A/N: As I mentioned earlier, my verdict is technically impossible, unless there's a prosecutor and jury out there somewhere who really screw up. Therefore Hendricks cannot also receive the death penalty for the kidnappings, which he could if I'd followed every legal truth about the situation. I also know Hendricks seems a bit scattered here…I don't know about the rest of you, but I don't always think straight when I'm angry either.
Another day, another piece of the court process. That's all this is, actually…an assembly-line. You start out at the beginning, this lovely unmolded scrap of humanity, perfectly malleable and untarnished. But by then end, if you haven't been pulled off the line early, you've been tarred, feathered, and are just something to put in a box and not think about anymore.
Well, screw it. I am not going to be that; I'm not going to fit their ideal of the perfect prisoner. Hell, no. Well…not yet, at least. I admit in time that it'll be nice to see Hardy's face as they give me privileges for good behavior. But right now, I'm pissed.
Ok, I killed her. I don't deny that. But, dammit, it was self-defense! Still, it isn't the jury's fault – they understood; they just convicted me of kidnapping, which they had to do. No, it's the prosecution and Hardy with his kicked-puppy look, making me look worse than I am, by even bringing up that charge of murder.
Now, I get to stand here in my suit, and wait for the sentence that will alter my life. Stand here, in my last appearance as a respected member of society, knowing even my appearance is a lie, seeing Hardy half-glaring, half-smirking at me across the way. He knows he's won. He knows he got the justice he wanted, even if he doesn't get to see me die. He knows I'm not getting out. That's the smirking side.
The jury will recommend life without parole. It's really the only option they have, anyway. After all, since I got off on the charge of killing Nancy Drew, then the death penalty is no option, but I did kill someone.
Hell, just Hardy's mocking expression is making me wish I'd killed two people. I mean, if I'm doing the time for one, why not both? Hell, if I'd killed him, I might not've ended up in this situation…ok, I would've eventually.
But the thing that really pisses me off is this: Hardy is more like me than he'll ever know. Not physically, no – he's got a good three inches and probably twenty pounds on me. And he's well…the prince charming type. Me, I'm more of the cute-guy-next door type: slightly curling auburn hair, sea-foam eyes, as Mom used to say, slightly on the skinny side. But I clean up nice, as more than one old girlfriend would often tell me. No, Hardy is like me in the sense that if he could kill me, he'd enjoy it.
But he'll never get to kill me. That's my one piece of gold in this bag of shit. I will live. And Hardy knows this. Hence, the glaring side: he knows damn well I've won. No matter how many times he tries to convince himself otherwise…
What's this? The other "Hardy boy" as those two are called – hmmm, maybe that's why Hardy sometimes looks so damn frustrated, well a reason beside me, ha ha…must be hard being labeled as a "boy" when he's old enough to be considered a "man" in the eyes of the law…but men don't cry when there's work to be done, Hardy boy, that's why you're a child still…
Anyway, that other Hardy boy looks, if anything, more upset than his brother at the moment…I wonder what the reason for this is? True, he was also close to Drew, but not like good old Frankie boy, nope, not unless he hides it better than his brother.
"Yes, Your Honor, I'm paying attention."
Not that you give a shit, anyway. No, you're thinking of the rest of the cases you'll deal with after mine. But still you have to go through the motions as if you actually care…poor guy. I pity you…so much like the rest of us, single-mindedly, working like dogs, and thinking only of warm food and a nice bed when the day is done…hoping we've earned enough to continue to have such luxuries, and wondering how to earn more…
That's another way I've won…I'm going to be fed and cared for by the system. Even if they give me busy work in jail, I'll not have to worry where my next meal is coming from. And it's tax dollars from the law-abiding citizens like Hardy that will be providing the money for that. Ha ha. Hardy's paying to keep me alive, though he wants me dead…oh, I love the irony…
Is it time to go already? Really? Well, that was faster than usual…maybe the judge missed his quota last week and is trying to catch up…
As I walk out, escorted none too gently, I may add, I can hear someone say "It's over". Hardy. Ha! As if, boy. It's only the beginning. I somehow don't think they can issue restraining orders in jail…and I'll so need to communicate with the outside world…
