Page 12 of His Favorite Felon

My attorney leaned in and whispered, “They offered another plea this morning.”

“No! I didn't knowingly traffic drugs. I want to go home!” I hissed.

“I know. I know.”

“Then why does it feel like you want me to accept the plea? You don’t believe me, do you?”

He didn't answer because he couldn’t. The evidence didn’t care that I was a young woman studying to become a nurse. It focused on what investigators found inside the suitcase, including surveillance footage, customs reports, facts, evidence, and paperwork. None of it was fair.

The bailiff stood. “All rise.”

Everyone rose as the judge entered. I tried to slow my breathing but failed miserably. The proceedings moved faster than I expected. The prosecutor spoke with absolute confidence, portraying me as someone who knowingly agreed to transport narcotics across international borders for money.

Every sentence made me sound like someone I didn’t recognize. I almost started to believe what they were saying about me, too. When my attorney stood, he argued that I had no criminal history and no ties to organized crime. He also pointed out that there was no evidence suggesting I’d lived the lifestyle of someone benefiting from drug trafficking.

He told the court I was a college student with good grades and aspirations to become a nurse. He argued that I was either in the wrong place at the wrong time or was exploited. Additionally, he suggested that someone might have observed me and intentionally exchanged suitcases.

I wanted to believe his words mattered, but the expressions on the faces around the courtroom never changed, and my stomach sank to the bottom of my soul. I felt it in the air around us. No one believed him. They saw a Black girl with locs and assumed whatever they said I did was true.

As the closing arguments concluded, the jury quietly filed out. I found myself staring at the table, tracing each scratch in the wood with my gaze. Each heartbeat seemed to grow louder, pounding in my ears and making the moment feel even more intense.

After one hour and twenty-three minutes, the jury returned.

Over the years, I watched many trials that received media attention, and I never saw a decision made in an hour that favored the plaintiff. This gave me hope.

The jury returned, and the foreperson remained standing as the others took their seats. The foreperson looked to the judge and addressed the court with confidence.

“We find the defendant…”

I squeezed my eyes shut and held my breath as I prayed to Jesus, Mary, and the baby Lamb.

“...guilty.”

The word struck me deeply, and I felt as if my heart were breaking. You know how an old heart might fail naturally, from causes like a stroke or heart attack? I’d always believed it was due to heartbreak. So, if I were to die suddenly, the examiner would likely diagnose a heart attack, but in truth, it would be from a broken heart.

I felt as if Tamela Mann were singing to me, and I was going home to the king.

Someone began to cry, but I didn’t have it in me to turn around. I couldn’t move or breathe. I was stuck. I couldn’t even blink.

The judge spoke, but his words never reached my ears. The only words that cut through my haze were guilty and seven years. Seven years… Seven birthdays. Seven Christmases. Seven years away from everything I’d ever known. It echoed in my head.

I watched the judge rise and walk back to her chambers.

Before I knew it, I sprinted toward the Judge to stop her from entering her quarters. Still cuffed, I leapt as high as I could and jumped over the bench. I stretched out my hand to grab her, but a guard pulled her away before I could make contact.

I was gon’ do her ass in, but a touch to my elbow by the deputy pulled me out of the trance I was in. I hadn’t moved an inch. Instead, I was stuck in my head, imagining what I would do if I was that bold. I stood up and was guided away. As I took one last look back, I saw Sage crying, and Jamie reached out to me, but another deputy gently stopped her.

When our eyes met, I mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

Not that I had anything to be sorry for, but it felt like the only thing that I could say. I was sorry to be such a disappointment to her. I was sorry that I couldn’t prove that it wasn’t my suitcase. I was feeling sorry for myself because the little girl in me was angry that her daddy didn’t show up. He didn’t come to my rescue. He left me high and dry.

She shook her head violently and mouthed, “It’s okay. I love you. Call me when you can.”

Then the doors closed between us.

Two hours later, we were back at Cumberland prison. An officer escorted me into the building and toward Housing Unit C, my home for the next seven years. Every door buzzed loudly before slamming shut behind us. Women watched from behind cell doors and in rec rooms as I passed by. Some whispered, some chuckled, and others just stared. When we reached Unit C, I was confused.

“I was in Unit C,” I informed him.