Jerry was still missing by the date of my first day of trial. Several newscasts had already alerted the city of his disappearance, and the NYPD had an active investigation going to try and track him down, but so far, it was as if Jerry Hart had disappeared into thin air. The thought of him disappearing being connected with the threat of the Russian was an unshakable one, and the more that I thought about it, the more realistic a possibility it became.
The judge had postponed the court hearings until some plausible evidence could be found to the whereabouts of my other lawyer, but after almost 2 weeks of filing through nonexistent evidence and trailing pointless leads, the fine detectives at the NYPD were no closer to finding him than I was to getting out of prison. After much debate and discussion, it was decided that Ibanez would be my sole attorney, and the trial would continue.
I was nothing more than a ghost at my own trial. A silent specter watching my fate being sculpted on a daily basis by both those who had known me for ages and also by those who never seen me in person before. Testimonies were given, evidence from Winterson's crime scene were passed around and scrutinized, a psychologist was even brought in from half way around the country to deliver a full report on my sanity, as if I couldn't divulge that myself. I was 100 sure that I had gone insane.
And like that, the trial was at its climax. The prosecution, a slim black man by the name of Kerry Alkins, gave his closing speech and was immediately silent. Watching him from behind the desk at which I sat, I could see the imminent look of victory in his eyes. I felt the noose closing tightly around my neck, but simply sat back in my chair and waited for it to choke the life out of me. Ibanez got up and delivered his closing speech, which was surprisingly well planned and executed. In the last few weeks, I had began to wonder Ibanez's place in this, was he really here to set up my execution, or had I been wrong about him all this long time?
The jury was given time to decide the final verdict on my fate. Ibanez and I made small talk, nothing about the trial or anything of any great importance was said between us, it was comforting. The jury took over an hour to come to a decision, but finally the pounding of the gravel could be heard from the judge, and the jury filed out and set at their respective places on the bench.
"Jury, have you reached a decision?" The judge asked callously, obviously eager to wrap this trial up. I held my breath, terribly unsure of what they would say. As much as I wanted to believe that they would look through everything and see my innocence, there was a great sinking suspicion that it would not be so.
"Yes we have, your honor," One of the jury members stood up, a piece of paper clutched firmly in his hand. He looked like an honest man, probably just another hard working, decent American, just trying to make a living. And somehow he had found himself into my nightmare.
"We find the defendant..." And somehow, in the tensest moment of my life, time slowed down. The slight pause the juror took to make sure the words printed on the sheet of paper were indeed the words he was about to speak became an eternity of silence. I almost screamed at him to say the damn words. Finally, he spoke the one word I had been waiting for almost my entire life.
"Guilty, your honor, we fend the defendant Max Payne to be guilty."
I can't really say that I was surprised by the verdict. But that didn't make it any less painful. Any and every bullet I had ever taken in the line of duty couldn't amount to the agony searing through my body at that moment. Sentencing would be held in two days. Suddenly I wished the figurative noose hanging around my neck would miraculously become real, and they would just get it over with and hang me already.