hangs from the noose, swaying in the chill Chicago air.
My last night, I stay up. I pray for my husband, I pray for myself. Tears stream down my face in torrents. I couldn't make them understand. And I still don't understand. I barely manage to cross myself before breaking down into shuddering sobs that rack my whole body and torture my soul. It wasn't supposed to end like this.
They come to take me away. I can't protest anymore. My feet shake in their black shoes as I walk shakily up the stairs. The noose is there, an instrument of death. Reporters crowd around, waiting for me to die so they can write stories about it. My chin trembles as fresh tears tumble down my face. They place the noose around my neck and tighten it. I step forward onto the platform, the rope chafing my neck. My dirty blond hair blows across my face. I look out at the people who are excited by my terror. I have to tell them.
I open my mouth in a final cry, ready to tell them the truth. But the wood beneath my feet gives way, and I fall. My words are lost.
Uh-uh! Not ... guilty ...