Turnabout My One True Love.
Chapter one: My Glorious History.
"I declare the defendant GUILTY!"
The judge's gavel fell and that oh so sweet ring of victory echoed throughout the emptying courtroom.
Another case, done and dusted.
My name is Leah Newman. Prosecutor in the eyes of the law. Well in the eyes of everyone.
I am the most famous prosecutor in all of America and no doubt, the best.
Very modest too.
I have never lost a case in seven years. Seven glorious and victorious years.
I first started at the age of 18. I was inspired at a very early age.
My father was a heavy drinker. An alcoholic, you might say. My mother? She was the punch bag.
I can't remember exactly when he started but at only ten years old, I decided to record what happens to her on my small camcorder that she had bought me for my birthday. Oh how I moaned and pleaded for it.
My mother would wear baggy clothes and put on more make-up than usual to cover the bruises. I knew what happened though.
One night I pretended to go to bed, and I hid behind the couch with my camcorder in hand.
They started talking quietly but then it just got louder and louder. Eventually they were screaming at each other. I think it was about money, again.
Suddenly my father lifted her favourite decorative vase from the small mantelpiece and I flinched as blood sprayed onto the wall behind me from the horrible gash in my mother's head my father had so 'nicely' given her.
Glass was lying everywhere and my mother was draped over the unusual coffee table, very still.
Nothing stirred for a few moments and then my (obviously) drunk father decided to stumble up the stairs and go to bed, fully clothed.
I stayed where I was in the hope that my mother would wake up and cover up the mess as best she could, but nothing happened.
The slow dripping of blood soon made a very large mark on the carpet, and at that point I knew my mother would never wake up again.
I awoke to a sickly sweet smell - the smell of blood. A few flies had appeared out of no-where, probably during the night. I looked down to find the camcorder was still recording. I pressed the power switch and I knew what I had to do.
I was going to the station.
I got up from behind the small couch and crept past the body of my mother to the door and grabbed the keys from the small black hook they always hung on, right beside the door. Just in the event of a fire, they would say, but it was more like when one of them had finally had enough of the other.
As I opened the door, I could hear the creak of floorboards above my head. My father was coming down the stairs. I fumbled with the keys, panicking and scared he might just turn on me. I must have tried all the keys on the ring but none of them was opening the door! How many keys does a person need??
I panicked as my father was trudging down the stairs so I ran through the living room and into the kitchen to the back door. I tried the old looking key on the ring because our back door was a VERY old door. It clicked and I tried the handle. Time to go. Just as I was leaving what happened, I heard my father scream and swear. He called My name, but no way in hell was I going back.
"Hey, kid, are you lost?"
I padded along the little entry to the police station in my dressing gown and pink slippers.
"I need help." I whispered quietly. The policeman leant down to see what I had in my hand. That's when I pressed the 'replay' button.
The policeman just stared. He stared so hard I thought his eyes were going to pop out of his large, fat head.
He eventually stood up and walked over to the receptionist and then calmly strode back over to me.
"Where do you live?"
"THIS IS THE NEW YORK POLICE DEPARTMENT! OPEN UP! WE KNOW WHAT HAPPENED. YOU HAVE 3 SECONDS TO OPEN UP!"
I was being held by a policewoman in a bullet-proof vest behind a very large group of police men, all brandishing guns.
They didn't even wait for my father to answer the door. One officer brought up something that looked like a massive piece of wood with handle on it and three more officers took hold of it. They swung three times and eventually knocked the old door down.
The smell of blood was intoxicating and the body was probably starting to decompose. I walked in with the policewoman who was covering her mouth and nose in disgust.
A lot of people are sick when they see a dead body, but these police officers didn't even flinch. It was like they had seen it all before.
"I know, I know. Look, it's the summer so this body is going to decompose even quicker and we don't want to upset the neighbours with the smell. It's already getting to the team. So get down here quick and collect the body." A policeman was speaking down the phone to someone, most likely the coroner or someone from that department.
"What the hell happened here?" exclaimed the chief of the police department. He was wearing and expensive suit and a golden badge attached to the lapel.
"Let me see the body. Move people!" A weedy looking man was fighting his way through a growing crowd outside and a bunch of CSI men talking.
"Oh man. Another blunt force trauma to the head. Fantastic. My life is so thrilling." he said. No, he complained.
There was a thud and a scream from upstairs. I looked around for the policewoman and chief, but they were already springing into action, pulling out there guns and thundering up the stairs.
"Hey! Who's up there?" called the chief.
"I GOT HIM! HE WAS HIDING UNDER THE BED!" yelled an officer.
The policewoman and the chief ran up the stairs, taking two at a time and looking into the rooms. I heard another yell and a "HOLD IT!" then a thud and I knew my father was fighting back.
My father had tried to run down the stairs and through the door, but an officer caught him outside, who's job was making sure the press didn't get in. He had tackled him to the ground in a matter of milliseconds and as he handcuffed him and brought him back inside, the crowd gave a polite applause.
I sat in the court room for about an hour, listening to the lame excuses my father had to make. The evidence was right there: bloody clothing, fingerprints on the vase, under the influence and a witness. What was even better was that he denied it was him on the tape!
He went to jail that day, and is never coming out again.
That was what inspired me to become a prosecutor in the first place.
Proving a murderer guilty and putting them behind bars before they strike again.